Drawn Together

by Juliana Smith

“I enjoyed it.” I wait for more, then realize that was the whole sentence. “That’s it?” “It was certainly better than the vampires.” “Well, I would hope you didn’t go into it comparing the two. I thought this would be a very good dipping your pinkie toe into the water of romance here. It’s got everything you need, depression and death—” “I don’t remember saying I needed either of those.” “With a touch of some sizzle.” “I don’t remember much sizzle either.” “What about the proposal scene?” “It was effective.” “Effective,” I deadpan. “Fletcher, that scene had nineteenth century women swooning in the streets.” “It’s a very good thing I’m not a nineteenth century woman.”

12:36 p.m. – Make a sandwich. Call it lunch. Actually a ritual of emotional self-repair.

But there’s something about watching these two love each other through the depths of fire—literally—and still making it that feels like maybe, despite all our dirty rotten flaws, there’s someone out there who could love us no matter what.

Fletcher leans down to his backpack at our feet and pulls out an old, worn-out paperback. The book is soft and pliable in my hands, and the corners are yellowed and velvety, folding down from endless picking and turning of pages. The title, Frankenstein, is faded, and there are so many creases in the spine it’s like it has its own wrinkles of time holding it together.

I carried the paperback of Frankenstein cradled to my chest the whole walk home, which turns out—when going the right way—was only two blocks. He must have really had somewhere to go, because when we left the cafe, he gave me a quick wave and walked the other way.

It’s not that I’m jealous, perse. It’s just…what am I missing? What quality is it that everyone else on this whole Earth seems to have to make them so easily likeable?

I just wonder what part of her is there that I don’t have to be that kind of instant congenial person. Or maybe it’s not what I lack, but rather how much I exude. I’ve tried it before, becoming someone new. I’ve rebranded myself into this easily swallowable version that my own family couldn’t recognize. And it still wasn’t enough for them. For him.

“Does Stephan read?” “Just to-go menus.”

By the time Halloween rolls around, I won’t even need a costume. I’ll be spooky enough as is.

“Flora.” She says it with a sigh, and I think it might be the first time she’s ever said my name to me. “I don’t even know what colors I like anymore, much less enough about myself to tell you what kind of book I would read when I never have read for fun before. I’m not you.” Maybe it’s the optimist in me. Or maybe I am delusional. But I swear I almost hear a hint of admiration in those last three words—I’m not you—as if being me is something to be proud of.

I think back to Sloane's call last week when she signed. Maybe try to make friends with the people already around you, and grin to myself. I think I might be doing just that.

I think I’m beginning to get what old man Jenkins—ahem, Cedric—was getting at. In my mind, that draft was perfect for the eight- to twelve-year range and fit the story's theme, but that was the old Flora. This is the new Flora, and she is dark and mysterious. Watch out world.

I did lose a best friend once—though death was not involved—and in stark contrast, I got rid of all evidence of him as soon as he was out of my life. The only thing left of Austin is the scar he left behind, deep in my chest cavity, where no one else bothers to go. A ghost sitting at the end of an empty hallway, warding all others away.

Shockingly, after what has to be the full thirty seconds, Fletcher slowly leans in. The arms above mine loosen, and while he doesn’t hug me back, he allows me to hug him. His chest lifts momentarily before his chin reaches down just enough to settle above my head, like his body is letting out a great big sigh. He smells like leather, cigars, and cinnamon coffee

When he lifts his head off of mine, my whole body is flushed, and I’m not sure what it says about me that a simple hug from a man—which he didn’t even return—has my synapses firing all over, but they’re there, and I can’t stop them. Or the elephants running around in my stomach.

“Do you have any other friends to show you around?” There are two things I would like to note in that question: One, if I were to respond with the truth that I have no friends, on a scale of someone walking in on you working out alone in your room to Door Dashing Monistat, how embarrassed are we? And two, he said other friends. Which, judging by my context clues, insinuates he thinks we are friends. Are we friends? Is my first real friend in this city a man who stole my breakfast and despises the one genre that I adore with all my heart? I think, yes.

When he reminds me the two hours are up, we both reluctantly stand up, and he hands me another paperback. “I’m giving you a break this week. It’s still considered a gothic novel, but I thought you’d appreciate that there is some romance in this one.” I flip the floppy book over and read the title aloud, “Wuthering Heights?” “Have you read it?” “No, but I don’t know why. It sounds very up my alley.” His jaw ticks. “I thought so, too.”

