Page 40 of Drawn Together
“Pulls the door right open. It’s dark, nothing but a single light facing the golden chalice to bring home to his sick mother. It’s very quiet. A little too quiet for his liking.”
A blonde girl hides behind the leg of her mom, who is happily taking the last twenty minutes to nap off last night's restlessness. I check the clock again. I’m so freaking late. My eyes make frantic help me signs to Lennon, but she is doing scans of the crowd, like she might have to confiscate some gummies or fidget toys.
“Who dares disturb my slumbbeerrrr?” I growl dramatically, and maybe this would go faster if the sound effects were out, but that takes away the whole experience, and I’d want to do it all over again. “You shall pay, Mikey, the boy who carries gold.”
We are mid-fight scene with swords and slashes and PG-rated wounds, when behind a row of young moms wrestling their toddlers, I see him—broad shoulders, crooked nose, raised brows, and a hint of amusement at my tone, as the tiny mice make their way in the story to save Mikey. Fletcher’s arms cross over the wide expanse of his chest, shoulder leaning against the column beside him. The golden glow of my fairy lights makes it look like he’s lit from within, an amber incandescence on his scruffy face. His height allows him to easily gaze over all the other standing adults, and for some reason, my eyes clock the table and chairs I forced him into a few weeks ago. I have to fight back a snicker that threatens to come up.
I never thought I’d be excited to see Fletcher Harding enter a room, but here we are. My heart speeds up, all giddy, as the cut-out leaves in the overhead display dangle enough to tickle his shoulder.
Our book clubs have now turned into two books a week, accidentally. Ever since he annotatedWuthering Heightsfor me, I felt the need to do the same for him. So, with my two-day shipping privileges, I got an entire annotating kit and went to town on the books I knew I wanted Fletcher to read. Between one romance and one horror, we have both been covered with our reading. Sometimes, I glance over to his apartment from the window and see him picking at the pink colored tabs poking out of the pages I assigned him, and it always makes me smile.
We’re texting more now, too. Last week he sent a picture of the ugliest pumpkin with a massive lump poking out like an orangutan nose and said, ‘Does this one remind you of me, too?’ I now have to send him pictures of every hideous pumpkin I passon the brownstones’ steps. We talk about books a lot, naturally. But we talk about more, too. He told me that Lennon spends most of her time at art museums—something I noted to ask about later—and I tell him about growing up on the coast, and my very poor attempts at surfing.
“Run, Mikey,” the mouse in my throat squeaks. “For I will save you all.”
Two more pages.
“You mustn’t, Mister Whiskers.” I turn the page and go back to my mouse voice.
“It has been my honor, sir.”
Why do I always feel like the mice have to be British?
Thankfully, the ending wraps up very quickly. I’ll spoil it for you: the dragon goes to eternal sleep, and Mikey gets the chalice and brings it home to heal his mother just in time. The mice come to live with him and befriend his old dog, Maurice. And the mouse who sacrificed himself comes crawling home to his mouse wife as a war hero. The end.
I am on my way to Fletcher with an apologetic smile when a four-year-old tugs at my pant leg.
“Oh,” I squat a little, “hi, Fern.”
The curly-haired girl stares up at me and blurts out, “My uncle sometimes has sleepovers with my mommy in her room.” To which I just smile and ‘Oh!’ at.
Another question for another day.
Lennon is directing them all to the spot where they could purchase the book if they chose to do so—they never do, but it’s a valiant effort.
“Hi.” I let out a puff of air as I finally get to the column where Fletcher leans. “Sorry I’m like, insanely late. How did you know to come here?”
“Lenny mentioned it was taking a while.” I glance back and see Lennon having a very serious conversation with a babbling two-year-old. She is nodding along with furrowed brows, and I think the dad watching the interaction is quickly falling in love with my quiet roommate.
“I figured I’d swing by and grab you.”
“I’m super glad you did, because there is a high chance I would get lost again and end up needing to cancel so I could make my way back to civilization.”
He nods like fair. “Is there anything else you need to get done before we head out?”
I double check with Lennon and she’s already waving me off, half of the crowd inching their way out of the store with no books in hand.
“I think I’m good. Let me just grab my bag.” When I go to reach for the tote bag with a bunch of red and white polka dot mushrooms that says ‘The Future is Indie,’ Fletcher’s hand sticks out in front of me, grabbing the handle before I can.
He settles the hefty bag on his shoulders, and I squint. “I think I just got déjà vu.”
“From?”
“That book you mentioned about the struggling artist? There’s a scene where someone is shoving their arm around her to tap their card on the reader before she could. Then, he steals her breakfast.”
“Sounds like a lovely character.”
“He could use some development.”
