Page 34 of Drawn Together
“Nowhere. That’s it.”
“That’s…it?”
“Oh!” I sit upright, exclaiming, “And the park where I chased you down.”
“Prospect?”
“I guess so.”
“Do you have any other friends to show you around?”
There are two things I would like to note in that question: One, if I were to respond with the truth that I have no friends, on a scale of someone walking in on you working out alone in your room to Door Dashing Monistat, how embarrassed are we? And two, he said other friends. Which, judging by my context clues, insinuates he thinks we are friends. Are we friends?
Is my first real friend in this city a man who stole my breakfast and despises the one genre that I adore with all my heart? I think, yes.
Regardless, how much do I have to lose by sharing the truth?
“I do not.”
His brow wrinkles at that. “Lenny would probably do it if you asked her.”
“Lennon is just now at a point where she doesn’t run out of the room the second I walk into it, so I think I’d like to keep what we have going intact.”
He seems to think on that a while. “Well, I could do it.”
“Do what?”
“Show you some parts of the city. We have to meet for two hours once a week anyway, might as well do it somewhere new each time.”
“Okay.” I smile. “That would be great.”
“Okay.”
So, that’s that. Fletcher is my dispenser of creepy books and now not-so-tourist guide.
We spend the remainder of our two hours going through his favorite districts of the city, the way they’re spread out, and easy ways I can determine where I am if I were to get lost. I find out that he, Stephan, and the friend who passed—who he has yet to give me a name for—were high school best friends at a school about an hour from here. He takes great offense when I asked him if they all met in band, because he ‘felt like a saxophone player.’ He still has yet to give me the answer and I’m convinced now that it must be true.
We cycle through two more latte art-topped mugs. His always come out as hearts, while mine are always stars. I tell him it’s because the barista likes him, and he says I am delusional—this is likely.
When he reminds me the two hours are up, we both reluctantly stand up, and he hands me another paperback.
“I’m giving you a break this week. It’s still considered a gothic novel, but I thought you’d appreciate that there is some romance in this one.”
I flip the floppy book over and read the title aloud, “Wuthering Heights?”
“Have you read it?”
“No, but I don’t know why. It sounds very up my alley.”
His jaw ticks. “I thought so, too.”
I flip through pages and recognize the colorful tabs sticking out of the book: some dark orange, yellow, and green—like the changing leaves of the fall. There are hand-written notes in corners, arrows pointing to certain phrases, and underlined words. And while I try my best not to take in any spoilers, I can’t help but curiously continue searching for more cliff notes throughout the book.
“Was this…” I pause, not knowing his friend's name to fill in the blank.
“Ryan’s?”
“Ryan’s.”