“Was this…” I pause, not knowing his friend's name to fill in the blank. “Ryan’s?” “Ryan’s.” “No, I just got it last week. I read it so long ago I couldn’t find my old copy—probably in storage somewhere.” My entire body lights up at that. “So, you got this just for the book club?” “Yes.” “You bought this book,” I wave it around, fall colored tabs and all, “and annotated it for me?” “Do you have to sound so surprised?” He parrots my previous words, and had I not been in such shock, I would have maybe laughed at that. But, my mind is still trying to wrap around the hundreds of tiny tabs, notes, explanations, and comments like, ‘you will like this part, I think’ or ‘push through this scene, it gets better,’ that he left on this book just for me. Maybe that says something about me, too. That my eyes water at the mere sentiment of a man buying a book for me and annotating it, but there I was on the verge of grateful tears. I guess we are friends, then.

Flora Anderson bought Fletcher a pumpkin because it reminded her of him. Granted, it’s the ugliest pumpkin that he had ever seen. But he went home, set it on his coffee table, and stared at it for an hour, wondering how he wanted to take that—along with the three-minute hug that reminded him just how touch-starved he was.

I’m almost annoyed at how perfect his choice for my week is: Wuthering Heights. I think up until this week, I’ve been trying to compartmentalize my brain into exact sections. I can be the romance loving, banana Laffy Taffy sweater wearing girl who wants to draw pretty pictures anytime I want, until it comes time for Cedric Brooks commissions—then, I am a monster who uses blood to draw the outlines of her victims. Kidding, but I have found somehow that romance and light and airiness can co-exist with dark, gothic themes.

His back tightens and when a minute goes by with no answer while he is actively on his phone, I am rereading my own texts to see if I maybe did something wrong. I’ve been known to do that over text—too many reactions too fast. I try to simmer myself down into something more palatable for Fletcher and Lennon, and even Edith, but I wonder if it’s all a useless effort.

I look back to Fletcher’s apartment to see it’s empty now, my text still left on read.

I pull myself off the couch, legs tingling from being cross-legged too long, and head toward my room. The wood floor is cool beneath my wool socks, but not unpleasant—it’s the chill that makes you want to wrap yourself in a throw blanket like a burrito. Or drink something nutmeg-y.

There's something about dressing for fall that feels like preparing for a movie montage. I always imagine someone out there narrating my movements—probably Meg Ryan.

“Hi, Stephan—” I pause, because just behind my roommate's boyfriend is none other than Fletcher Harding. Dressed in denim jeans and a gray sweater below a dark green wool coat, he looks like he might read Brontë on purpose and knows how to make cider from scratch.

The cold autumn air rushes in as we step out into the night. Leaves skitter across the sidewalk like tiny dancers in the wind, and the city smells like roasted chestnuts and chimney smoke.

For the first time in a long while, I don't mind that the mockingbird didn’t show up today. I’ve found something just as curious to watch.

I have no clue where we are going tonight, but I have to admit I am slightly disappointed it’s not Backside Diner. I’ve been twice this week already, and I think I’d like the waitresses to know my order by heart one day.

“So, what were your thoughts?” “On?” “Wuthering Heights.” “Oh, I love it. I mean, it’s not something I think I’ll re-read, but I am having more fun with it than the others. And, I think it’s helped me realize the two can exist at once.” “The two?” “Dark themes and romance. That one doesn’t have to be without the other. They can bleed into each other.” “Ahh.” “It’s like people, I think. You know how some couples start out one way, then after a year she’s loading the dishwasher the way he does and he suddenly stopped using two-in-one shampoo because she has worn into him it doesn’t work.” “It doesn’t?” “Let’s not even joke here.” Fletcher smiles.

Up close and personal, he smiles, and I feel like I have been lit by the sun from within. It’s like that feeling when you stretch a little too far and your mind goes a little dizzy, calf muscles tightening to a cramp. Fletcher’s smile is like the warm edges of a sunset and the cool breeze of an autumn night, and I am entirely grateful to be on the other side of it. The causing of it.

“You have dimples!” I practically scream and gasp at once. “How…did you not realize that before?” He’s still smiling, and the tiny craters in his cheek have me wanting to crawl into them with a patchwork quilt. “You never...

I feel like I should spoil this part for you, so I will: it was more than good enough. We each ordered a different form of pasta, and while I had a small sampling of everyone else's at their offers, I quickly decide that Fletcher’s plate is my favorite. A Grano Arso bucatini with braised duck ragu and mushrooms scattered on top. It is magnificent. And though my black spaghetti with shrimp, chorizo and spicy calabrian tomato sauce is incredible, I can’t stop eyeing Fletcher’s plate and those perfect little mushrooms. My shoulders did a full shimmy at my first bite, and I have thought of little since.

“Good.” He smiles, and it reminds me of my dad a little—crooked and wobbly. “Lenny likes all those, too.” Lennon's cheeks are pink again, and I suddenly feel like Stephan is trying to push us to agree to a playdate after school.

