Page 40 of Drawn Together

Twenty-seven

Word of the day: meraki

Definition: a Greek word that refers to doing something with soul, creativity, or love

Fletcher is, and I say this with so much reverence, the worst person at blowing up balloons I have ever seen.

I don’t know if it's his large fingers or the lack of ability to hold the pump and the end of the balloon at the same time, but he has popped four orange ones and let five black ones go flying across the living room.

“Chalk it up to one more thing you can be better than me at.”

“We should make a list.” I pop a candy corn pumpkin in my mouth.

“You probably already have one.” He squints and pulls the bowl of candy a little closer to his side.

The temp continues its steady drop outside.

Even in the warmth of Fletcher’s apartment, just looking outside has my shoulders shivering.

Between his window and ours, there’s a brisk palette of orange and mahogany.

Fletcher’s apartment smells like leather, musk, and Ticonderoga pencils, with a hint of the petrichor after this morning’s rainstorm.

The city outside moves on like normal—the hiss of a bus braking, leaves skittering across the sidewalk like dry paper.

Every once in a while, a horn cuts through, short and sharp—an impatient uber driver sitting at a light that just turned green.

And still, with all the distant city noise outside, it fades under the sound of whatever vinyl Fletcher is playing—The Cranberries, or Nat King Cole, or the occasional Sheryl Crow.

“So, you guys do this every year?” I pump up a new orange balloon to stick in the plastic strips meant to hold the balloons up.

“We always get together one way or another, yeah. Last year we handed out candy to the kids at your apartment.”

“Were there a lot of kids there?” The only ones I’ve ever seen is one of the workers downstairs bringing his ten-year-old twice a week and Miss Gonzalez has her grandsons over constantly.

“Mmm, nope. Stephan ate all the candy, and Ryan sat outside the elevator scaring everyone that got off.”

“And you were…”

“Sitting on the other side of the elevator in a ghost mask helping Ryan scare everyone.”

An image flashes in my mind: Fletcher in the hallway, long legs scrunched down uncomfortably and a mask on his face as he jumps at everyone passing by. The thought is so laughable that my fingers slip on my balloon, and it goes flying across his living room. “You were not.”

“I was.” He grimaces. “That was right after he got diagnosed; I would’ve given the guy my kidney if he asked.”

“That’s sweet.”

“It was the very least I could do. I owed him everything.”

“Here.” I grab the balloon from him and pinch the end together in a tie.

“It’s unfair of you to be good at everything.”

I scoff. “I am not good at everything.”

“The bikes, trivia, now this.”

“Well, trivia was just one instance. Had it been on…molecular structure, it would’ve been a landslide on your end.”

“Molecular structure?” He jerks his chin.

“And the bikes I’m not great at, just a lot better than you.” I lift my balloon up. “Same goes for this.”

“Then I’ll rephrase. It’s unfair of you to be better than me at everything.”

“You’re better at a lot of things.”

“Like?”

“Like…you can see wonderful things in very low times. You have an excellent perspective on life.”

He pinches a balloon as he ties it off. “You think?”

“Yeah.” I grab the tied-off balloon from him and adjust it, so it won’t pop. “I do.”

“I believe you would be the first.” He gets up to change the song before trying to blow up another one with our hand pumps.

This time, when he sits back down, he’s closer than before. I can smell clean dryer sheets on his shirt and see the tiny sweat beads forming at the base of his hairline.

“It’s one of the exercises my therapist gave me, after Ryan and all. Count your blessings and whatnot. Knowing you’re not the only miserable person on this planet.”

“I did that for a while after college.” My body recoils at the thought of that time. “I counted up all my favorite things, like they were reasons to keep going.”

“What kind of stuff did you think about?”

I sigh. “Hydrangeas blooming in the spring back home. The smell of rain on asphalt. When babies don’t smile at anyone else, but then they smile at you.

80s coming of age movies and oversized sweaters that fall over your wrist. When it’s all chilly in the morning but then warms up by noon.

Lipstick stains on a can of Diet Coke. Carving pumpkins and sticking a candle in them to light up at night.

Butter melting on a fresh stack of warm pancakes. All the good things in the world.”

“Wow.”

“Why?” I clear my throat. “What did you think about when you were stuck?”

