Page 90 of Drawn Together
I like our friendship. I like him. I pause to take a bite of the cinnamon-sugary goodness. I don’t love change. I think we’re figuring out how to evolve without unraveling.
She nods once, then again more softly. Her gaze follows a group of kids kicking through a pile of leaves. We keep walking, the last crumbs of sugar dusting our coats, and the cold just sharp enough to remind us that the city is in her ever-changing growth.
By the time one o’clock rolls around, we take the 2/3 train from Grand Army Plaza to 59th St–Columbus Circle and walk up to the Loeb Boathouse in Central Park. Standing at the entrance waiting for us are Lennon, Stephan, and of course, Fletcher.
“How was today?” he asks, as we make our way to the boats, following Stephan, Lennon, and Sloane as they walk through like they own the place.
“Perfect.” I smile up at him. “I think it made me realize just how nice it will be once she’s fully here. I worry about her, and I know I shouldn’t—I mean, she’s doing better than I am, socially at least. Still, I fret about it sometimes, her moving here. I’ll toss and turn at night worrying about what her life will look like here, and people can be cruel sometimes, and I know she is more than capable, I just—”
“I know.” He reaches to the side of our assigned rowboat and hands me a paddle, fingers brushing mine long enough for warmth to dance along my sweater-covered arms.
“But, seeing her navigate things so…smoothly today… Even knowing it won’t be perfect all the time, just getting to witness her live her life so freely, feels like a blessing, you know?”
He nods alongside me and grabs his own paddle. With the sun slanting low through a latticework of golden leaves, the lake shimmers like molten amber. A crisp breeze rustles the trees nearby, sending flurries of burnt orange and faded crimson drifting down onto the water’s surface.
“You’re a good sister.” Fletcher pokes my paddle with his, and I’m forced away from the sight. “She’s lucky.”
I turn over my shoulder to see Lennon attempting to get in her boat—knees wobbling, her oar going to fall out any second—and there’s Sloane, smiling—no,beaming—up at her with unadulterated joy across her face.
“I’m lucky, too.”
We slip into the boat—Fletcher first with no issues. When I try to hop in as quick and easy as he did, we end up with my knee in his lap and his hand on my waist.
“Careful, or we might end up finding something I’m better at than you.”
I scramble and take my seat across from him, the heat of his hand against my jeans still warming my entire body. “It’s about time.”
After a brief, theatrical demonstration from the instructor—complete with exaggerated arm movements and a paddle nearly flung into the water—we each take our positions. The boats are painted in soft shades of forest green and robin’s egg blue, their wooden oars worn smooth by seasons of use.
Lennon and Sloane are the first to set off. Their green boat glides effortlessly across the water, barely rippling the lake’s mirrored surface. They move as a unit, synchronized and laughing, their silhouettes framed by the glow of afternoon light.
Then, it’s Fletcher and me. We push off with less grace, our oars clunking and catching air more than water. The canoe rocks gently under us, unsure of our intentions. But after a few crooked strokes and a bit of accidental splashing (mostly fromme), we settle into something resembling a rhythm. We’re off—wobbling but moving at the very least.
Behind us is pure chaos as Stephan launches himself onto the water with unearned confidence and absolutely no control. His boat begins an immediate and aggressive spin, circling like a confused duck. He yells something indistinct about how this ‘is easier with Lenny in his boat’ and his paddle flails in wide arcs.
The instructor on the dock has her arms waving wildly, shouting directions over the water, and Stephan only spins faster.
“I’m trying,” he shouts. “It’s like piloting a shopping cart with no wheels.”
Our boat glides onward, rocking gently with each stroke. The world hushes around us—the hum of the city dimming into the distance replaced by the soft lap of water against the boat and the rustle of leaves around us. Fletcher leans back slightly, watching the sky through the break in the trees, and I let myself fall into the moment. A day that feels like it’s been folded up and saved in time just for me.
“Your mom told me your birthday is next week?” Fletcher’s hair has a hint of auburn in this golden light, making the regular honey-brown strands seem warm to the touch. I want to run my hands through each one.
“Mhm.” I force my eyes back down. “I’ll be twenty-six.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t think it mattered.” I pull back a little to row more and the topic of birthdays has me questioning, “How old are you?”
“Twenty-eight. That’s not what I was asking, though. I meant, why didn’t you tell me your birthday is next week?”
“I didn’t really think about it. And if I did, I just didn’t want you to feel like you had to get me something or do something.”
Because he would. Because he’s Fletcher and he’s sweet and goes way further than needed for the people around him.
“It’s your birthday. Of course I’m getting you something.”
“I didn’t get you anything for your birthday.”
