Page 20 of Drawn Together
“Good one.” He takes out an apple of his own and bites into it. I look away from the juice on his Adam's Apple.
“I think it was him calling her spider monkey that left me the most confused.”
“Fair. And the meadow scene?”
“Meh.”
And just when I thought I couldn’t loathe him more.
“It was also enchanting,” I correct his dismissal. “Learning just how much he wants to protect her.”
“Ah.” He bites into his apple again. “Okay.”
His okay is so clearly backed by a large disagreement, but I don’t have it in me to push an argument right now. Certainly not with someone this impossible.
We keep walking, our apples dissipating into nothing but cores and seeds tossed in a nearby trash can, and Fletcher asks, “Are you going to tell me why you were crying?”
Maybe it’s because I have such little skin in the game, or maybe because I know my search for friends wouldn’t extend itself to this man, but I tell him. He can argue and make fun of me and whatever else, and it wouldn’t even shock me anymore.
“I have this job—”
“The one that was supposed to depend on my muffin?”
“My muffin. And yes. It’s this commission piece I’m supposed to do, and the guy who hired me basically said I have the emotional depth of a cartoon squirrel. He wants all dark, moody themes, and I just can’t do it.”
It’s almost ironic how quick it hits me—Fletcher ‘can’t get’ romance in the same way I ‘can’t get’ Cedric Brooks’ gothic youth novels.
Fletcher stays quiet as we move along the path, weaving in and out of crowds.
“Your reassurance is greatly appreciated.”
There’s a ghost of a smirk on his lips, and he looks less menacing that way.
“I didn’t know if this was one of those rants that doesn’t need advice, or if you actually want my opinion.”
I shouldn’t want his opinion. It shouldn’t matter to me.
But still, as we cross the street together, only two blocks left to our respective apartments, I whisper, “I wouldn’t hate an opinion.”
“You’ve read a lot?”
I nod.
“Do you remember that one book about the struggling artist?”
I’m racking my brain, looking for any familiarity, but I come up short. But I don’t want to say the word ‘no,’ so I ask, “Which one?”
There’s this look on his face I can’t pinpoint. “I can’t remember the title, but it’s this girl that can’t find her muse for an art piece. And the guy who stole her breakfast one morning happens to bean expert on the style she is missing. The best part is that he also needs help writing an article, so they form a pact.”
My eyes narrow. “Funny, I don’t remember that one.”
“Keep thinking. They have a…book club, of sorts. Where she helps him understand all these romances he’s been reading and not grasping.”
“And what did she get out of it?”
“Well, beyond excellent company—”
“Mediocre company.”
