Page 47 of Drawn Together
“What did you mean, then?”’
She quirks a brow, and I put together that my puzzle is missing a piece or two—like a page ripped out from your favorite chapter.
“You could just do a one night rebound.”
Oh. Well, that’s true. I don’t know if I have that in me either, though.
“Maybe.” I smile and stack my books again, letting the thought run in my head of what a one night rebound would even entail.
Sixteen
Wordoftheday:languor
Definition:An english word from Latin fora dreamy, listless state of gentle melancholy and pleasure
Watching Fletcher attempt to ride a bike is like watching a baby giraffe on roller skates during an earthquake. Big hands with fingers out-stretched, rapidly shaking against the handlebars, the tires below him in never ending wobbles.
I should mention this was his idea.
Last night, my phone vibrated while I was brushing my teeth, and I sprayed toothpaste on my mirror from how quick I jumped to see if Cedric had approved my newest draft. Except, it wasn’t the old man I really needed to hear from for the sake of my ego, it was Fletcher. Which, now that we have started seeing each other twice a week, made me just as excited.
Fletcher:You can ride a bike, right?
Me: It’s been a while, but I think so. They say you don’t forget.
Fletcher:They do say that. I have an idea for book club tomorrow.
Me:Can’t wait.
I went to bed giddy and restless.
Turns out you can forget how to ride a bike.
Fletcher curses at the ground as he skids to a stop by accident, again. I happily glide up next to him.
“I used to be able to do this.”
“I’m sure.”
He gives me a glare. “I could.”
I imagine back when he could ride a bike better, he probably wasn’t this tall and lanky. The thought of a tiny Fletcher doesn’t even seem possible—like a seven-year-old wearing aftershave and teaching everyone around him the importance of broad synonyms. Now, he’s all elbows turned out and long legs squished, even with the seat at its highest setting, whereas I am struggling to reach the pedals. Everyone else with the same brand of rented bikes seem to struggle on my side more than his.
“These citibikes are massive. How are you struggling this hard?”
“Can you just…shh, for one minute so I can focus?”
Considering the traffic, these bike lanes are huge—way bigger than the trail in Maine I rode on as a kid—but, it doesn’t matter to Fletcher, because he is using up the entire lane. Wheels bouncing from one white line to the other. We’ve been getting stared and honked at for the last ten minutes, and I do not mind one bit.
“I bet everyone thinks you’re a tourist.”
“They do not.”
The couple passing on their own bikes stare as Fletcher flexes his brake again and send me a look that screams ‘ugh, tourists.’
The weather today is perfect—a high of sixty-eight, the warm sun peeking through the minimal clouds—with golden and bronze leaves scattered across the sidewalks. It’s borderline chilly, but just right with a big, puffy sweater and ripped jeans.Fletcher's green henley is pushed up over his elbows, forearms flexing as he manages to move forward in a somewhat straight line.
He has a lot of veins. Just sitting right there. For the world, and I, to see.
