Page 112 of Drawn Together
“I’m not exactly sure what—”
“My girlfriend wants us to fight over that muffin. So, take the rest out, let her pretend to pay for it, and when I run out with it, just stand there.”
“This isn’t something we typically do for our customers.”
“It’s a very important day.”
I nod. “A holiday, really.”
Our barista, Elliot, glances from Fletcher to me and with an exasperated sigh, takes out the leftover muffins, while I excitedly point out the one I picked out first.
“That one, please, sir.”
He humors us by letting Fletcher pay and when we walk out hand in hand, I hear ‘what was that about?’ and ‘I don’t know, some kind of kink, I think.’
Which makes Fletcher and I laugh all the way to our spot in Prospect Park.
It’s crazy to think about how one year ago today we were here, huffing and puffing in anger—me—and casually relaxed—him—ready to fight to the end over our breakfast. How last fall brought everything good in my life to me. I wonder what this season will bring with it.
Christmas was amazing, of course. I really did love seeing all the lights with him. Fletcher and I even got a fresh, real Christmas tree at a farm two hours away. He helped the guy working there lift it up on his car and I keep the memory of him in a flannel, muscles rippling, tucked away for safe keeping.
In the spring, we regularly visited the 91st street garden—we walk through the snapdragons and the daisies and count the number of animals we can make out of the clouds above us.
Summer was spent traveling back and forth between New York and Maine. I wanted Fletcher to have the chance at a Whisper Bay summer—spoiler, he adores it and wants to go back for Thanksgiving this year.
We take a seat at our favorite bench with the perfect view of the city skyline behind us. He uses his plastic knife to cut the muffin in half, and I lift a hand to his fingers, pausing the movement.
“That’s not how you did it then.”
“Flora, my love.” Fletcher levels me with a look. “I don’t exactly have a ruler to measure it out half way.”
“Fine, fine. Let me see.” I pick the muffin out of Fletcher’s hands and plop my butt into his lap, his fingers trail around my waist and squeeze me tight against him. Our favorite reading position.
I expertly cut the muffin and think of what this last year has looked like for us.
Sloane has moved in, too. I wasn’t sure how that would go, both of us squishing into his apartment so soon after our shared I love yous. But Fletcher made it extremely clear he wanted nothing more than us to both feel at home. And with my blankets draped along his couch and all our books stacked together in their shelves and Sloane's takeover in my closet, I think the word home has never really existed until right now.
Sloane ended up taking over my job at Nook and Cranny when I became so booked up in commissions that I was able to do my own ‘retiring’ in the sense of the term. Fletcher and I work from home together, full-time at our dining table. He writes and I sketch, and when we both look up from our devices and share a devious smile, well, there are plenty of distractions that tend to catch us as the days go on.
And yes, Fletcher does still write fiction, despite leaving Cedric Brooks in his past. He now writes under his own name—no anonymity required. Threadbare, of course, absolutely blew up once people knew it was the last of Cedric’s works to hit the shelves. It has yet to get bounced off top ten of the NYT Best-Selling list, and whereas it could’ve been an opportunity for some really incredible royalties on Fletcher’s end, he decided to dedicate the book to Ryan and that all personal profits would be donated to the Prostate Cancer Research Institute. I think I fell in love with him all over again at that moment.
My one and only complaint is that he never lets me read what he’s writing over there across the table. He says it’s a secret until the finalized copy is in my hands. It turned into a game of sorts, my guessing and his shaking of his head. I’ve guessed that it’s a YA sci-fi, or a book about chess players, or maybe a middle-grade revolutionary rising, but clearly I am way off because he only laughs to himself. I’ve gotten sneaky, glancing over his shoulder when he types a quick note in passing but he’s lightning quick, never letting me see a single word.
I like that we never pretend Cedric didn’t exist. We don’t brush him under the rug or what he did for the two of us. In fact, we have Threadbare in a shadow box framed in the apartment, right next to the window where Malcolm and his bird wife come to visit us regularly.
“How long can I keep you like this?” Fletcher mumbled by my ear.
I check my watch. “Another thirty minutes.”
We have a meeting with a loan officer to see about the possibility of buying out Nook and Cranny since Edith is ready to retire. It’s a long shot, but who knows? Impossible things happen on the daily, like bumping into the one stranger that can help your work situation out whilst unknowingly being the one person holding you back.
My Fletcher breathes in my hair and plants a tender kiss just below my jaw as I give him his half of the torn pastry. “It’s never enough.”
I smile. The longer we’re together, the sweeter he gets. By the time we're hobbling around with gray hair, he'll be giving me cavities left and right.
“Here’s to the last year.”
We tap our halves together in a ‘cheers’ gesture, and I smile under his loving gaze. “And here’s to that wonderful book about the artist and the author.”
“May they find their happily ever after.”
