Drawn Together

by Juliana Smith

I was ten years old when I first found out magic was real. I discovered it at a local library, of all places—tucked between aisles of hardbacks, surrounded by the smell of old paper, and with a butterscotch resting on my tongue.

So, that was that. Magic was real. And it can only be found folded between the pages of books.

The fried and baked sugary perfections line up one after the other, all mouth-watering, but I only have eyes for one. My gaze locks onto the most delicious-looking blueberry muffin I have ever made eye contact with. Wrapped in a brown paper robe, she sits there—golden, with steam wafting off her and tiny sugar granules sprinkled on top—calling out my name longingly from two feet away.

I quickly decide no. Today is my day, and it is going to be filled with magic and goodness and blueberry muffins, and this two-thousand-twelve Andrew Garfield wannabe here can shove it. “That’s my muffin.” My voice is assertive with a touch of crazy lady in the whisper beneath it. “I paid for your coffee.” He dips his head at the latte in my hands. “So, this is my muffin.”

"That muffin held my entire career in its hands, and you just dumped half of it in the trash." “That’s an awfully pathetic career if its fate relies on a baked good.” “You—you—” He patiently waits, yet I only respond with an intensely delivered "Muffin man.” Instead of falling to my knees in fear, this guy turns to walk away with his hands in his pockets before having the audacity to mumble, “Welcome to New York,” under his breath. I am certain he does not believe in magic.

The last illustrator who worked with him apparently retired, and when she did so, everyone assumed he was going to retire with her—they were a kind of package deal—but he is still kicking it at like eighty-something-years-old. People say he’s a total nutcase—I think he has to be to write the stuff he does. And somehow, the lady in charge of finding him a new illustrator for his next release, Threadbare, thought I—the portfolio full of bunnies and baby porcupines in scarves—would be a good fit for this eccentric old man.

Should I be scared? It would probably be wise. But no fear here, friends. We have nothing but good times and pure success in front of us. Because, if I can get Cedric Brooks to like my art style? There is no ceiling that can cage me in—I am a free bird, baby.

All this being said, I am having to do a full one-eighty on my usual process of creating a commissioned art piece. My typical prep of a bowl of Cap N’ Crunch and reruns of Gilmore Girls in the background will not cut it for this one. No, I need serious, dark themes going on here.

I traded in my usual Pumpkin Smores candle for New England Leather—it smells like ginger, musk, and a man who doesn’t believe in true love, but can still rock your world. I have also traded my cozy reruns for a compilation of the top villain scenes in Disney movies.

Too much Scar versus Mufasa, and not enough Hakuna Matata.

In all fairness, I think Lennon just isn’t a people person. Or an anything person. The first time I came here after seeing the ad for a fairly affordable two-bedroom apartment close to the city, she didn’t even say anything for the first ten minutes. Whereas, I said everything in the first ten minutes.

I think I’m the Greek yogurt of fashion—you can add these things on top of me, but when it comes down to it, I am bland.

I have no clue who Jeremy is any more than you do, but it’s not due to a lack of trying. I have done my best to keep up with Sloane’s friends, but it’s futile. It would take a blank evidence board with tiny red strings to follow who is who in her stories—there’s no sense in even trying. My eighteen-year-old sister has had more friends—and let’s be honest, boyfriends—in the last year than I have in my entire twenty-six years on this green Earth.

Lennon approaches a blonde man with bushy eyebrows and a slanted smile sitting on one side of the booth. He immediately stands up when he sees her, grabs her hand, and plants a tiny kiss on the inside of her wrist like she’s royalty—I am smitten.

This is Stephan? He’s shorter than I expected, and a bit smile-ier than I expected, too. For the first time since I moved in, I watch as Lennon’s shoulders fully relax into a crouched position under her boyfriend's arm, tucking herself in like a child.

And beside her is—let me say this with the utmost clarity—the most attractive man I have made eye contact with in at least ten years. Let’s say fifteen to be safe. Under a navy NYFD hat is a handsome face with all these smooth lines and a soft, kind smile just below a very firefighter-looking mustache without a hint of stubble surrounding it. If I were ever to be stuck in an elevator and there was only one man that could lift me through the tiny slot and carry me down ten flights of stairs, it would be this man.

Déjà vu, as I meet eyes held in an angular face with a strong, Roman nose, and scruffy facial hair, which contrasts the other two men at the table. Shock, that I could recognize one other person in this heavily populated city. Anger, that the man I am looking at across the table is the same one who stole my muffin this morning. And rage, that he clearly doesn’t recognize me.

Who in their right mind steals someone's breakfast, only eats half of it, and when they run back into said someone doesn’t even remember their face?

