Page 39 of Drawn Together

“Speaking of next week.” I turn back to my paddle, guiding through the water gentle and slow. “Do you have any plans for Halloween? I was thinking about maybe handing out candy or doing a Saw movie marathon.”

This might be my pathetic attempt to see what he’s doing on my birthday, but I am not ashamed enough to not ask.

“Saw?” His nose scrunches. “Too gory.”

My laugh is a cackle—like an airhorn cutting through the quiet wind—and I want to take it back, but Fletcher is smiling, so I don’t. “I didn’t think you had limits on your goriness.”

“I like gore for the plot, not just for the sake of there being blood. There’s a difference.”

I raise my free hand in defense. “I understand.”

“To answer your question,” he says, “we usually do a get together for Halloween. Stephan, Lenny, Noah, and Margot, and sometimes they bring dates, too.”

“Oh.” My nod is frantic. “Right, right. Cool, cool, cool. I think I might go to the store and hand out candy and bookmarks if you guys are busy.”

“I meant you, too. You know that, right? That whenever I mention plans for us, I’m automatically including you in that.”

No, I didn’t know that. And my face must show that exact thought, because his smile is sweet and gentle this time as he says, “Just assume from now on if I say I’m doing something, that I want you to do it with me.”

“Okay.” I smile to the boat below my feet. “I will.”

On our way back, the sun begins to slip behind the buildings, casting everything in a honeyed glow.

Fletcher’s oar drips rhythmically as we steer toward the dock, his gaze soft, his laugh quieter now.

Behind us, Stephan has finally figured out how to move forward, though he’s now inexplicably rowing with one paddle like a Venetian gondolier.

Lennon and Sloane wave eagerly from the docks where they’ve ‘beat us’ in a race we didn’t know we were competing in.

Once we’re all on the dock, and Stephan dried off his clothes, we go out to spend the rest of Sloane’s—and my—money.

We start at a tucked-away bookstore with tilted stacks of hardcovers and a calico cat asleep on the counter.

The shop smells like cinnamon and old paper.

Fletcher disappears somewhere toward the back, and when I catch sight of him again, he’s crouched beside a low shelf, fingers tracing the faded spine of something clearly too old to be priced reasonably.

I let him be and drift toward a display of indie romances near the checkout, drawn in by the beautiful front cover illustrations and promises of HEA’s and slow burns.

Sloane picks up an old copy of The Whistling Hatch and types in a note to Lennon that ‘it’s giving vintage. ’

We spill in and out of the streets. We step into a shop that sells imported candies and novelty socks with band member faces printed on them, then into a little boutique strung with twinkle lights and too-expensive scarves.

Sloane tries on sunglasses indoors, and Lennon finds a jacket that makes her look like a French poet.

Stephan buys a snow globe shaped like a bagel for their kitchen.

I wait outside an oil and aroma store—the scent gave me a headache—and sway as Fletcher returns to my side with a warm cider in each hand. He hands me one with a crooked smile and powdered sugar dusted on his nose from the funnel cake we split earlier.

“Fuel,” he says, as if we’re about to run a marathon instead of meandering for another hour.

I open the lid and left the steam waft over my nose and cheeks. It’s the kind of cold where your internal temp is burning, but your nose is all red and your fingers are freezing.

My lips press against the warmth of the lid, and I sigh. “I love fall. You can eat and drink apple and pumpkin related foods for three meals a day, and no one questions a thing.”

From my peripheral, Fletcher nods. “Running without sweating buckets. You can get TVs extremely cheap.”

“The smell of leaves on the ground and new opportunities in the air.”

“Mm.” He swallows and pushes his glasses up. “That smell is actually an earthy scent of decaying leaves releasing gases into the air that holds properties known to be a stress reducer.”

I take a sip, and we sit in silence for a moment.

“Or it could be new opportunities if you want,” he compromises, and I nod.

“I want.”

By the time Sloane has had her fill of shopping—more like her arms can’t hold half of the bags she’s been lugging around—the sun dips fully below the horizon, and the city has transformed into its sparkling evening self that I love so much.

Lights dance in every window, every business transforming into neon bright signs and flashing promotions all around us.

