Page 38 of Drawn Together

Twenty-six

Word of the day: Serendipity

Definition: finding something good without looking for it

Turns out, my perfect plans for Sloane's visit are just that: perfect.

I offered to sleep on the couch last night to give her my bed, but around one in the morning she slipped out of my room and fell right next to me. We cuddled up under hedgehog blankets, and I think my home sickness was cured overnight.

We wake while the sky is still a deep, drowsy indigo—Sloane’s always been an early riser, practically allergic to sleeping in.

She flits around the apartment like a little bird, tugging on boots and yanking me out the door.

We head straight to the coffee shop where Fletcher and I first met, where she orders a peppermint hot chocolate, and I get the butterscotch latte—which has become a crowd favorite between Lennon, Stephan, and I.

Warm paper cups in hand, we stroll through Park Slope.

Sloane takes approximately ten thousand pictures of all the brownstones on St. John’s, Lincoln, and Berkeley Place.

Trees drop leaves in flurries of rust and ochre, and the sidewalks are blanketed in each crunch of our booted steps.

The neighborhoods are full-out Halloween now—pumpkins stacked like sculptures, fake cobwebs shimmering with morning dew, and little ghosts swaying from iron fences.

Sloane happily pulls me in and out of little shops: a store called denim that only sells denim, an indie bookstore with used books and signed local author copies—I check to see if there are any of Cedric’s and though his stock is full, there are no bookplates or information on him from the booksellers—and a vintage clothing shop that has the funkiest hats and purses.

We try them all on and she takes a million pictures of me in red heart sunglasses in point-five zoom lenses so my head looks shrunk.

We hop on a short bus ride to the entrance of Grand Army Plaza arch, just north of Prospect Park.

We grab two hot dogs with mustard and find a bench nearby.

We sit, eating slowly while watching Brooklyn move around us: joggers, strollers, couples holding hands with fingers laced.

Cars honk and dogs bark at each other in passing, babies laughing and crying—the world around us a blur of color.

Sloane signs between bites. I love her coat. Should I become an Uber driver when I move here? Do you think we look like tourists? I feel like a local. Her hands flutter quickly—naturally—like tiny birds flying in the wind.

When we’re ready to keep moving, she goes back to the hot dog stand and grabs one more for each of us and a cinnamon pretzel for us to split.

We take a quick walk down to Prospect Park—I easily could have taken her to the same reading spot that Fletcher takes me to, but something about that feels like betrayal, and we share a walk around the lake where she tells me more about this boy she’s been dating for the last month.

What about Fletcher? You aren’t together?

I divide our pretzel and hand her half, tucking mine under my arm so I can sign back to her.

He’s important to me.

She gives me a deadpan look, and I shrug.

I like our friendship. I like him. I pause to take a bite of the cinnamon-sugary goodness. I don’t love change. I think we’re figuring out how to evolve without unraveling.

She nods once, then again more softly. Her gaze follows a group of kids kicking through a pile of leaves. We keep walking, the last crumbs of sugar dusting our coats, and the cold just sharp enough to remind us that the city is in her ever-changing growth.

By the time one o’clock rolls around, we take the 2/3 train from Grand Army Plaza to 59th St–Columbus Circle and walk up to the Loeb Boathouse in Central Park. Standing at the entrance waiting for us are Lennon, Stephan, and of course, Fletcher.

“How was today?” he asks, as we make our way to the boats, following Stephan, Lennon, and Sloane as they walk through like they own the place.

“Perfect.” I smile up at him. “I think it made me realize just how nice it will be once she’s fully here.

I worry about her, and I know I shouldn’t—I mean, she’s doing better than I am, socially at least. Still, I fret about it sometimes, her moving here.

I’ll toss and turn at night worrying about what her life will look like here, and people can be cruel sometimes, and I know she is more than capable, I just—”

“I know.” He reaches to the side of our assigned rowboat and hands me a paddle, fingers brushing mine long enough for warmth to dance along my sweater-covered arms.

“But, seeing her navigate things so…smoothly today… Even knowing it won’t be perfect all the time, just getting to witness her live her life so freely, feels like a blessing, you know?”

