Page 30 of Drawn Together

Twenty-three

Word of the day: Kilig

Definition: the rush or the inexplicable joy one feels after experiencing something romantic

Fletcher claims that it’s ‘been a while’ since he’s dated, but it must be like riding a bike, because he doesn’t seem to have forgotten with me. Riding a bike may be a poor comparison, considering he couldn’t do that near as well as he can navigate an evening with me.

The moment we leave the restaurant, I feel like I’ve been given this alternate view of him—what does a man like Fletcher Harding do on his dates?

I will gladly tell you.

Fletcher Harding insists on filling you up with every food imaginable. We leave Westlight to wherever he plans on taking me and stop at four stands along the way. “You must be starving,” he says, as he pulls my hand in his.

He orders a fried pickle on a stick for us to split—unsurprisingly delicious—and a chicken and sausage kebab with grilled peppers—also delicious. He orders himself a donut made out of shredded carrots and wheat grass, which he insists is delectable, and I say ‘don’t you mean disagreeable?’

Fletcher Harding, to my utter surprise, loves a water taxi for dates.

No, adores it. Would build a shrine to night-time ferries and water taxis in his apartment if he had the closet space.

I don’t know if he does this with other dates or not—preferably would rather never know—but I can tell you this: watching his big, round hazel eyes light up at a boat is possibly the cutest thing I have ever seen.

He sits us at the front of the taxi, a perfect view of the Brooklyn skyline lit in front of us.

Wild shades of blue and purple, copper and yellow dance in the distance.

There’s music, chatter, and laughing all around, but my attention is wholly focused on Fletcher smirking out at the city before him.

“You love this,” I muse. “Is it the city at night or the boat itself?”

His smirk turns into a shy grin. “Both, I think? I like taking ferries when I can, but at night, there’s something so much better about them.”

“It reminds me of home. The water,” I clarify. “Just being on a boat makes me feel like I’m back in Maine.”

“Did you go out on the water a lot?”

“When I was little, yeah.” I hate that the memories are so covered up with Austin’s existence right beside mine. “I used to go fishing with my family and some friends. I never really liked the fishing aspect—”

“The smell?”

“The hook.”

“Ahh.” He nods.

“But,” I continue, “I always liked the feeling it gave me. The smell of the water and the way the boat bobs up and down. I liked the old music my dad would play on his stereo and the sandwiches my mom would pack in little plastic bags. Sloane liked the fishing part. When she was five, we got her a Barbie rod and reel and took her out. Everyone on the boat spent the entire day trying their hardest to catch even the smallest fish and yet Sloane and her ten-dollar set up caught five in the first hour.”

He laughs as he looks just past me to the shining lights of buildings in the near distance. I turn over my shoulder as we go near a bridge, couples walking hand in hand as the evening transitions into the dark night.

I look back up to see Fletcher smiling at me. I would like to keep his face just like that. Would like to take a mental screenshot and keep it in my favorites folder for safe keeping.

My lips curls. “What about you?” He seems awfully comfortable on this boat right now. “You’ve been on them a lot?”

“Kind of. It’s been a while, but this is nice.”

He must sense my desire to push for more, because he relents with a sigh, leaning closer to me. “Ryan and I took a ferry to his treatment facility a lot. Lenny always took the train with him. So, for a while, we’ve kind of done that—she takes the train everywhere and I—”

“Take the ferry.” My shoulders sink a little. “Huh, I wondered why she always wanted to take the train when the bus was just as fast, if not faster.”

“I can’t say for sure that’s why, but I know it is for me.”

“Can I ask something?” I ask, inherently answering my own question.

But, it’s one I’ve had for a while and could never feel fully comfortable pulling out of Lennon.

We’re friends now, sure. Close friends some might argue—let it be known that I am ‘some’—but, I still haven’t found the right rhythm of pacing in my questions about her brother's passing.

“Always.”

I love that every answer Fletcher has is definitive.

No thinking. No questioning. No ‘umms’ or humming silence as he wonders what is best for everyone else to hear.

He just blurts it all right out. Sometimes it hurts, Mr. ‘I Don’t Get Romance,’ and sometimes, it feels like you’ve been hooked up to an IV connected directly to the sun.

Incredible. Pretty. The smartest one in the room, Flora no doubt. Always.

“When did you move into the building across the street?”