I look back over at Fletcher’s plate. There’s so much food left. Mine is missing a mere three bites, and my stomach growls only for more mushrooms. I wonder if I could stop somewhere on the way home, grab the ingredients for a pathetic homemade version of his plate, and satisfy the craving just enough to not gnaw off my own arm. Fletcher must recognize my deep longing, because he sighs and reaches across me for my plate, sliding it over to him. “Wait—” He then slides his own plate to the empty spot in front of me. Steam wafts up from the dish to my nose and it smells like duck ragu, sauteed mushrooms, and a little slice of heaven sprinkled on top.

I snort and know now it has to be the alcohol hitting, because all my walls telling me to keep all of this extra stuff to myself has dissipated, and I let the smallest piece slip out.

Fletcher really, really liked mushrooms.

The book props on my lap, resting under my chest, and sits atop my thighs as my hands quickly sign along with the words I've memorized for years. There is only one little reader that is hearing impaired here—she has a cochlear implant and can take in most of my words—but still, I want her to feel just as included as everyone else. Her big blue eyes track my every sign with a wide grin, and that alone feels worth it.

We are mid-fight scene with swords and slashes and PG-rated wounds, when behind a row of young moms wrestling their toddlers, I see him—broad shoulders, crooked nose, raised brows, and a hint of amusement at my tone, as the tiny mice make their way in the story to save Mikey. Fletcher’s arms cross over the wide expanse of his chest, shoulder leaning against the column beside him. The golden glow of my fairy lights makes it look like he’s lit from within, an amber incandescence on his scruffy face. His height allows him to easily gaze over all the other standing adults, and for some reason, my eyes clock the table and chairs I forced him into a few weeks ago. I have to fight back a snicker that threatens to come up.

I never thought I’d be excited to see Fletcher Harding enter a room, but here we are. My heart speeds up, all giddy, as the cut-out leaves in the overhead display dangle enough to tickle his shoulder.

Sometimes, I glance over to his apartment from the window and see him picking at the pink colored tabs poking out of the pages I assigned him, and it always makes me smile.

Last week he sent a picture of the ugliest pumpkin with a massive lump poking out like an orangutan nose and said, ‘Does this one remind you of me, too?’ I now have to send him pictures of every hideous pumpkin I pass on the brownstones’ steps.

I breathe in the air around us; I'd love to bottle it up and save it for later. I think fall will always be my favorite time of year. I like that the moment it arrives, you recognize the change it’s bringing—the color of the leaves and the way they scatter around you, the blaring heat slowly turning into cool, brisk nights where you can see your breath as you talk. I think everyone assumes that with change comes pain, and maybe that’s true. But, fall is an excellent reminder of just how beautiful the in-between stages of life can be—the uncertainty and the wonder. A point that sometimes it’s nice to not know what comes next, but to recognize the changes in us.

I let the wind do the talking for us, rushing in and around the buildings.

“I think I’d like to know what that’s like. To be the first person someone thinks about. To be the one that everything someone else does comes back to you. The one they always choose, to not be a maybe or a possible add-on, but to be a definite. That’s got to be nice.”

He’s quiet for a while, long enough for us to cross the busy streets twice and to only be a handful of blocks away from our final destination. I did it again, my mind shouts. I’ve gone and overshared and pushed out these thoughts, that just because I am having, I assume someone else out there has to be, too. I’ve tried and tried to change, but ultimately this is the ‘Hit Me Baby One More Time’ of oversharing.

I open my mouth to say an ‘oops, just kidding. I totally never have felt like that,’ but Fletcher cuts me off first with a nod. “Yeah. I get that.” Maybe he does. Or, maybe he’s humoring me. Either way, I don...

I shift my legs so they are curled up in the booth with me. Fletcher gives me a look, telling me how unsanitary he finds it, so I curl them closer to me where he can see.

“Does she look like you?” Boy, he is full of questions. “No,” I snort. “She’s like my mom’s mini me. Everyone thinks they’re sisters when we go out. I look just like my dad. Well, except my hair.” I pull at the ends of the long, curly strands. “Everyone in my family, except my sister and dad have my hair, it’s all from my mom’s side. Though, hers looks like natural beach waves; mine usually looks like a lion stuck his claw into a socket.” Fletcher doesn’t laugh with me; he just stares at the curls resting on my shoulder for a beat. “I like your hair.” Judging by how he‘s looking at it right now—with a tiny glint in his hazel eyes—for the first time ever, I think I might like it too.

Fletcher didn’t hate exclamation marks. He enjoyed them in any form she used them in their texts. ‘I got the little yogurt cups with M&M’s today!!” Or ‘Did you hear about the newest Marvel movie?! Wild!’ He did, however, hate nothing more in this moment than three little letters: NDA.

She tells me about the senior prank—disassembling and reassembling the principal's car from the parking lot to the gym.