Page 50 of Drawn Together
“I would prefer that, yes.”
“I…haven’t finished it yet.”
He gasps like I’ve committed blasphemy, and I giggle. “I know, I know. It’s been an insane week, and I told Lennon I would readEmbermoorwith her—”
“Again?”
“But, I have like thirty pages left, if you don’t mind waiting for me to see if the grandkids escape.”
His wicked grin gives me no spoilers on the book's ending, and I love it.
“I don’t mind waiting for you, Flora.”
I smile at that, flipping over on my stomach and kicking my feet up with my paperback, and climb into another world of arsenic-laced donuts and twisted desires. Shockingly, Flowers In The Attic is very much not about flowers in an attic. Who would’ve thought?
We stay like that for an hour, soaking in the warmth of the sun through our sweaters. Fletcher on his back, one arm triangled behind his head, and the other holding his book up to the sky. And I am on my stomach, kicking my feet in the air while finishing the last of the Dollanganger children. The breeze ruffles my pages a little, chill bumps tickling up my spine. Beside me, Fletcher hums softly—quietly—like he barely even knows he’s doing it. My eyes lock in on my current page, but my brain doesn’t take any words in. No runaway endings or plot twists can be kept in my head right now. Nothing but the steady thrum of conversations passing us by, the sound of the wind rustling theever-changing leaves, and Fletcher’s humming slowly lulling me into a deep sleep—one I don’t think I ever want to wake from.
Fletcher read every book Flora gave him at least twice before they met up. But he would happily reread it a third time if it meant lying next to her in a park, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest. A gasp here, a whispered ‘no,’ to each plot twist. Taking her sweet time reading those last few pages, like maybe she wasn’t ready for this to be over either. And, when her breaths slowed into soft, kitten-like purrs—eyes closed and body lax—he allowed himself to really look at her. The freckles on her nose. The tight, big curls resting over her shoulders. The tiny prickles of goose bumps on the few spots her skin was exposed. The temp dropped drastically since they got on their bikes, and she kept shivering in her dreams, muttering in her sleep. Fletcher took the spare jacket in his backpack and rested it over her back, covering half of her, more than happy to see her in something of his.
Seventeen
Wordoftheday:sapiosexual
Definition:one who is attracted by the intelligence of another
The next Tuesday, Lennon and I walk home together after our shift for the first time.
It’s kind of funny to think we haven’t done it before. We’re going to the same place, well, most of the time anyway, so why not? Lennon is still gone more often than not, but I have gotten used to seeing her face more and more the last couple weeks, and for that, I'm entirely grateful.
We pass by a man selling overpriced bouquets of fall flower arrangements, and I make a mental note to come back for the purple one to set up in our dining room when I’m not strapped for cash. The neighborhood we pass through to get home has officially gone full out for Halloween coming up in three weeks. There are inflatable Snoopys with ghost masks and giant pumpkins that have projectors on them, so they look like they’re talking when you walk by. The brownstone steps are coveredin mums and tiny gourds. Wrought iron gates along the way are strung with fake cobwebs and yellow police tape—adorably spooky.
Lennon takes a step closer to me to avoiding stepping on a skeleton dog with his leg hiked up to a bush.
“I heard they’re adding a Books-A-Million, or maybe it's Barnes and Noble, down the street.”
“Another?”
“Yeah. Do you think Edith knows?”
I think over the last week. She has been exceptionally cranky, though I chalked that up initially to her losing her Walkman on the subway, causing her to bring her boombox to work each day. But, now that I really think about it, she was glued to the office for every shift I came in for, only coming out to ask how story time sales were and if we had any adjustments to the October shift calendar.
“I don’t know, maybe.” I search for any hint of worry. “I caught her pulling last year's stats the other day, and I kind of wondered if she was more worried than normal.”
“That really sucks.”
I nod. “I don’t know how much more she can do without changing her whole perspective on the store.”
“Has she ever had author signings? Or maybe some book clubs?”
“Most of the stock there is YA and below, and I doubt six-year-olds care about author signings.”
“Hmm. I’ll try to think of something.”
The thought of Lennon piecing something together to boost the store's sales gives me peace of mind; if anyone knows a good way to draw people in, I imagine it would be her.
When we round the corner to our apartments, there is utter chaos waiting for us. Flashing red and blue lights, police tape wrapped around the entrance, firefighters coming in and out ofthe building in huge masks. Chip from the front desk is trying to crowd all the other tenants in one line on the street. Everyone, seriously everyone, is out here. Bill from 3C in his robe, trying to keep the limited amount of fabric wrapped around his waist. Ms. Garcia and her two grandsons are sitting on the concrete, backs facing the building and a big blanket wrapping them together. Burt and his wife—whose name I can never remember—are cradling their pet tortoise, Tumnis, in their arms, rocking him back to sleep.
“Woah,” I whisper out, turning to Lennon. “What do you think is—”