“Oh.” He stretches back into his seat, and I find myself leaning in closer as the boat bobs against the waves of the water. “It’s a bit of a long story.”

“We have time.” Thirty minutes of time to be exact, according to the loop we’re on right now.

I watch the hesitation flicker in his eyes. The tiny moment where he does think: is this the place, is this the time, is this the person to share whatever he is holding back with? And I use everything in me to assure him that I want to be that person for him.

Having never lost anyone close myself, I can’t say I understand.

I can’t give advice or encouragement. I can’t say he’s in a better place—I didn’t know the guy—and I can’t share stories, memories, or moments that have drifted into the space of time that he no longer has a key to.

But, I can listen. I can nod and smile and laugh when he talks about the days of a younger Fletcher and his best friend.

I can ask questions, like ‘what was his favorite tv show?’ or ‘did he read a lot, or did he just collect books?’ I can be a buffer in a place that I’m not sure anyone else has ever been for him.

Maybe I’ve always been a talker, but I like to think I’m a good listener, too.

“We played tennis a lot.”

Actually, maybe I’m not the best person for this assignment, because the thought of Fletcher playing tennis makes me cackle. Loudly.

“Wow.” He shakes his head.

“I am so sorry.”

“Okay.”

“I just pictured you with a tennis racket and—”

“I had no idea the image was so hilarious,” he deadpans, but his mouth ticks up.

“It’s just, I envisioned you as maybe a…” I try to think of anything other than a Chess Club member or the president of the NYC Star Wars Theory Group and come up short.

“This might be the worst first date already—” He turns over his shoulder to look at the old man steering us. “Can you turn this thing around?” Fletcher's hand shoots up and does a ‘loop’ gesture.

“Stop,” I laugh, and reach my hand up to his fingers. He easily could keep it up, the strength of his forearm is obvious beneath my touch, but he allows me to pull his hand back down. Our tangled fingers rest in the space between our laps.

My entire body is pulsing, and I am practically vibrating in this seat at the warmth in his touch—the way his thumb, gentle but firm, caresses the back of my hand.

He runs circles over a birthmark near my knuckles, outlining the edge of it like he needs to memorize the shape.

I always thought I had big hands—it always felt like it compared to the woman around me—but Fletcher’s swallow mine whole.

I want him to stay there as long as possible.

I want this ferry ride to last through the night, nothing but our laughter, hand holding, and the questioning thought of just how far we can push this scenario without me having to acknowledge tonight’s eventual end.

Midnight will strike, the sun will rise, time will go on, and whereas this might be some pity sympathy date on Fletcher’s end, this is going to be the night I keep tucked in my pocket for years to come.

My voice is breathy when I finally look up from our joined hands. “Sorry, okay. You two played tennis.”

Fletcher’s still staring down at our laps, his head is tilted, and his eyes keep watching the spot his thumb is trailing along.

“It was never really Stephan’s thing.” He looks up to me with a hint of embarrassment.

“And sure, it wasn’t exactly my thing either.

But, Ryan asked to go all the time, and I eventually agreed; it became our ‘thing’ I guess.

Well, one time we finished and the whole time he complained about his back.

He groaned and kept saying he needed to see a doctor, and I didn’t take him seriously. ”

Any hints of smiles are gone, but our fingers are still wrapped together. This time, it’s my thumb brushing his.

“He had this tendency to freak out over every sickness. Growing up, if Lenny had even a cough, he would lock himself in his room and refuse to come out. Their mom had to slide crackers under the door.” Fletcher laughs, and it’s broken and watery.

“And when we lived together, he would do the same with me. If I even mentioned some distant cousin of mine having a stomach bug, he would hide away for at least a whole twenty-four hours. And so, when he had any slight illness, we all brushed it off. Lenny, Stephan, even Noah and Margot. All of us would poke fun at him for it, and he never minded. He would mess right back with us, and really, I never felt bad about it.”

His sigh is so guttural that I barely notice the shaking in his hands against my touch. “But that day it was just me. I was the only one there. He said he was hurting, that he had been sore and aching for the last week, and I told him he was over thinking it.”

I know where this is going. I know how it ends. I don’t know the middle, and I don’t know the details. But, I know where Fletcher and Lennon and their entire group are today without that man, and my stomach twists in a knot at what he is about to say.