Page 30 of Drawn Together
Me:No. But I am more than determined to get this commission locked in, and I can pretend for the sake of it.
Fletcher:So, more books, then?
Me:Many more books.
Fletcher:I’ll try to go darker next time.
Me:No one likes an overachiever, Fletcher.
Fletcher:Does Friday still work for you?
Me:Same place?
Fletcher:Same place. Need me to walk you over this time?
Me:I would say yes, but I am going straight from work, so I will probably have to hitch a ride from Fiona Apple again.
Fletcher:It’s important for me to note that you did not take a rideshare with Fiona Apple…ever.
Me:Okay, Darcy.
Friday comes by in a flash.
The week is a blip in time, filled with apple cider donuts—thank you very much to Edith’s granddaughter—watching Lennon envelop herself into working with me, and digestingFrankensteinlike my future depends on it. Which, in a way, it does.
My newest draft ofThreadbare’s outline work is far more frightening than before. I’ve stripped out the blush tones, the soft gradients. No more cotton-candy skies or glimmers of gold in the warm light. The palette is desaturated, scraped thin—like a memory left out in the rain. I even gave The Seamstress these weird shadows—long, sharp, and wrong in their angles—stretching behind her in a way shadows shouldn’t, and a willow tree with branches hung low, leaves grazing her shoulder in a light touch.
Comparing this draft to my first, I think I’m beginning to get what old man Jenkins—ahem, Cedric—was getting at. In my mind, that draft was perfect for the eight- to twelve-year range and fit the story's theme, but that was the old Flora. This is the new Flora, and she is dark and mysterious. Watch out world.
On my way to the café, I pass a stand selling assorted pumpkins in multitudinous shades, sizes, and shapes, but my eyes land on a perfect pink one. The woman behind the counter ensures me that it is technically a gourd, and I take a picture and text it to Sloane, telling her it reminds me of her. I my eyes catch on a light green one; it’s bumpy and calloused and has some scratches on the bottom of it, and the handle of its stem is broken off, leaving it bald and misshapen.
This one reminds me of Fletcher. So, I pull out the last of my cash and happily pay the overpriced ten dollars for the small and absurd pumpkin.
“You’re on time.”
Fletcher’s eyes widen, and he stares from me to my full hands.
“Do you have to sound so surprised?”
He gestures for me to sit across from him, and I do, placing the little green guy in front of us both like a centerpiece.
“What—”
“It reminded me of you.”
“Um. Okay.”
“It’s a gift. To say thank you for the help.”
“Ah, alright then.”
I leave him briefly to grab a cup of vanilla chai, and when I glance over my shoulder, he is turning the tiny pumpkin around in his hand with a confused look.
When I sit back down, I take note that he has put the pumpkin more on his side than mine and assume it’s his way of accepting the gift. I sip from my steaming paper cup and pull out the paperback that I have clung desperately to this week.
“Oh, tell your friend I said thank you for letting me borrow their copy.”
“Okay.”
