Page 26 of Drawn Together
To my—and Fletcher’s—surprise, we did use up those full two hours. And, I think we would have kept going, had I not mentioned having set time apart for this in my sporadic calendar. He kept checking the time, and when eleven rolled around, he let out this deep sigh and said, “Two hours is up. I’ll see you next week.”
I found myself wanting to protest, to say we could stay and talk about our favorite books—about floppy paperbacks or audiobook narrators—but then, I thought maybe two hours was too long for him, so I gave a polite nod. “Next week.”
I carried the paperback ofFrankensteincradled to my chest the whole walk home, which turns out—when going the right way—was only two blocks. He must have really had somewhereto go, because when we left the cafe, he gave me a quick wave and walked the other way.
By the time I got back to the apartment, I was already two chapters intoFrankensteinand very much looking forward to reading the classic tale for the first time. I wondered if Fletcher was thinking the same about my assignment for him to meet my one true love: Mr. Darcy.
Pride and PrejudiceandFrankenstein. Funny how those two were published within five years of each other. What a time to be alive.
I fling myself in the apartment as the door suctions itself is tight. My head is still amongst the words in front of me when a figure moves past me. Lennon sits herself on the stools by the counter and pulls out her phone.
Did she leave her room and come in here when she heard me come in?
“Oh.” I smile. I haven’t seen Lennon in…six? No, seven days. A whole week of silence, and since the only times we have ever texted each other was me asking if she was allergic to dairy and her letting me know the elevator was broken, I wasn’t sure if it constituted me reaching out. Besides, Fletcher had my number now, so if something happened, I assume he is close enough to her to know about it.
“Hi.”
She lifts her head, and those pretty blue eyes of hers seem clearer now, a glint in them that wasn’t there last I saw her. “Hello.”
“How was the interview?”
Not that she told me she had one. Edith passed by me restocking shelves and said, ‘Wish ya friend luck, I’m talking to her on Friday morning.’
“I start on Monday.” There’s not even a hint of a smile on her face, but I can hear one in her voice more than I ever have before.
“Oh.” I sit across from her. “That’s amazing. Edith must’ve really liked you.”
“I guess. I didn’t think it was going well, but somehow it worked, since she hired me the same day.”
Funny. I applied to my job, had an interview, and didn’t hear back for almost three weeks. By the time Edith called me back, I assumed it was to say sorry, you weren’t good enough, but still be sure to support local indie bookstores in your future.
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?
Lennon is cool. She collects records, she carries red leather purses. She has a mysterious boyfriend that comes and goes in the night. She goes to trivia nights with friends and is a regular at a butt diner. She is so busy that she is never at the place she lives, and if she is there, it’s only for mere minutes. She smells like old bookstores and cinnamon lattes. And I once found her crocheting a turtle with a racoon on top.
I can’t blame Edith; I would hire Lennon on the spot, too.
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.
“That’s incredible, seriously. Edith is really hard to ple—”
“Where did you get that?” Lennon’s voice shakes, and I look down at the apple cider in front of me with a raised brow.
“The coffee shop on 18th?”
“No, that.” Her finger, almost as shaky as her voice, points to the right of my cup, and I realize she’s talking about my other hand.
“Oh!” I lift the worn book and turn it to her. “Frankenstein. Grr.” I make a little growly noise followed by a chuckle, before realizing that Frankenstein doesn’t really growl. Does he?
“He let you borrow that?”
“Fletcher? Yeah.” I don’t know exactly how much to say here, so I just settle on. “We’re in a book club together. He’s letting me borrow it for the week.”
Lennon swallows heavily and stays silent. Am I…miscalculating things here? It would not be the first time. In fact, last week I thought a man at Trader Joe’s was asking for my number, and equally flattered and somewhat off put, I gave a spiel about how I was much too young for him. Turns out he was asking where I got my glass jar of autumn squash soup. His wife behind him was almost as appalled at the cashier.
“Lennon?”