He stole my muffin, and I can’t not say something, right? There are a handful of things I could offer in this scenario. But the two words that fly out of my, mind you, very extensive vocabulary, are “Muffin Man?” said with the utmost fury. “Excuse me?” “Muffin man.” “Muffin man?” Stephan asks. “Who lives on Drury Lane?” Margot smiles. “Can you…be more specific?” “You,” I point, “stole my muffin this morning." “That was you?” “How often are you stealing someone's breakfast that you don’t recognize me?” He shrugs, which says more than I think most words would. “You stole her muffin?” Noah, my knight in navy armor, asks. “I paid for it.” “Then stole it, only ate half, and threw the rest away.” “I was full.” All chins at the table are bouncing back and forth between us, like they’re witnessing a tennis match and have to keep their eyes on the ball. “Fletcher,” Stephan sighs. “I really don’t think that’s the best approach to—” “Why?” my roommate asks, finally adding something to this. “Why, what?” “Why did you eat only half of the muffin?” Fletcher—I note his name this time—lifts one shoulder in a half shrug. “I felt like it.” And that was that. I was right earlier that first impressions are important, because mine of Fletcher is that he is a narcissist who has no ability to think of anyone but himself.

“So, you guys really never answer the questions?” “Sometimes I do,” Stephen says with a smile. “Just to make Fletcher mad.” I temporarily allow my eyes to settle on Fletcher, and he dips his chin. “It works.” “One time he threw popcorn at me because of it.” “You answered the question of who was the first man on the moon with ‘Louis Armstrong.’” “We still won.” “Barely, and only due to me.”

“You’re such a,” I search for the right word, and my brain fails me. “A what?” “Lothario.” Did I even use that right? Fletcher mouths the word Lothario like it’s bitter—a battery touching the tip of his tongue, sending a shiver down his spine. “That’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard, and I don’t even know what it means.” I’m suddenly thinking I don’t know what it means either, so I just skirt right past that.

And, the entire way home, Fletcher walks five feet behind me, his stupid boots stomping in puddles I’ve avoided until now. Every time I look over my shoulder to make sure he’s there, he suddenly looks at the tops of buildings and the skyline, like he is very interested in the view.

Maybe if it were someone who’s actually menacing-looking, I would be alarmed. But Fletcher, hands in his pockets and long legs trying to slow down his quick strides, looks like a puppy that hasn’t grown into its oversized paws yet. Finally, when we’re four blocks from my apartment and I’ve taken the most absurd route to get there, I huff and turn on my heel. “What are you doing?” “I’m walking you home.” “Please, don’t.” I’m desperate for friendship, sure. But, not that desperate. “I would do the same for Lenny if she were walking home alone.”

“I’ve walked home alone plenty of times before.” “At night? In the back alley?” “Yes.” No. “I can handle myself just fine.” It’s not like I’m completely unprepared; I do have a weapon. “Right, your neon hot pink knife is very intimidating.” Damn, how did he see that?

Behind me, Fletcher's shoes made a rhythmic, hollow thud every ten feet—the only sound besides the breeze around us. “You’re still walking me home.” “I am not.” He keeps his eyes straight ahead. “This is how I get home.” “Is it, though?” “Yes.” “Well, can you…walk some other route.” “Can you walk some other route?” I choose not to answer that.

I’ve always had a poor poker face. My old best friend used to say I had a face so easy to read, I might as well have a window straight into my mind on my forehead.

“Just because something has romantic scenes doesn’t mean it’s a romance.”

“It matters because of what you feel when the book closes. Or, when the title credits pop up. What are you left with?”

I come to a full stop at the steps that lead to the lobby. “Well, this is me, as I am sure you know.” “I do know that.” He points over his shoulder to the brownstone directly across the street. “And, that is me.”

Fletcher Harding no longer hated the color yellow. Banana Laffy Taffy yellow.

It’s muscle memory at this point, trying my hardest to please the eye of every viewer. I’m eight again, manically coloring within the lines of an adult coloring book, going as far as to shade the edges like a ‘fancy artist’ would, then handing over my paper and waiting for the thrill. The pure satisfaction of watching my parents ooh and ahh over something I made. My satiated hunger for approval when they would say, ‘That deserves a spot on the fridge,’ then take out a magnet from a local dentist, popping the paper right above the ice dispenser.

For reasons I don’t understand, being watched by Lennon while I’m getting ready to cook feels like I got caught with my hand in the cookie jar.

My ex-boyfriend's words filter through me in an unwanted flash. She’s just too much. Too loud. Never stops talking. Annoying. Pushy. Over the top. Maybe I am one of those things, or maybe I am all of them.

