Page 91 of Drawn Together
He smiles a little. I like it. “Considering I was born in January, and you got here in April, that's not the argument you think it is.”
“Well, if you get me something, I’ll get you double for your birthday in January.”
“Again, not the argument you think it is.”
We drift along the edge of the lake, our paddles cutting smooth arcs into the water, sending little rings spiraling outward like ripples from our shared thoughts. The skyline peeks through the trees, all soft grays and sharp lines. It reminds me of Threadbare a bit—the pretty parts of it—the background where I’m given almost free reign now to dabble in precious leaves and sidewalk art amongst the other world.
We pass under a bridge and a couple walks by above us, hand in hand, their coats buttoned up tight against the chill. A violinist plays somewhere in the distance, music echoing faintly across the water. The air smells like crisp leaves, faint pretzel salt, and Fletcher’s clean laundry detergent.
Lennon and Sloane are practically racing, paddling wildly and pushing themselves farther and farther around the lake, whereas Fletcher seems to be taking all the time in the world. I like that, too. Stephan is who-knows-where, probably still back with the instructor, but we keep glancing behind, like maybe he’ll work his way up soon enough.
“Speaking of next week.” I turn back to my paddle, guiding through the water gentle and slow. “Do you have any plans for Halloween? I was thinking about maybe handing out candy or doing a Saw movie marathon.”
This might be my pathetic attempt to see what he’s doing on my birthday, but I am not ashamed enough to not ask.
“Saw?” His nose scrunches. “Too gory.”
My laugh is a cackle—like an airhorn cutting through the quiet wind—and I want to take it back, but Fletcher is smiling, so I don’t. “I didn’t think you had limits on your goriness.”
“I like gore for the plot, not just for the sake of there being blood. There’s a difference.”
I raise my free hand in defense. “I understand.”
“To answer your question,” he says, “we usually do a get together for Halloween. Stephan, Lenny, Noah, and Margot, and sometimes they bring dates, too.”
“Oh.” My nod is frantic. “Right, right. Cool, cool, cool. I think I might go to the store and hand out candy and bookmarks if you guys are busy.”
“I meant you, too. You know that, right? That whenever I mention plans for us, I’m automatically including you in that.”
No, I didn’t know that. And my face must show that exact thought, because his smile is sweet and gentle this time as he says, “Just assume from now on if I say I’m doing something, that I want you to do it with me.”
“Okay.” I smile to the boat below my feet. “I will.”
On our way back, the sun begins to slip behind the buildings, casting everything in a honeyed glow. Fletcher’s oar drips rhythmically as we steer toward the dock, his gaze soft, his laugh quieter now. Behind us, Stephan has finally figured out how to move forward, though he’s now inexplicably rowing with one paddle like a Venetian gondolier. Lennon and Sloane wave eagerly from the docks where they’ve ‘beat us’ in a race we didn’t know we were competing in.
Once we’re all on the dock, and Stephan dried off his clothes, we go out to spend the rest of Sloane’s—and my—money.
We start at a tucked-away bookstore with tilted stacks of hardcovers and a calico cat asleep on the counter. The shop smells like cinnamon and old paper. Fletcher disappears somewhere toward the back, and when I catch sight of himagain, he’s crouched beside a low shelf, fingers tracing the faded spine of something clearly too old to be priced reasonably. I let him be and drift toward a display of indie romances near the checkout, drawn in by the beautiful front cover illustrations and promises of HEA’s and slow burns. Sloane picks up an old copy of The Whistling Hatch and types in a note to Lennon that ‘it’s giving vintage.’
We spill in and out of the streets. We step into a shop that sells imported candies and novelty socks with band member faces printed on them, then into a little boutique strung with twinkle lights and too-expensive scarves. Sloane tries on sunglasses indoors, and Lennon finds a jacket that makes her look like a French poet. Stephan buys a snow globe shaped like a bagel for their kitchen.
I wait outside an oil and aroma store—the scent gave me a headache—and sway as Fletcher returns to my side with a warm cider in each hand. He hands me one with a crooked smile and powdered sugar dusted on his nose from the funnel cake we split earlier.
“Fuel,” he says, as if we’re about to run a marathon instead of meandering for another hour.
I open the lid and left the steam waft over my nose and cheeks. It’s the kind of cold where your internal temp is burning, but your nose is all red and your fingers are freezing.
My lips press against the warmth of the lid, and I sigh. “I love fall. You can eat and drink apple and pumpkin related foods for three meals a day, and no one questions a thing.”
From my peripheral, Fletcher nods. “Running without sweating buckets. You can get TVs extremely cheap.”
“The smell of leaves on the ground and new opportunities in the air.”
“Mm.” He swallows and pushes his glasses up. “That smell is actually an earthy scent of decaying leaves releasing gases into the air that holds properties known to be a stress reducer.”
I take a sip, and we sit in silence for a moment.
“Or it could be new opportunities if you want,” he compromises, and I nod.
