Page 74 of Drawn Together
My lips curls. “What about you?” He seems awfully comfortable on this boat right now. “You’ve been on them a lot?”
“Kind of. It’s been a while, but this is nice.”
He must sense my desire to push for more, because he relents with a sigh, leaning closer to me. “Ryan and I took a ferry to his treatment facility a lot. Lenny always took the train with him. So, for a while, we’ve kind of done that—she takes the train everywhere and I—”
“Take the ferry.” My shoulders sink a little. “Huh, I wondered why she always wanted to take the train when the bus was just as fast, if not faster.”
“I can’t say for sure that’s why, but I know it is for me.”
“Can I ask something?” I ask, inherently answering my own question. But, it’s one I’ve had for a while and could never feel fully comfortable pulling out of Lennon. We’re friends now, sure. Close friends some might argue—let it be known that I am ‘some’—but, I still haven’t found the right rhythm of pacing in my questions about her brother's passing.
“Always.”
I love that every answer Fletcher has is definitive. No thinking. No questioning. No ‘umms’ or humming silence as he wonders what is best for everyone else to hear. He just blurts it allright out. Sometimes it hurts, Mr. ‘I Don’t Get Romance,’ and sometimes, it feels like you’ve been hooked up to an IV connected directly to the sun.
Incredible. Pretty. The smartest one in the room, Flora no doubt. Always.
“When did you move into the building across the street?”
“Oh.” He stretches back into his seat, and I find myself leaning in closer as the boat bobs against the waves of the water. “It’s a bit of a long story.”
“We have time.” Thirty minutes of time to be exact, according to the loop we’re on right now.
I watch the hesitation flicker in his eyes. The tiny moment where he does think: is this the place, is this the time, is this the person to share whatever he is holding back with? And I use everything in me to assure him that I want to be that person for him.
Having never lost anyone close myself, I can’t say I understand. I can’t give advice or encouragement. I can’t say he’s in a better place—I didn’t know the guy—and I can’t share stories, memories, or moments that have drifted into the space of time that he no longer has a key to. But, I can listen. I can nod and smile and laugh when he talks about the days of a younger Fletcher and his best friend. I can ask questions, like ‘what was his favorite tv show?’ or ‘did he read a lot, or did he just collect books?’ I can be a buffer in a place that I’m not sure anyone else has ever been for him.
Maybe I’ve always been a talker, but I like to think I’m a good listener, too.
“We played tennis a lot.”
Actually, maybe I’m not the best person for this assignment, because the thought of Fletcher playing tennis makes me cackle. Loudly.
“Wow.” He shakes his head.
“I am so sorry.”
“Okay.”
“I just pictured you with a tennis racket and—”
“I had no idea the image was so hilarious,” he deadpans, but his mouth ticks up.
“It’s just, I envisioned you as maybe a…” I try to think of anything other than a Chess Club member or the president of the NYC Star Wars Theory Group and come up short.
“This might be the worst first date already—” He turns over his shoulder to look at the old man steering us. “Can you turn this thing around?” Fletcher's hand shoots up and does a ‘loop’ gesture.
“Stop,” I laugh, and reach my hand up to his fingers. He easily could keep it up, the strength of his forearm is obvious beneath my touch, but he allows me to pull his hand back down. Our tangled fingers rest in the space between our laps.
My entire body is pulsing, and I am practically vibrating in this seat at the warmth in his touch—the way his thumb, gentle but firm, caresses the back of my hand. He runs circles over a birthmark near my knuckles, outlining the edge of it like he needs to memorize the shape. I always thought I had big hands—it always felt like it compared to the woman around me—but Fletcher’s swallow mine whole.
I want him to stay there as long as possible. I want this ferry ride to last through the night, nothing but our laughter, hand holding, and the questioning thought of just how far we can push this scenario without me having to acknowledge tonight’s eventual end. Midnight will strike, the sun will rise, time will go on, and whereas this might be some pity sympathy date on Fletcher’s end, this is going to be the night I keep tucked in my pocket for years to come.
My voice is breathy when I finally look up from our joined hands. “Sorry, okay. You two played tennis.”
Fletcher’s still staring down at our laps, his head is tilted, and his eyes keep watching the spot his thumb is trailing along.
“It was never really Stephan’s thing.” He looks up to me with a hint of embarrassment. “And sure, it wasn’t exactly my thing either. But, Ryan asked to go all the time, and I eventually agreed; it became our ‘thing’ I guess. Well, one time we finished and the whole time he complained about his back. He groaned and kept saying he needed to see a doctor, and I didn’t take him seriously.”