Lennon and Stephan slip on home after her stomach starts hurting from one too many hot dogs, leaving just Fletcher, Sloane, and I for my last stop on her one full day here.

My very last and final surprise for Sloane was more of a surprise on Fletcher’s end, as he’s the one who pulled the strings to make it happen.

I told him in passing weeks ago that my sister was an avid fan of Phantom of The Opera, and since I’ve never actually seen it, it seemed to be another perfect book club assignment for us to check off.

Romance, murder, dark themes, operas, masks—the whole thing felt like a perfect little mix for us to enjoy, while also getting to take Sloane to one last destination just for her.

We take the subway uptown, the three of us squeezing together in a rumbling car that smells like a mix of subway tiles and roasted peanuts.

Sloane practically vibrates next to me, bouncing her knees with so much excitement I worry she might launch herself into the next car.

Meanwhile, Fletcher holds onto the overhead bar with one hand, smiling down at me as I sit below him.

Every time the car comes to a halt, he gets smacked by someone standing nearby not holding on tight enough.

He gives me this look that says tourists, amiright?

I have to actively fight my snickers. When it’s our turn to get off, I loop my arm around Sloane, and Fletcher loosely drops one hand to my shoulder, gently guiding where to go.

The Majestic Theatre looms grand and golden at 245 West 44th Street, its vintage marquee lit with a halo of tiny bulbs that spell out The Phantom of the Opera in serifed, ghostly letters.

A black and white mask is displayed above the entrance, which Sloane takes enough pictures of to fill up her entire camera roll.

Thankfully, the long line moves quickly, and inside, the air shifts to something reverent.

Plush red carpets hush our footsteps, and chandeliers drip down from the ceilings like golden icicles.

The lobby feels like a finger pointing at us, saying we are not dressed fancy enough for the occasion—well, at least Fletcher and I aren’t.

Sloane is always dressed appropriately for every occasion.

We slip into our seats, Sloane clutching her Playbill like it’s made of glass, her mouth a permanent soft ‘O,’ while Fletcher keeps readjusting his legs to get comfortable.

I wish I could tell you what happened in any of the show.

People sang. Cried. Danced. Laughed. Cried some more and sang some more.

It was all probably amazing—big dresses, curly hair, masked men, I mean, really, right up my alley—but all I could focus on was Fletcher’s shoulder touching mine, and when we came back after the intermission and my eyes started to feel heavy, he gently raised one finger to my chin and tilted it to rest on the warmth of his jacket, pulling me close.

He shh, shh, shh’s when I stir and lets me rest easy on him right there.

I try to look up enough to get a gist of what’s happening, but truthfully, does it matter?

When I have two of my most favorite people sitting on either side of me, the soft background of an orchestra, the dry scent of Playbills, and a faint sweetness from caramel popcorn drifting in from the lobby all around me.

On the way back home after the show, Sloane must have been either too mesmerized by the show or just that exhausted from our long, energy-filled day, because she only tapped on my shoulders and signed to me a few times and kept her phone in her pocket the whole way.

Fletcher watches to make sure we get in the apartment okay, and once we’re settled into the dark living room, Sloane jumps on the couch and passes out before I can even slip off my shoes.

The older sister in me threatens to poke, prod, and lecture her about the importance of scrubbing off her makeup and not sleeping in a sequin dress under an oversized I LOVE NYC t-shirt, but she looks so sweet there I can’t make myself do it.

When I get into my own bed, Lennon sends me a slew of pictures from today: a selfie with Sloane and Stephan next to a man dressed at Spiderman, Fletcher staring dead at the camera while Stephan holds up a middle finger next to his face, a shot of Sloane and I walking arm in arm down the busy street with leaves falling around us.

But the last makes me suck in a breath right to my throat; it’s a candid of Fletcher and I in our row boat, and he’s smirking either at me or the water—likely pestering on my poor paddling skills—and I’m laughing big and bright and yes, loud and yes, maybe a bit too much.

But, when I zoom in on his face, Fletcher doesn’t seem to mind my laugh a single bit.

So, I save it to my camera roll and stare at it like it’s a new art piece and I need to dive into the meaning of every color, every brush stroke, every tiny dot and sparkle along the way.

I fall asleep just like that, gripping my open phone with a picture zoomed in on Fletcher’s smirking face.