Page 103 of Drawn Together
“This is absurd; you are two grown adults, just get together already.”
Lennon nods in agreement with her boyfriend. “Having other people in the room has never stopped us before.”
“We know,” Fletcher and I both deadpan.
For the next book club, we agree that we have to do the least sexy activity we could think of: a baking class. Only instead of learning how to bake anything, it was actually a frosting class. And watching Fletcher gently fold in powdered sugar and lick the blue remnants on his fingers is so tortuous that when it is my turn to fill the paper and squeeze it tight, Fletcher grabs my hand and drags us far away from the room. He in no uncertain terms lets me know that whatever is happening in that cooking class is uncharted territory for us both.
Clearly, there is no safe activity for us to do together, regardless of the company around us.
The week after, we agreed to push our book club out again, since Fletcher promised that by the next week’s book club, he would be finished with whatever plans he had to commence for us to get to whatever lies in the future for us.
Lennon comes bursting into the apartment that night, nearly getting caught in the door's pull.
“How did you get him to do it?” she gasps, maybe from the run or maybe from whatever she’s about to say next.
I sit up. “Who? And what?”
“Edith just called Cliff, who called me and said that Cedric Brooks called her personally and said he is coming to the Thanksgiving event to announce his retirement!”
“What?” I stand up, shrieking. “Retirement?”
“She said he’ll be coming to sign books and will officially announce it there, and that there’s going to be a ton of publicists there.”
“Oh my gosh!” Why am I sweaty at the thought of meeting him? Will he still think of me as a cartoon squirrel? Oh God, what if he takes one look at me and decides to take the entire project back? “What do we— What do I—”
“I have no clue, but he’s coming, and Edith is at Nook and Cranny showing Cliff where to move the shelves to accommodate everyone. She’s going to sell tickets, I think. First come, first serve, and no pictures are allowed—no phones, no anything.”
I stretch for my phone and my fingers are flying off left and right, trying to figure this entire thing out, and yet the first thing I do is text Fletcher.
Me:You are never going to believe who’s coming to the Thanksgiving party.
Fletcher:Fiona Apple?
Me:CLOSE.
Me:Cedric Brooks!!!!
He types a little then it falls, like he is just as speechless as I am.
Fletcher:You’re serious?
Me:Super serious. He called Edith, and Edith told Cliff, and Cliff told Lennon.
Fletcher:How do you feel about it?
Me:Is it weird that I’m not sure yet?
Fletcher:No, that’s valid.
Me:…do you think he has a mustache?
Fletcher:I’m going to go with yes.
Me:I think so, too. A white one.
Fletcher:You’re just saying that because you picture him as Santa Claus.
Thirty
