Page 33 of Drawn Together
“A thirty second hug.”
“Why thirty seconds?”
“My mom always does it. It’s supposed to be the right amount of time—just enough to get all the endorphins flowing. How long has it been?” Right now, it feels like an eternity.
He looks at the clock on the wall. “Ten seconds.”
“Twenty to go.”
We stand there for a moment, my arms wrapped around him pulled tight, and he’s just…there. Existing.
“Are they hitting yet?”
“No.”
“Wait a little longer.”
Shockingly, after what has to be the full thirty seconds, Fletcher slowly leans in. The arms above mine loosen, and while he doesn’t hug me back, he allows me to hug him. His chest lifts momentarily before his chin reaches down just enough to settle above my head, like his body is letting out a great big sigh. He smells like leather, cigars, and cinnamon coffee
“How long has it been?” I whisper, like if I speak up, it might spook him into realizing further how ridiculous this is.
But it’s been at least a minute, right? Enough time for the people at the table beside us grabbed their bags and left, I got to watch them curve to the end of the street out of view. That’s got to be thirty seconds right there.
“Twenty-five seconds,” Fletcher mumbles above me.
Oh. I’m not sure how to argue that when I haven’t been counting, but I hold my hug regardless.
When he lifts his head off of mine, my whole body is flushed, and I’m not sure what it says about me that a simple hug from a man—which he didn’t even return—has my synapses firing all over, but they’re there, and I can’t stop them. Or the elephants running around in my stomach.
“Did it work?”
He sits down and waits to answer until the sip of coffee is down his throat. “No.”
But, by the flush of red tinging his cheeks, I choose to not believe that answer either.
We get back to our coffees and books in front of us, and I tell him that this place is probably close enough to the bookstore for me to walk here after my next Friday shift.
“It’s quickest if you take back roads. Go to 16th by your apartment and take a left the whole way, then turn on this road. It’ll avoid crowds.”
“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t really been around much.”
“You moved here in April.”
I keep forgetting he is friends with Lennon, and therefore knows more about me than I always presume.
“I did.”
“You haven’t been around the city much since then?”
“Not really. We used to take trips up here when I was little, mostly for spring breaks or quick holiday weekends. I saw all the big touristy stuff back then, but I haven’t found much else beyond the Trader Joe’s on 12th, this coffee shop, my apartment, the bookstore, trivia night, and a butt diner on 23rd.”
“Lenny took you to Backside?”
“Exceptional pancakes.”
“Questionable pancakes.”
I smile, and he looks down into his mug. “So, where else have you been?”
