Page 36 of Drawn Together

Twenty-five

Word of the day: collywobbles

Definition: the feeling of butterflies in the stomach

And just like that, we went back to our normal everyday life.

Book club on Fridays, but also Fletcher had a sudden idea. ‘You know, we would learn twice as fast if we met up twice a week,’ so we have now traded our regular schedule for one movie night and one book night a week.

We watch Silence of the Lambs , Flowers in the Attic , Pride and Prejudice (the 2005 version, obviously), and How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days .

We order take out, and every time I try to pay, he shakes his head and insists I can the next time—except he’ll never let me, and I will never stop trying.

We try out more local markets—buying fresh cherries, figs, apples, and pumpkins—and he continues to have poor decisions for his morning drinks—like a new tea called ‘soothing stomach’ that smells like grass.

I fall head over heels in love with pumpkin spice lattes and butterscotch apple ciders.

We buy fresh cut mums (me) and a head of broccoli (him) for our kitchens.

We share our word of the day each morning. Long words. Pretty words. Tiny words. Gross words. Words that are funny, sad, and happy. We share them all, and each one I stack in my memory like a book on its shelf in perfect order.

What we don’t do is talk any more about crushes or infatuation or what the elevator and the kiss both meant to us.

Meanwhile, Lennon and I have been hard at work at the bookstore—Edith fell sick last week and hasn’t been in, so it’s basically just us two there all the time with Cliff making his odd appearance out of the shelves long enough to pee and go right back in them.

Her idea of hosting a fall event for the store is perfect, and ever since we practically begged Fletcher to pull something together, he has assured us both he’s hard at work trying to convince some of the publicists to help out.

The weather has taken a brisk turn the last couple weeks.

What started as a slow falling of leaves has turned into a whirlwind of cascading burnt oranges and copper reds.

The chill in the air has deepened—it’s the kind of cold that settles into your skin and makes you shiver all over.

Or makes me shiver all over. Fletcher has let me know, in his own words, that I am ‘coldblooded,’ simply due to the fact that I shake like a chihuahua every time we leave one of our apartments.

Which, coincidentally, has been happening more and more.

We don’t even count our book clubs up anymore.

The two nights a week have transitioned into four or five nights a week between our own meetings and Lennon, Stephan, Noah, and Margot wanting us to all hang out again. No complaints on my end, of course.

One Tuesday morning, Edith was able to come in Nook and Cranny and told me to ‘take my tail home and rest,’ and I do exactly that.

Except, when I am finally home, snuggled under my favorite hedgehog blanket and a warm mug of English breakfast tea to my right, Gilmore Girls softly playing on the TV while the rain pours outside, I get a text from Fletcher.

Fletcher: Working from home today?

I smile and take a picture of my cozy view. Yes. ‘Working.’

Fletcher: Want to come ‘work’ over here? I’m stuck on some article for work and tend to do better with an accountability partner.

Me: Is that what I am?

Fletcher: If you want.

I pack up my blanket in my tote bag, grab a rain jacket, and head right over.

Turns out Fletcher ‘getting stuck’ mean that he was avoiding his responsibilities—whatever they might be.

Since my arrival, he has spent ten minutes max at his laptop, and even then, he was talking for most of it.

He decides to fold laundry on the couch while I doodle tiny threads and buttons in spine details for Threadbare.

He glimpses my work and stands up quickly.

“I think it’s because I’m hungry; do you want pancakes? ”

I should’ve said no, but my stomach growled before I could, and he took off with a skillet and pancake mix in hands.

I learned that Fletcher likes his pancakes burnt with crispy edges and sprinkled chocolate chips and butter on top.

I wonder what my mom would think about him based on that breakfast alone.

I also learn that he listens to music when he’s home alone, like all the time. Old classics on record players that he asks me to switch out for him. He flips pancakes while I happily flip through vinyls, oohing and ahhing at the variety of themes, genres, and color schemes of them all.

Sam Cooke, Louis Armstrong, The Ronettes, Frank Sinatra, Aretha Franklin, and Frankie Valli are on a steady rotation. He slips ‘What a Wonderful World’ in there, and I pretend not to notice.

After eating, I force him to sit down and work, because then he would want to do the dishes. Then when the dishes were done, he would want to clean the cabinets, and I really did not want the morning to turn into a drawn-out version of When You Give A Mouse A Cookie.

“I hate working from home.” He slides onto the couch next to me, watching my hand pull a steady line on Evie’s bed frame.