“I…didn’t think much beyond the basics. Read a lot.

Worked a lot. Mostly focused on making sure I was actually eating healthy and drinking water, something I forgot about for a while there.

I lost a ton of weight and looked a little sickly.

Checked in on Lenny a lot. Stephan and I had a routine where if one of us was busy, the other was keeping an eye on her. ”

He groans as he unfolds his long legs, stretching to a stand. “I’m too old to sit on hardwoods for this long.” His long hands stretch back behind him and push on his back, a satisfying crack from popping his spine.

Standing over me like this, he looks so…Fletcher. Tall. Lean. Cut and curved into a perfect piece of pottery. I want to draw him—lay him out and let my fingers sketch every hard edge and line.

When he stretches his arms overhead again, his sweater lifts to show a single sliver of skin, inches over the button of his jeans.

His belt buckle rests just above it. My fingers itch to drag a long pull over the smooth gold end.

With my heart hammering and a flush creeping up my neck, I tear my gaze from the enthralling view.

Because apparently, my body doesn’t know the difference between running from a bear in the forest and making eye contact with the button on Fletcher’s pants.

Thankfully, Fletcher and his pants walk into the kitchen before he comes back with two chair cushions—one for him and one for me. We adjust our stance and pull open the next bag, revealing a burst of Halloween-themed balloons in vibrant colors.

“Christmas or Halloween?” I ask, as I take the first foil bat out of the package.

“Can I say neither?”

“No.”

“Then, Halloween I guess.”

I hum. “I think me too. Mostly because of the weather and the childhood memories and football.”

“You like football?” His nose is curled so high right now that I would love nothing more than a mirror to turn it back on him.

“Oh, goodness no. But I like the feeling of it being in the background. It feels like fall back home. Chili in the crock pot and tiny burger sliders. We’d run around on the beach and my dad would be screaming at the tv in the background.

I couldn’t tell you a single thing about the games, but I like it as white noise when I miss home. ”

He nods. “Sounds about right.”

“But I’m super excited for Christmas this year. I’ve never been to the city during winter. Is it as nice as everyone says?

Fletcher's eyes light up as he finishes a single balloon, looking up at me with the rivaled joy of a toddler showing off their newest art piece. When he sees my amusement, he tosses it to the side in a no big deal gesture.

“Honestly?”

“Yes, please.”

“I’ve never cared much for it.”

My shoulders fall. I was kind of looking forward to it. More than kind of, actually. The last few weeks, I’ve been having daydreams of snowfall and red noses and hot chocolates with Fletcher. Mitten hands, big coats, and cozy fireplaces in coffee shops.

“But,” Fletcher leans in a little closer, his shoulder brushing mine, “knowing it’s your first Christmas here…for the first time, I’m looking forward to it. You know, since you like lights and all that stuff.”

“I do like lights and stuff.”

“There’s a neighborhood in the Upper West Side called Candy Cane Lane—they go all out.

Like, hundreds of those horrendous ten-foot Rudolphs and Santas, and one house at the end of a cul-de-sac has a big light show where their trees look like they’re talking and singing.

” He glances up at my wide grin and quickly looks away. “You’d like it.”

“I do like horrendous things.”

“Like vampires and operas.”

“Just the one.”

“Good to know.”

“Speaking of operas, my costume came in yesterday.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm.”

When I tried the white dress and stockings this morning, my own jaw dropped at the fit of it.

I’ve accepted that my body isn’t perfect.

There are dips and curves and dimples and cellulite.

I’ve gone through seasons of healthy eating, dieting, working out and fueling my body like the temple it could be.

I’ve also gone through phases of couch rotting and eating an entire family-sized lasagna in one sitting and baking desserts every other day with no one to give the extras to (and you know, I just hate to waste them).

I’m currently in the sweet spot right between those two, which is nice, but the evidence of both stages is there.

My legs are muscular in some spots, and when I get on my tiptoes to put books back on the top shelf at Nook and Cranny, Lennon regularly tells me she is jealous of my tight calves.

But then my thighs are soft—squishy. A perfect pillow for my laptop.

There are little pale white lines across them like the scar where lightning struck a tree.

And all that’s good by me. I like myself perfectly fine.