Page 22 of Drawn Together
Flora: Did you laugh?
Fletcher: No.
Flora: Alright, Mr. Moody, lay the book on me!!
Fletcher: Coraline, Neil Gaiman.
Flora: Mmmm, I don’t know about that, the movie scared me.
Fletcher: I don’t think this will work.
I am twenty minutes late to my first ever book club.
Which is hilarious, considering I left my place almost an hour earlier than needed this morning.
Fletcher and I assigned each other our reads: Me, Coraline. Him, Jane Eyre. An easy start for us both, I think.
It took me the full week, but I surprisingly made it through the book with somewhat minimal nightmares. I woke up in the middle of the night a handful of times, grabbing my face and testing to make sure I didn’t have buttons for eyes. But ultimately, it was a solid read. Not my taste—I kept finding myself searching for a YA romcom feeling in there somewhere—but not the worst assigned read I’ve had.
Believe it or not, I was very excited to meet with Fletcher this morning. Only problem is, he texted last night saying we should meet at the coffee shop where we first met.
I didn’t want to seem like a complete tourist, so I responded sure with at least three exclamation marks.
Two things wrong with this: I have a horrible sense of direction—one of the very few things I got from my mom’s side—and two, I did not know the name of that coffee shop.
I woke up that morning running on pure adrenaline and had plans of just going over to the diner on the corner for a to-go coffee, but they were closed, so I kept walking and eventually a coffee shop manifested right in front of me. When I left, I hadn’t exactly bothered to stop and look at the sign, or the logo on my cup, because I was mostly just focused on tracking down the stranger with my breakfast.
This being said, I had little to no idea where I was.
When a familiar street I distinctly remember running down appears, I spot a small cafe at the very end and blow out along breath. Outside is steeped in full autumn—brownstones wrapped in ivy turning ember-red, sidewalks cloaked in crisp leaves that crunch under boots and stroller wheels around me. There are vendors with handmade bracelets, and up the block, someone is selling tiny pumpkins from a folding table with a hand-painted sign that says Venmo okay.
Inside the cafe, warmth wraps around me like a throw blanket. The windows are fogged at the edges. A small candle flickers on each table—spiced pumpkin, maybe, or clove? It smells like it did that morning, a tiny hint of magic and mystique in the air. The place is packed again, but quietly so—a dad in a wool beanie reads a picture book to his daughter while their hot chocolates steam between them, and two grad students debate something about memory and myth over cinnamon lattes. Near the window, a woman in a quilted jacket knits something, her fingers flicking like sparrows through the yarn.
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?”
“Two blocks?” I all but shriek.
