Page 9 of Drawn Together
“Right, your neon hot pink knife is very intimidating.”
Damn, how did he see that?
“Just—” I make a frustrated noise, which comes out like someone slammed their hands on a keyboard and hoped a word came out of it. “I would really appreciate it if you did not walk me home.”
“Okay.” His thumbs poke out of the ends of his pockets. “Fine.”
We keep walking as the streets grow quieter, the laughter and clatter from the avenues fading behind us like the needle of a record player pulling at the end of a smooth song. As we snake through the streets, soft shadows from swaying leaves sprinkle the sidewalk. A cool breeze whispers past my cheeks and tugs at my sleeves, down to my fingertips. Behind me, Fletcher's shoes made a rhythmic, hollow thud every ten feet—the only sound besides the breeze around us.
“You’re still walking me home.”
“I am not.” He keeps his eyes straight ahead. “This is how I get home.”
“Is it, though?”
“Yes.”
“Well, can you…walk some other route.”
“Can you walk some other route?”
I choose not to answer that.
And we keep on pushing. I am content to spend the rest of this walk in utter silence, but when Fletcher mutters out two words, I turn on a dime.
“I’m sorry.”
I’ve always had a poor poker face. My old best friend used to say I had a face so easy to read, I might as well have a window straight into my mind on my forehead. I think that’s why Fletcher’s chin jerks back at whatever my expression looks like right now.
“You—what?”
“I’m sorry. About this morning. And the trivia thing. I’ve been known to be bad with people.” My brow raises. “And words,” he mumbles. “I’ve been working on it. It just takes me a minute, sometimes. But I did mean what I said about romance. I don’t get it.”
“Yes, well, you made that clear.”
“Not in the way it sounds. I’ve…tried, okay?”
A hand emerges from his pocket, reaching up to smooth down a wayward strand of hair.
“You’ve tried?”
“Hard.”
“How so?”
I can see his shoulders lift out of the corner of my eye. “The Great Gatsby. A Farewell to Arms. The Sorrows of Young Werther, The—”
“Those are not romances.”
“It said there was romance in the descriptions.”
“Just because something has romantic scenes doesn’t mean it’s a romance.” I scoff and look at a passing woman, like Can you believe this guy? She turns her stroller the other way and moves her legs faster, like a pigeon.
“It doesn’t?”
“Not even a little.”
“Then what signifies a romance? A real one?”
