Page 21 of Drawn Together

Seventeen

Word of the day: sapiosexual

Definition: one who is attracted by the intelligence of another

The next Tuesday, Lennon and I walk home together after our shift for the first time.

It’s kind of funny to think we haven’t done it before. We’re going to the same place, well, most of the time anyway, so why not? Lennon is still gone more often than not, but I have gotten used to seeing her face more and more the last couple weeks, and for that, I'm entirely grateful.

We pass by a man selling overpriced bouquets of fall flower arrangements, and I make a mental note to come back for the purple one to set up in our dining room when I’m not strapped for cash.

The neighborhood we pass through to get home has officially gone full out for Halloween coming up in three weeks.

There are inflatable Snoopys with ghost masks and giant pumpkins that have projectors on them, so they look like they’re talking when you walk by.

The brownstone steps are covered in mums and tiny gourds.

Wrought iron gates along the way are strung with fake cobwebs and yellow police tape—adorably spooky.

Lennon takes a step closer to me to avoiding stepping on a skeleton dog with his leg hiked up to a bush.

“I heard they’re adding a Books-A-Million, or maybe it's Barnes and Noble, down the street.”

“Another?”

“Yeah. Do you think Edith knows?”

I think over the last week. She has been exceptionally cranky, though I chalked that up initially to her losing her Walkman on the subway, causing her to bring her boombox to work each day.

But, now that I really think about it, she was glued to the office for every shift I came in for, only coming out to ask how story time sales were and if we had any adjustments to the October shift calendar.

“I don’t know, maybe.” I search for any hint of worry. “I caught her pulling last year's stats the other day, and I kind of wondered if she was more worried than normal.”

“That really sucks.”

I nod. “I don’t know how much more she can do without changing her whole perspective on the store.”

“Has she ever had author signings? Or maybe some book clubs?”

“Most of the stock there is YA and below, and I doubt six-year-olds care about author signings.”

“Hmm. I’ll try to think of something.”

The thought of Lennon piecing something together to boost the store's sales gives me peace of mind; if anyone knows a good way to draw people in, I imagine it would be her.

When we round the corner to our apartments, there is utter chaos waiting for us.

Flashing red and blue lights, police tape wrapped around the entrance, firefighters coming in and out of the building in huge masks.

Chip from the front desk is trying to crowd all the other tenants in one line on the street.

Everyone, seriously everyone, is out here.

Bill from 3C in his robe, trying to keep the limited amount of fabric wrapped around his waist. Ms. Garcia and her two grandsons are sitting on the concrete, backs facing the building and a big blanket wrapping them together.

Burt and his wife—whose name I can never remember—are cradling their pet tortoise, Tumnis, in their arms, rocking him back to sleep.

“Woah,” I whisper out, turning to Lennon. “What do you think is—”

My roommate is gone already, weaving through the panicked crowd and going straight up to Chip himself. I can’t hear the full conversation, but I know the situation of the building must not be too severe, because he is smiling contentedly at her and she is nodding along with every word.

I wrap my jacket tighter around my body and wait for Lennon to come back. When she eventually does, she is texting and walking right by me.

“Come on, we’re going to Stephan’s.” She grabs the wrist of my jacket and yanks me across the street while the light is red.

“Oh. He lives across the street, too?”

“Yeah,” Lennon says, like duh before she sees the genuine confusion on my face. “Did I not tell you that?”

“No.”

“Huh. Weird.”

I wonder just how much Lennon hasn’t told me that she thinks she has.

The apartment building across the street is almost identical to ours, except a tad fancier.

There are marble-tiled floors, golden light fixtures, and fancy twelve-foot art pieces made of recycled trash shaped to look like a man rowing a boat off a waterfall.

There is a staff of five in the lobby, all glued to the windows, as they watch the commotion of our building across the street.

They must know Lennon well, because when they turn to her with expectant eyes she shrugs.

“Gas leak.”

We all ‘ahh’ in unison.

On floor seven, four doors down, Lennon unlocks a door and flings it open. Stephan is right behind the door, grabbing his girlfriend's waist with zero hesitation. Fletcher isn’t far behind him, leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed, the softest of grins on his face.

“Hi.” I squeeze past the couple’s embrace and make my way into the apartment.

