Page 37 of Drawn Together
“Wuthering Heights.”
“Oh, I love it. I mean, it’s not something I think I’ll re-read, but I am having more fun with it than the others. And, I think it’s helped me realize the two can exist at once.”
“The two?”
“Dark themes and romance. That one doesn’t have to be without the other. They can bleed into each other.”
“Ahh.”
“It’s like people, I think. You know how some couples start out one way, then after a year she’s loading the dishwasher the way he does and he suddenly stopped using two-in-one shampoo because she has worn into him it doesn’t work.”
“It doesn’t?”
“Let’s not even joke here.”
Fletcher smiles.
Up close and personal, he smiles, and I feel like I have been lit by the sun from within. It’s like that feeling when you stretch a little too far and your mind goes a little dizzy, calf muscles tightening to a cramp. Fletcher’s smile is like the warm edges of a sunset and the cool breeze of an autumn night, and I am entirely grateful to be on the other side of it.
The causing of it.
“You have dimples!” I practically scream and gasp at once.
“How…did you not realize that before?” He’s still smiling, and the tiny craters in his cheek have me wanting to crawl into them with a patchwork quilt.
“You never smile at me.”
“I do, just usually when you’re not looking.”
I have very little time to dissect that statement as Stephan turns around and points to a nearby restaurant. “It’s this one. Lenny said you’d like it because it would remind you of your dad.”
Lennon not-so-discretely pinches her boyfriend's elbow, and I smile.
“Oh?” The glowing neon sign says Piccoli Trattoria.
“You said your dad was Italian.” I don’t know if it’s the red sign above us or if the flush in Lennon’s cheeks is genuine, but I find it endearing all the same.
“Yeah, his whole family lives in Sicily.”
“Well, then.” Stephan opens the door for both Lennon and me. “You’ll have to tell us if it’s good enough.”
I feel like I should spoil this part for you, so I will: it was more than good enough.
We each ordered a different form of pasta, and while I had a small sampling of everyone else's at their offers, I quickly decide that Fletcher’s plate is my favorite.
A Grano Arso bucatini with braised duck ragu and mushrooms scattered on top.
It is magnificent. And though my black spaghetti with shrimp, chorizo and spicy calabrian tomato sauce is incredible, I can’t stop eyeing Fletcher’s plate and those perfect little mushrooms. My shoulders did a full shimmy at my first bite, and I have thought of little since.
My dad did not inherit his mom’s cooking skills, but he did inherit her excellent taste. And I like to think that’s been passed down to me as well. Though, I ate boxed mac and cheese forthree meals last week, so who's to say I am a proper judge of this thing.
Fletcher’s elbow taps mine, and I look back up from his plate. “Hm?”
“Stephan asked if you like living here.”
“Oh.” Across the table, Lennon’s cheeks are stuffed with ravioli, and Stephan is patiently waiting for my answer. “I do. I like the views and the buildings. And that everyone minds their own business. And all the little stands and markets. Oh, and the coffee.”
There is exactly one cafe in Whisper Bay, and the coffee is subpar at best. Always a little burnt and always a little watered down.