“I love it.” I smile. “Keeps me cozy and productive all in one.”

“Do you ever get burnt out?”

“Sometimes. I can focus on one piece of art for too long and lose myself in it. Like, if you look at a picture of yourself, and at first it’s not too bad, but the more you look the more you hate it.”

He settles his chin on the cushion behind my shoulder. He smells like mint and chocolate and coffee all at once.

“Did you always want to do this?”

“Are you just looking for a distraction?”

“Maybe. But I am curious.”

“Yes, I have. I always loved the art in kids’ books; there was this one specifically we had in the children's section of our library—third shelf on the right, between Hungry Hungry Caterpillar and Hewie Loses His Socks—with a worn out, hot pink spine and a dirty yellow star that said ‘staff favorite’. They read it just because of how many times I checked it out. I tried so hard to keep it together, but it was the most sought-after book at free reading time, so it had its fair share of tug-o-wars.”

“What was it?”

“The Midnight Gathering: Pip’s Moonlit Wish. It was about a little hedgehog named Pip, her story was great—legendary for a hedgehog, of course—but it was never the plot that had me coming back again and again.”

“It was the art, then?” He’s smiling.

“The illustrations,” I confirm with a nod.

“Gorgeous. Really, you should read it. Beautiful watercolors and soft-spoken lines, but then there would be this pop of glitter—like a reminder of who she was. Full of pinks, petal textures, lacy shadows, and these crazy intricate tea-party details with tiny macarons and mushroom-shaped teapots. I always thought if I could crawl into a story, it would have to be that one right there.”

“This is the most Flora Anderson book I have ever heard of.”

“It truly was a staple to my childhood. We had multiple copies just to be safe—one for both cars, one in the house, one at my grandparents, and one at Austin’s—I was obsessed.”

“Did Austin read with you?”

“Uh, he did sometimes. But never Pip’s Moonlit Wish. He was more of a ‘No, David!’ and ‘Where the Wild Things Are’ kind of kid.”

“Agh,” Fletcher groans out. “One of those guys.”

“Well, to be fair, we were eight.”

“It is a statement to your core, I think.”

“Maybe.” I laugh. “What did you read when you were little?”

“Nothing that I didn’t have to.”

I gasp. “Oh, you’re one to talk. At least Austin read.”

“I got very into reading in middle school, thank you. Just not when I was little.”

“Not even picture books?”

“I could read, smartass. I just was busy and didn’t have time to.”

“Busy doing what?” I snort. “Catching worms and picking your nose?”

He deadpans. “Piano and violin lessons, then soccer practice and gymnastics.”

I sit up. “No way.”

“Yup.”

“Why did you sign up for all that?”

“I didn’t, Flora. My parents did.”

“Oh.” I pick at my pencil. “So definitely not picking your nose or catching worms. Sorry.”

“Ah, don’t give me too much credit. There was probably some of that in there, too.”

“Why were you signed up for all that?”

He shrugs. “Boredom. Or maybe they wanted to seem successful. I couldn’t say.”

“Did you ever ask them?”

“Nah, we haven’t talked in years.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He pushes his glasses up and smiles down at me. “Don’t be. I’m not.”

“Are they— Do they live near here?”

“Maybe. They were on the Upper East Side when I was young, but I heard them talking at my grandfather’s funeral a few years ago that they were moving downtown soon.”

“At his funeral?” I rub at my chest.

“They aren’t exactly the sentimental type.”

“But, I mean, you were safe, right? Fed? Taken care of?”

“There’s a difference between being cared for and being taken care of. But yes. I had food, water, and shelter—more than enough things to keep me occupied.”

“And love? Did you get that?”

He shrugs. “Eventually.”

And like my mind pulls me out of my body, and I get a glimpse of his life.

And I have a thought: no wonder Fletcher never liked anything love or romance.

No wonder he never understood it. I don’t think I would either, had I not had the perfect example right in front of my eyes.

He never saw his parents dancing in the kitchen or his dad carrying his mom across the sandy beach after a long day on the boat.

He didn’t watch his dad braid his mom’s hair when she was too nauseous to do anything in her first trimester.

He didn’t watch his mom stare at his dad with so much love that it felt like the whole world was spinning around just them.

And the thought has me spiraling, thinking just how much I miss home. Not Whisperbay, not the beach or the boat or the house, but all of them. So, when I get back home after a full day of work and cycling through music, I text my family group chat.

Me: Miss you guys so much.