Shockingly, their kitchen is much smaller than ours, consisting of one wall of cabinets, a stainless-steel fridge, and a sink that looks like it belongs to a toddlers play kitchen rather than a real one.

Ours is at least double the size of this, but their countertops aren’t peeling up in the corners, and there’s no weird smell coming from the drain in the floor that reminds us it used to be a community bathroom.

Their living room, even just the small glimpse I can see of it from here, makes up for the lack of cooking space, though.

There is a tiny view of bookshelves, and my skin crawls for me to go snoop.

“We’re gonna go grab some pizza. What kind do you like?” Stephan looks up from his arms around Lennon.

Fletcher, with zero hesitation, answers, “Flora likes meat lovers.”

I don’t remember even telling him that. My nod is sheepish. “I do, but I will eat anything.”

Lennon pipes in, “She also likes ham and pineapple.”

Did I tell her that, too? Am I just jumping around person to person discussing pizza toppings on the regular?

“Done and done. We’ll be back soon, kids.” Stephan winks at Fletcher and shuts the door, leaving just the two of us.

It’s so odd, seeing everything from this side of the window.

Seeing the texture of his throw blankets.

The few dirty dishes in the sink—an empty mug turned upside down and a fork set straight beside it, like he had to fix it that way.

In the living room, there’s a dark green sofa with matching pillows, a recliner with leather worn in the outline of a person sitting there from thousands of hours of watching tv, and bookshelves—so many bookshelves. It’s flooding in them.

There are books everywhere, and not just on the shelves themselves.

They’re scattered in big stacks against the windows, squished together on the shelves, and even more are set on top of those books—like the lack of room resulted in Fletcher giving up his organizational mind, too.

There is even a stack of cookbooks on the floor by a side table.

I wonder how many of these were Ryan’s. There are three doors down a distant hallway and one down the other. I wonder if maybe he lived here at one point. Maybe that’s why Lennon is over here all the time, searching for any final traces of her brother.

Fletcher clears his throat, and I rein my snooping in.

“This is your apartment.”

Hands tucked in his pockets, Fletcher raises his shoulders. “This is my apartment.”

“I didn’t even know Stephan lived with you.”

“You didn’t?”

“I wondered where Lennon always was when I first moved in. It must’ve been here.”

“Yeah, they can’t go a full day without each other, especially after everything.”

I nod and shiver a bit, moving around the fridge. I move to the window and look for my bird, Malcolm. He’s not there, unfortunately. It’s a good thing, too, because what my eyes catch on is so distressing that there is no way I could give him an ounce of attention if he was here.

“You—” my voice catches in my throat, and unwanted memories come flooding with a vengeance. “You can see our apartment…”

Fletcher is so much closer than I thought, so when he answers, I jump out of my skin. “Uh, yeah?”

Sure enough, there is a clear view into our place.

Every other window in the entire building is covered by the same shading that I walk by daily.

But, there is zero mirroring effect to just my apartment’s living space.

One window out of hundreds is lit up from within, a shining light that says ‘look right here, oops hope you didn’t notice I left out an open box of Cap' N Crunch’ and… oh my gosh is that my bra on the couch?

“I…didn’t know you could.”

Oh no. Oh, no, no, no. I have always had exactly one qualm about our apartment I hated most. That the shower was closest to my bedroom on one side of it…

and the linen closet holding all towels was on the exact opposite side.

Lennon was gone so often that if I hopped out of the shower, I could drip dry until I wouldn’t be tracking water from one end of the apartment to the other…

completely naked. I knew for a fact no one could see me and that no one was coming in, so I just confidently, oh my gosh, I strutted naked right in front of potentially hundreds of eyes.

Two of those eyes belonging to the man directly behind me.

I squeeze my eyes shut, like maybe the memory will dissipate along with my humility.

Did I…dance at him once after we first met? I have a vague memory of that, and I can’t tell if it was a dream or not, but I am almost positive it’s not.

“So, all those times you were—”

“Nope.” My face is scrunching up like a paper ball I would love nothing more than to throw in the trash. “No idea.”

“I, uh, wasn’t sure if I should bring it up.” When I crawl out of my mental cave, I make eye contact with his neck, glowing red up to his nose. “I thought maybe you were just really comfortable.”