Page 85 of Drawn Together
And just like that, I believe him.
Within just a couple minutes, we are free, both of us hugging the questionable carpet of floor five and thanking the firefighters repeatedly as they let us know we have unfortunately lost access to our groceries. Fine by me. I didn’t want any reminders of that little box, anyway.
When our hearts are settled, I turn to Fletcher. “Ready to walk down five flights?”
“Ready to walk up six?”
I smile. “My mom hates elevators, says they’re lazy.”
“I think I’m on her side.”
There’s an unspoken air between us from where we last left our conversation, and I don’t know where to go from here. He’s the one who said it was a crush. He’s the one who said he’d get over it and it’s no big deal, so I should take it as exactly that—a silly circumstance guaranteed to pass us by. But, when he starts to go down the steps, I just can’t let him go yet.
“Fletcher,” I sigh his name, and he turns back to me. “I do like what we have. And I’d rather not lose it if I can avoid it. So, let’s forget it happened. Like you said, it’s just a crush. We’ll both get over it, right?”
He opens his mouth and shuts it before eventually nodding with a smile. “Right.”
Fletcher really did try to forget the kiss. It wasn’t that he couldn’t forget it, it was that the kiss wouldn’t leave him. Everywhere he goes, there's Flora. At the market when he sees curly hair shampoo advertised and wonders if she might like it. When he passes misshapen pumpkins on stands up and down the streets, wanting a friend for the one she bought him, still resting on his dining room table. In the tabs of the books she’s given him, the way her cursive S’s look in her notes. How she always ends a sentence in two exclamation marks so she can turn the dot’s into the eyes of a smiley face.
Could it truly be his fault that he sees her everywhere he goes? To be haunted by the ghost of a woman across the street, still alive and well and so soft to the touch?
That night when the time comes for his eyes to shut, he prays for only dreams of her, so that he never misses a moment to be in Flora Anderson’s presence.
Twenty-five
Wordoftheday:collywobbles
Definition: the feeling of butterflies in the stomach
And just like that, we went back to our normal everyday life.
Book club on Fridays, but also Fletcher had a sudden idea. ‘You know, we would learn twice as fast if we met up twice a week,’ so we have now traded our regular schedule for one movie night and one book night a week.
We watchSilence of the Lambs,Flowers in the Attic,Pride and Prejudice(the 2005 version, obviously), andHow to Lose a Guy in Ten Days.
We order take out, and every time I try to pay, he shakes his head and insists I can the next time—except he’ll never let me, and I will never stop trying.
We try out more local markets—buying fresh cherries, figs, apples, and pumpkins—and he continues to have poor decisions for his morning drinks—like a new tea called ‘soothing stomach’ that smells like grass. I fall head over heels in love with pumpkinspice lattes and butterscotch apple ciders. We buy fresh cut mums (me) and a head of broccoli (him) for our kitchens.
We share our word of the day each morning. Long words. Pretty words. Tiny words. Gross words. Words that are funny, sad, and happy. We share them all, and each one I stack in my memory like a book on its shelf in perfect order.
What we don’t do is talk any more about crushes or infatuation or what the elevator and the kiss both meant to us.
Meanwhile, Lennon and I have been hard at work at the bookstore—Edith fell sick last week and hasn’t been in, so it’s basically just us two there all the time with Cliff making his odd appearance out of the shelves long enough to pee and go right back in them. Her idea of hosting a fall event for the store is perfect, and ever since we practically begged Fletcher to pull something together, he has assured us both he’s hard at work trying to convince some of the publicists to help out.
The weather has taken a brisk turn the last couple weeks. What started as a slow falling of leaves has turned into a whirlwind of cascading burnt oranges and copper reds. The chill in the air has deepened—it’s the kind of cold that settles into your skin and makes you shiver all over. Or makes me shiver all over. Fletcher has let me know, in his own words, that I am ‘coldblooded,’ simply due to the fact that I shake like a chihuahua every time we leave one of our apartments. Which, coincidentally, has been happening more and more. We don’t even count our book clubs up anymore. The two nights a week have transitioned into four or five nights a week between our own meetings and Lennon, Stephan, Noah, and Margot wanting us to all hang out again. No complaints on my end, of course.
One Tuesday morning, Edith was able to come in Nook and Cranny and told me to ‘take my tail home and rest,’ and I do exactly that. Except, when I am finally home, snuggled under my favorite hedgehog blanket and a warm mug of English breakfasttea to my right, Gilmore Girls softly playing on the TV while the rain pours outside, I get a text from Fletcher.
Fletcher:Working from home today?
I smile and take a picture of my cozy view. Yes. ‘Working.’
Fletcher:Want to come ‘work’ over here? I’m stuck on some article for work and tend to do better with an accountability partner.
Me:Is that what I am?
Fletcher:If you want.
