Page 107 of Drawn Together
“I’m serious, you’re burning up.”
“It’s just warm in here.”
I raise a brow and look over to the thermostat proudly displaying seventy-three degrees. “It’s not that warm. Do you need to go home?”
“No!” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Sorry, no. I’m fine, I swear.”
“I really understand if you need to go; I promise it’s okay.” I run my hand through his hair. “Cedric Brooks might come back out in another fifty years. I’ll be your date, if you’d like. Take my curlers out and everything for you.”
That makes him laugh. “I might take you up on that.”
“Flora,” Cliff calls from across the aisle. “Do we want the books on the chairs, or do they grab them on their way in?”
I sigh. “I better go handle everything. Stay if you want to, but just know it’s okay if you don’t, alright? We can still hang out after.” I plant a kiss on his cheek. “I still have the thing I want to tell you.”
Fletcher nods. “Right.”
By 5:05p.m., the bookstore is bursting at the seams. Every chair holds someone, parents are balancing babies and toddlers on their laps. The overflow of attendees stand shoulder-to-shoulder behind the seated crowd. Despite the bookstore's strict two-hundred-person capacity, a considerable line of eager fans snakes its way outside. The air crackles with anticipation; I feel it boiling up in my chest and bubbling over. Reporters cluster near the entrance, their cameras flashing intermittently, capturing the growing excitement. All eyes are fixed on the doorway, each person yearning for the moment Cedric Brooks, the enigmatic author, finally reveals himself to the world.
The tension thickens as a gray-haired man in a neatly knotted tie, looking important and purposeful, weaves his way through the throng of people right to me.
“Miss Anderson?”
“Yes?” Surely this isn’t Cedric. He’s got to be somewhere in his fifties, and unless he’s been publishing since mid-potty training, it’s just not possible.
“I’m Todd with Ashford & Elm Publishing, we’ve emailed, I believe.”
“Oh my gosh, yes.” I set down my copy of The Clockmaker's Shadow and stick a hand out to shake his. “Thank you so much for convincing him to do this, seriously. It’s been such a great help for the store.”
“He was surprisingly excited to join in on it.”
Lights flicker above us, and I turn to the light switch at the front being cleaned frantically by Lennon. “I should finish helping, but it was so nice to meet you.”
He shakes my hand and is about to leave, but I catch him just before. “Uh, Todd?”
“Yes ma’am?”
“Does he have a mustache? Cedric? I have a bet to win.”
He laughs. “I guess we will see.”
When the clock finally shows it’s thirty after, the room is filled with silent tension, every eye searching for a figure to appear and seize the coveted pen name, but no one moves. Well, no one besides Fletcher sitting next to me. His knee is bouncing at a hundred miles a minute, and I swear this entire row of chairs is rattling because of it. I never took him as such a big fan. Every time I bring Cedric up, it’s mostly in a passing glance kind of way, not because he has ever taken such interest in it.
“Hey,” I whisper. “Are you sure you’re not sick?”
“I’m about to be,” he whispers back, before standing up and taking off toward Todd at the front of the store.
“Wh— What are you doing?” I hiss after him, but it’s too late. He’s too far gone between the crowd of people. Oh God, is he going to make some kind of speech? I love a good speech, but now is not the time. Cedric is coming soon, and I love Fletcher, but no, no, no.
He approaches the mini stage and taps on the mic, the sound echoing slightly.
“Uh, hi.” He clears his throat, and I swear all time stands still. “I, um, know I am not what you all expected. But I’m hoping you’ll hear me out until the end.”
Did Todd put him up to this? Another surprise for me somehow, and Cedric’s going to jump—or more likely wheel—out here any moment?
“In 1973, there was a fifty-year-old man named Don that had an idea for a book about a boy and a broken pocket watch. After writing four bestsellers, he unexpectedly suffered a stroke. He recovered, but knew he wasn’t going to be able to write as his pen name anymore. He went to his best friend, a journalist in Chicago. He shared with him everything about the forthcoming book, which would be about a tree in the woods whispering secrets in the wind. And in 1981, The Orchard Tree came out under the new Cedric Brooks. That Cedric introduced seven more books. Then, in 1993, he tragically passed in a car accident. His wife took on the role of taking his final book notes and publishing the last three of his works before she passed it on to her nephew, an English teacher who published The Mirrorwoods and The House That Hums. One day, he had a student in his class who loved literature, but specifically Cedric Brooks.”
Every person in the room is on the edge of their seats, desperate for more. I’m frozen in time, not quite here and not quite away, but somewhere in space.
