Page 38 of Drawn Together
“Good.” He smiles, and it reminds me of my dad a little—crooked and wobbly. “Lenny likes all those, too.”
Lennon's cheeks are pink again, and I suddenly feel like Stephan is trying to push us to agree to a playdate after school.
I look back over at Fletcher’s plate. There’s so much food left. Mine is missing a mere three bites, and my stomach growls only for more mushrooms. I wonder if I could stop somewhere on the way home, grab the ingredients for a pathetic homemade version of his plate, and satisfy the craving just enough to not gnaw off my own arm.
Fletcher must recognize my deep longing, because he sighs and reaches across me for my plate, sliding it over to him.
“Wait—”
He then slides his own plate to the empty spot in front of me. Steam wafts up from the dish to my nose and it smells like duck ragu, sauteed mushrooms, and a little slice of heaven sprinkled on top.
I eye him. “You don’t like mushrooms?”
Fletcher shrugs. “Not exactly.”
I want to shout ‘why did you order the only pasta with mushrooms,’ but realize my gratitude would sound short lived, so I happily dig into the bucatini and sigh wistfully between each bite.
The rest of our meal is mostly silent, each of us stuffing out mouths too full for any words to form their own bite. Stephan looks like he might pick his plate up and lick it, and Lennon is staring at hers like it could whisk her away to a tropical island. Or maybe to Sicily.
Fletcher folds up his napkin and places it on his empty plate before leaning back in a tell-tale ‘I am so stuffed that you might have to carry me out of here’ way.
After paying our bills, Fletcher turns to me. “Do you want a to-go box?”
My plate still has so much on it because I lovingly chewed every bite into the texture of applesauce, and now I am too full to carry on. “Oh, yes please.”
“I need to get a cup to pour my drink in, too, so I’ll go with you.” Stephan and Fletcher stalk off to a bar where our waiter is tapping away on his screen.
“I wonder if I should have got a to-go cup too—”
“Are you sure you’re not sleeping with Fletcher?” Lennon blurts out, and I think I would have been less surprised if the ravioli on her plate stood up and did the can-can halfway through dinner.
“What?” My entire face heats up, and I don’t know if I should blame it on the earlier martini or the thought that Lennon would assume someone like Fletcher would willingly be with me. “I think I would know if I was.”
She hums. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
“Nope.” I pop the P. The idea of the topic has my face all hot and itchy again. “No anything for me.”
“I wondered. A man came with you to help you move in. I hadn’t seen him since.”
A man…
“My dad?”
“That was your dad? The one from Sicily?”
“Yes.” Who else would it be? “The woman with him was my mom.”
“Wow,” she whispers. “You have a very promising future.”
I snort and know now it has to be the alcohol hitting, because all my walls telling me to keep all of this extra stuff to myself has dissipated, and I let the smallest piece slip out.
“That seems to be a popular opinion. My best friend in high school started hanging out with me just so he could see my mom mowing the backyard in a crop top.”
It’s so stupid, but it has me giggling, which in turn has Lennon smiling.
“I had some shitty friends like that, too.”
I didn’t say he was shitty, but it’s funny how from one sentence, she knows it, too.
