Page 43 of Drawn Together
Huh. It’s rare for me to under share.
“Well, I mostly do some small indie books. Some local Maine authors reached out after I started posting just some quick little bonus arts of my favorite books and what not.”
“So, would I know any work you’ve done?”
“Probably not that’s been published. I did some branding kits for a few companies, but ultimately that fell apart over time too. But, if I can nail this project, I think it’s really going to take off.
“And this project is?”
I look around us, the diner is mostly empty now except for a few regulars at the barstools and the waitresses flirting with the much younger cook that Fletcher keeps glaring at.
“So,” I whisper. “I don’t know if I can say it yet or not, since it’s not official.”
“I am utterly bewildered.” He deadpans as he grabs his drink, swirling the ice with his straw.
“Okay, okay, you don’t have to beg. I’ll tell you. I was reached out to work on a commission for the Cedric Brooks’s next release.”
Fletcher sucks in and sputters out his water, spraying across his side of the table and a little on mine, too. He coughs sporadically, five, six, seven times. The waitresses are staring at us, no one offering help, but more than happy to watch the show. I reach for the box of napkins and start cleaning up the mess, but he stops me with a hand on my wrist.
“Sorry,” he croaks out. “Sorry, went down the wrong way.”
It takes him a moment to steady his breathing, and I almost consider giving him the Heimlich before he takes another sip of water and settles back into his seat.
“So, uh, Cedric Brooks, then.”
“The one and only.”
“He’s the recluse, right? No one knows who he is.”
I take a sip of my own drink and nod. “Yup. All I know is he’s a grumpy old man who hates exclamation marks.”
Fletcher guffaws. “Sounds horrible.”
“Right?”
I thought maybe he would be more impressed by the fact that I am actively working with the top children’s book author of our time. I maybe expected some bragging rights to come out of this. But, Fletcher is so determined to move the conversation chugging right along, that I have so little time to talk about it.
“Have you seen your sister…”
“Sloane.”
“Sloane, since you moved here?”
“Not in person, no. We text all the time and she keeps asking to visit, but I don’t think she’ll be able to make it here until her fall break.”
He must have gotten over his fear of money and meat mixing, because he takes a massive bite of his cold burger, cheeks poked out and voice muffled. “When is that?”
“Mid-October, I think? I’ll have to double check. I want to make it a really special visit for her, though, so let me know if youhave any places you think we should go. Other than the obvious.” I point to the butt syrup dispenser, and he cringes.
“Does she look like you?”
Boy, he is full of questions.
“No,” I snort. “She’s like my mom’s mini me. Everyone thinks they’re sisters when we go out. I look just like my dad. Well, except my hair.” I pull at the ends of the long, curly strands. “Everyone in my family, except my sister and dad have my hair, it’s all from my mom’s side. Though, hers looks like natural beach waves; mine usually looks like a lion stuck his claw into a socket.”
Fletcher doesn’t laugh with me; he just stares at the curls resting on my shoulder for a beat.
“I like your hair.”
