Page 35 of Drawn Together
“No, I just got it last week. I read it so long ago I couldn’t find my old copy—probably in storage somewhere.”
My entire body lights up at that. “So, you got this just for the book club?”
“Yes.”
“You bought this book,” I wave it around, fall colored tabs and all, “and annotated it for me?”
“Do you have to sound so surprised?” He parrots my previous words, and had I not been in such shock, I would have maybe laughed at that.
But, my mind is still trying to wrap around the hundreds of tiny tabs, notes, explanations, and comments like, ‘you will like this part, I think’ or ‘push through this scene, it gets better,’ that he left on this book just for me.
Maybe that says something about me, too. That my eyes water at the mere sentiment of a man buying a book for me and annotating it, but there I was on the verge of grateful tears.
I guess we are friends, then.
Flora Anderson bought Fletcher a pumpkin because it reminded her of him. Granted, it’s the ugliest pumpkin that he had ever seen. But he went home, set it on his coffee table, and stared at it for an hour, wondering how he wanted to take that—along with the three-minute hug that reminded him just how touch-starved he was.
Thirteen
Wordoftheday:droke
Definition:to gaze intensely at someone while they are eating, in the hope that they will share their food
It’s been two days since I have seen my little mockingbird friend.
I like to think he has a family in a far-off nest, but he comes here to take a break from the non-stop screeching for Cheerios and screen time. Then, the mommy bird gets to do the same the next day, being sure to sip the leftover drops of an espresso martini someone left behind at a rooftop bar.
Point being, when I find myself looking through the window for any traces of my flying friend, I am left with nothing but the option to look out at Fletcher’s apartment. The curtains are open today, no lights on currently, but I can see a small bit of his layout.
I’m almost annoyed at how perfect his choice for my week is:Wuthering Heights. I think up until this week, I’ve been trying to compartmentalize my brain into exact sections. I can be the romance loving, banana Laffy Taffy sweater wearing girl whowants to draw pretty pictures anytime I want, until it comes time for Cedric Brooks commissions—then, I am a monster who uses blood to draw the outlines of her victims. Kidding, but I have found somehow that romance and light and airiness can co-exist with dark, gothic themes.
And apparently, the research Fletcher and I have been conducting through these books is working, because when Cedric Brooks emailed me back this morning, it was only one sentence:I didn’t hate this one.
I smile to myself at the memory. He likes it. Enough where I can slip into the next scene and keep going on this commission, as long as he will allow me to. But, before I can stop looking outside and put my focus back to the iPad in my lap, Lennon throws the door to our apartment open and sprints in to avoid getting caught in the draft. I am so sucked into watching Fletcher’s neighbor do some form of dance yoga, I don't even lift my head up.
“Hello,” she sighs.
“Hi.” I smile. “How was your day?”
“Fine.” She goes around the counter like she’s heading to her room, but pauses just as she is at the door before turning to me. “Yours?”
It’s such a long pause between the two words I have to track backwards to remember what she is asking, but when the sentiment hits, my smile grows wide. “Very good.”
“Good.” She goes in her room and shuts the door, and I turn back to my window.
My ten minute break from sketching a particularly eerie scene—where Evie crawls through the wall, tearing into a surreal patchwork world—has turned into me obsessing over the next scene. The ground is quilted, with varying shades of autumn squash and brown leather, the sky stitched, and the trees are made of golden tangled yarn. The tunnel behind her sealsitself with glowing stitches as she passes through, and I have shading around where the ‘glowing’ part will end up. Dolls and plush creatures watch her from behind masks—some with tears in their seams—and Threadbare walks ahead, casting a much larger, shadowy silhouette beside the Seamstress.
It’s almost ironic how this story feels similar to the first one that Fletcher gave me. Only, instead of button eyes, there’s stitched threads, and the other mother is more a seamstress who wants to take the lives of every lonely child around her and shove them into stuffed animals to haunt other lonely children. Point being, he seems to read exactly what I need without even knowing.
And just as the man crosses my mind, there he is. One building away, nothing but glass and air separating my new friend and me. I reach a hand up to wave and realize he can’t see me, so I go to text him instead.
Me:Hi!
I watch it unfold like a scene playing before me—Fletcher hearing his phone vibrate, him turning to the side table where it rests, he unlocks it, reads my texts, and a ghost of a smirk brushes his lips.
Fletcher:Hello, Flora Anderson.
My stomach does a silly loop-de-loop before settling back down. It’s been so long since I have had a friend to text like this.
