Page 16 of Drawn Together
Back up just one minute.
“You want me to teach you about romance?”
“Romance novels, precisely. Yes.”
“And how would I even do that?”
I don’t know if that’s something that can be taught. You either get it or just…don’t. It’s like playing cards with someone—after two or three rounds, if you don’t understand how seven up,seven down works, I’m not sure what else there is to do other than just go for it. And Fletcher, in all his shitting on romance, is not exactly someone I’d like to work with on this kind of project.
I need a hobby, not a death sentence.
“You would give me recommendations on books, I’d read them, and you’d give me feedback on my general thoughts to make sure I understand the overall plot points.”
I think back to watching Fletcher the other day. Nose scrunched, lip curled at each romance question on trivia night. The little scoffs at the mention of some of my favorite authors in this world. The condescending raise of a brow when I knew that Jane Austen once accepted a marriage proposal, only to change her mind the very next day.
All of it tells me a very clear answer to his question. I could dedicate years of my life to teaching the themes and understanding of classic romances to Fletcher, and he would be left with nothing but a humorous, pitying laugh.
I have subjected myself to mortification for the sake of pushing a friendship with others more than I care to admit, and I refuse to do it again. Certainly not with this man.
“I am a romance expert. It’s ninety percent of the content I consume. I listen to audiobooks when I’m walking anywhere, and I read on my Kindle at night. I like enemies to lovers. I like pirates. I like shy hockey players and female leads who are learning their way through life. I watch early 2000s romcoms religiously. I like slow burns and gentle touches, kind words and tender moments, and forced proximity. I like contemporary romances with underwater welders. I like historical romances with Scottish men in kilts.”
“Kilts?”
“And, as much as I like all romances, I can look at someone and know that they couldn’t possibly understand them.” I leanback as much as my pencil chair will let me. “I look at you, and I know that it would be a waste of my time.”
Fletcher is frantic, arms out and hands pointing. “Well, anyone would think that if they saw me in this chair. Here, let me stand up and I’ll show you, I don’t usually slouch like this—”
“No, that’s okay.”
He is still trying to stand up, his narrow hips caught between the chair and table.
“Fletcher.”
Dark eyes look over to me.
“I appreciate you thinking so highly of me—”
A splotch of pink stretches along his cheekbones. “Well, I wouldn’t say—”
“But I have to decline.”
It’s true. I am borderline desperate for friendship—for regular, platonic human contact—but I will not enter an arrangement to teach the values of a good romance book to someone who does nothing but put down on this genre. 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.
Fletcher Harding is beginning to learn that he knows what a desperate man sounds like. And if he can’t get Flora Anderson to agree to help him, he will turn into just that.
Seven
Wordoftheday:kalopsia
Definition: A Greek word meaningthe delusion of things being more beautiful than they are
There’s a northern mockingbird sitting just outside my window.
It’s not the first time I’ve seen him, either. I think he started coming around about a month ago, or at least that’s when I noticed him. He’s a very round little thing—all belly and chest poking out—with gray and white feathers that sometimes act like they’re shivering when it’s chilly at night. His tiny black beak has a scratch on the right side, as if he’s been through some scuffles at a park over leftover hotdog buns and chocolate wrappers.
He gives me this look when I stare at his beak too long, like ‘You should see the other guy.’
I named him Malcolm a couple weeks ago. He just feels like a Malcolm.
