Page 87 of Drawn Together
“Not even picture books?”
“I could read, smartass. I just was busy and didn’t have time to.”
“Busy doing what?” I snort. “Catching worms and picking your nose?”
He deadpans. “Piano and violin lessons, then soccer practice and gymnastics.”
I sit up. “No way.”
“Yup.”
“Why did you sign up for all that?”
“I didn’t, Flora. My parents did.”
“Oh.” I pick at my pencil. “So definitely not picking your nose or catching worms. Sorry.”
“Ah, don’t give me too much credit. There was probably some of that in there, too.”
“Why were you signed up for all that?”
He shrugs. “Boredom. Or maybe they wanted to seem successful. I couldn’t say.”
“Did you ever ask them?”
“Nah, we haven’t talked in years.”
“I’m so sorry.”
He pushes his glasses up and smiles down at me. “Don’t be. I’m not.”
“Are they— Do they live near here?”
“Maybe. They were on the Upper East Side when I was young, but I heard them talking at my grandfather’s funeral a few years ago that they were moving downtown soon.”
“At his funeral?” I rub at my chest.
“They aren’t exactly the sentimental type.”
“But, I mean, you were safe, right? Fed? Taken care of?”
“There’s a difference between being cared for and being taken care of. But yes. I had food, water, and shelter—more than enough things to keep me occupied.”
“And love? Did you get that?”
He shrugs. “Eventually.”
And like my mind pulls me out of my body, and I get a glimpse of his life. And I have a thought: no wonder Fletcher never liked anything love or romance. No wonder he never understood it. I don’t think I would either, had I not had the perfect example right in front of my eyes. He never saw his parents dancing in the kitchen or his dad carrying his mom across the sandy beach after a long day on the boat. He didn’t watch his dad braid his mom’s hair when she was too nauseous to do anything in her first trimester. He didn’t watch his mom stare at his dad with somuch love that it felt like the whole world was spinning around just them.
And the thought has me spiraling, thinking just how much I miss home. Not Whisperbay, not the beach or the boat or the house, but all of them. So, when I get back home after a full day of work and cycling through music, I text my family group chat.
Me:Miss you guys so much.
An incoming Facetime from Sloane pops up immediately, and when I answer it is to her signing so fast, I have to say verbally and sign the words ‘slow down’ over and over until she starts over. Sharing her good news, I grin from cheek to cheek, because I finally have a date for my little Sloane to come see me.
And it is finally here.
As soon as Mom texted me that their plane had landed, I worked on getting an Uber, which would probably be much easier if I took off my rubber cleaning gloves. But, every time I tap on the Uber app, it pulls up my texts and tries to message my uncle John, so very little is getting done until Fletcher, my grand cleaning assistant, grabs the phone from my hand.