He nods alongside me and grabs his own paddle. With the sun slanting low through a latticework of golden leaves, the lake shimmers like molten amber. A crisp breeze rustles the trees nearby, sending flurries of burnt orange and faded crimson drifting down onto the water’s surface.

“You’re a good sister.” Fletcher pokes my paddle with his, and I’m forced away from the sight. “She’s lucky.”

I turn over my shoulder to see Lennon attempting to get in her boat—knees wobbling, her oar going to fall out any second—and there’s Sloane, smiling—no, beaming —up at her with unadulterated joy across her face.

“I’m lucky, too.”

We slip into the boat—Fletcher first with no issues. When I try to hop in as quick and easy as he did, we end up with my knee in his lap and his hand on my waist.

“Careful, or we might end up finding something I’m better at than you.”

I scramble and take my seat across from him, the heat of his hand against my jeans still warming my entire body. “It’s about time.”

After a brief, theatrical demonstration from the instructor—complete with exaggerated arm movements and a paddle nearly flung into the water—we each take our positions. The boats are painted in soft shades of forest green and robin’s egg blue, their wooden oars worn smooth by seasons of use.

Lennon and Sloane are the first to set off. Their green boat glides effortlessly across the water, barely rippling the lake’s mirrored surface. They move as a unit, synchronized and laughing, their silhouettes framed by the glow of afternoon light.

Then, it’s Fletcher and me. We push off with less grace, our oars clunking and catching air more than water.

The canoe rocks gently under us, unsure of our intentions.

But after a few crooked strokes and a bit of accidental splashing (mostly from me), we settle into something resembling a rhythm.

We’re off—wobbling but moving at the very least.

Behind us is pure chaos as Stephan launches himself onto the water with unearned confidence and absolutely no control.

His boat begins an immediate and aggressive spin, circling like a confused duck.

He yells something indistinct about how this ‘is easier with Lenny in his boat’ and his paddle flails in wide arcs.

The instructor on the dock has her arms waving wildly, shouting directions over the water, and Stephan only spins faster.

“I’m trying,” he shouts. “It’s like piloting a shopping cart with no wheels.”

Our boat glides onward, rocking gently with each stroke.

The world hushes around us—the hum of the city dimming into the distance replaced by the soft lap of water against the boat and the rustle of leaves around us.

Fletcher leans back slightly, watching the sky through the break in the trees, and I let myself fall into the moment.

A day that feels like it’s been folded up and saved in time just for me.

“Your mom told me your birthday is next week?” Fletcher’s hair has a hint of auburn in this golden light, making the regular honey-brown strands seem warm to the touch. I want to run my hands through each one.

“Mhm.” I force my eyes back down. “I’ll be twenty-six.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t think it mattered.” I pull back a little to row more and the topic of birthdays has me questioning, “How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight. That’s not what I was asking, though. I meant, why didn’t you tell me your birthday is next week?”

“I didn’t really think about it. And if I did, I just didn’t want you to feel like you had to get me something or do something.”

Because he would. Because he’s Fletcher and he’s sweet and goes way further than needed for the people around him.

“It’s your birthday. Of course I’m getting you something.”

“I didn’t get you anything for your birthday.”

He smiles a little. I like it. “Considering I was born in January, and you got here in April, that's not the argument you think it is.”

“Well, if you get me something, I’ll get you double for your birthday in January.”

“Again, not the argument you think it is.”

We drift along the edge of the lake, our paddles cutting smooth arcs into the water, sending little rings spiraling outward like ripples from our shared thoughts.

The skyline peeks through the trees, all soft grays and sharp lines.

It reminds me of Threadbare a bit—the pretty parts of it—the background where I’m given almost free reign now to dabble in precious leaves and sidewalk art amongst the other world.

We pass under a bridge and a couple walks by above us, hand in hand, their coats buttoned up tight against the chill. A violinist plays somewhere in the distance, music echoing faintly across the water. The air smells like crisp leaves, faint pretzel salt, and Fletcher’s clean laundry detergent.

Lennon and Sloane are practically racing, paddling wildly and pushing themselves farther and farther around the lake, whereas Fletcher seems to be taking all the time in the world.

I like that, too. Stephan is who-knows-where, probably still back with the instructor, but we keep glancing behind, like maybe he’ll work his way up soon enough.