This whole place is kind of like Hooters but with older women in very tiny shorts, the curve of their behinds on display—the backside in Backside Diner, if you will.

I decide if I am going to pull this whole friendship thing off, I have to do it the right way. Pushing myself into her life hasn’t worked in the last few months. So, if it’s uncomfortable silence she wants at a butt diner, then that’s what we’re going to do.

Questions are bouncing around my mind like the DVD logo hitting every edge of the TV, but never the corner.

The other day, Edith saw me re-shelving some YA Sci-Fi fantasy, not knowing if it belonged in YA or Sci-Fi or fantasy, and when I landed with YA she shook her head and made a disapproving ‘mmm’ noise, before turning to the two other workers there and whispering something. I don’t enjoy jumping to conclusions, but I imagine the conversation was something like Flora is stupid. What a loser. I moved the book back to fantasy immediately.

I learned long ago that it's far better to stand alone with integrity than be surrounded by people who don’t even like who you are at your core.

My lip quirks up a bit. I don’t know why it’s such a satisfying thought, knowing I can see him, and he can’t see me, but it’s the tiny wins that matter. And then, because it delights me that much, I move my legs in a little jig and shake my hips at him in a ‘you can look but you can’t touch’ gesture, just because I can.

Fletcher Harding now had two little peepers, the bird still being his favorite. Though, the little guy never danced for him, so maybe Flora was working her way up faster than he thought.

“Do you want a Golden Glory?” I look up at Fletcher, and the sun behind him makes me squint. “Like…a golden shower?” “Uh, no. Not— Not that. It’s the apple hybrid.” He reaches down and pulls out a perfectly yellow apple. “The Autumn Glory and Golden Delicious hybrid. Golden Glory.”

I bite into my apple, and it’s so juicy it spills out of my mouth and down my chin. Fireworks of flavors dance around my tongue—sweet and a touch of sour, and so very fall. It tastes like popping When Harry Met Sally into your DVD player and curling up with a too-hot bowl of your mom’s chicken and dumplings. It’s like lighting a new candle for the first time or cracking the spine of your favorite, yellow-paged historical romance.

It tastes so wonderfully like my childhood that I feel like crying all over again. I think I miss home. I think I miss me. I miss the steadiness of a friend and the support of a parent from one room over. I miss school buses driving along the street and the laughter of kids running at the beach. I miss the Maine air—salty and warm—and, I miss Sloane and her exceptional fashion tast...

“I read Twilight last night,” Fletcher mumbles into his bag. That has me looking up. “You did?” “I did.” My nose scrunches. “And?” “I…didn’t get it.” “A shame.” “It is.” He nods like, pity. “I didn’t get it but…I read the entire thing in one sitting.” The thought of Fletcher pacing his apartment, holding a hard cover about sparkly vampires with a puzzled expression on his face has me temporarily smiling. “I have a vague me...

We’re only a block away now. I am craving another apple in the same way I’m slightly intrigued by this ‘book.’

I take it back. This look on his face is a real almost-smile. Corner slanted down like he’s trying his hardest not to.

Fletcher hadn’t felt something as satisfying as drying Flora Anderson’s tears in a very long time.

And past them all is Fletcher, sitting at one of those tall barstools, long legs stretched out and ankles crossed, his gaze locked on the paperback lying in front of him. The tips of his fingers rest lightly on the edge of the page, not turning it, just holding space. The light from the window slides across his cheekbone showcasing the tiny tinge of red in his beard that I never noticed. His hair is so dark brown that it’s nearly the color of mine, but his beard—also dark—has an auburn touch in the golden morning light. Huh.

“Sorry, phew, traffic was insane.” I practically throw myself and my things on the tabletop beside him, paperback and notebook in hand. “You took a cab?” That would probably make more sense, yes. “Yep. My driver’s name was Fiona. She really liked Alanis Morissette.” “Fiona?” Fletcher repeats, like the name has never existed until this moment. “Fiona Apple,” I confirm. “Like…the singer?” That was a singer? “Isn’t it ironic, don’t you think?” The joke goes right over his head, apparently, because he just pushes this little engine of a conversation right on through. “You took a cab for a two-block walk?”

He eyes me, then the table. That’s when I see it there. A blueberry muffin with golden brown crumble on top, resting on a small porcelain plate. I raise a brow at him, and there’s a slight tinge of pink across his nose. “It’s yours. Just felt fair. Since you’re helping me.” I smile at that and sit down on my own barstool. I take the plastic knife out of its wrapping and use it to cut the muffin in half, pushing the plate to the middle of the table.