Page 92 of Drawn Together
“I want.”
By the time Sloane has had her fill of shopping—more like her arms can’t hold half of the bags she’s been lugging around—the sun dips fully below the horizon, and the city has transformed into its sparkling evening self that I love so much. Lights dance in every window, every business transforming into neon bright signs and flashing promotions all around us. Lennon and Stephan slip on home after her stomach starts hurting from one too many hot dogs, leaving just Fletcher, Sloane, and I for my last stop on her one full day here.
My very last and final surprise for Sloane was more of a surprise on Fletcher’s end, as he’s the one who pulled the strings to make it happen. I told him in passing weeks ago that my sister was an avid fan of Phantom of The Opera, and since I’ve never actually seen it, it seemed to be another perfect book club assignment for us to check off. Romance, murder, dark themes, operas, masks—the whole thing felt like a perfect little mix for us to enjoy, while also getting to take Sloane to one last destination just for her.
We take the subway uptown, the three of us squeezing together in a rumbling car that smells like a mix of subway tiles and roasted peanuts. Sloane practically vibrates next to me, bouncing her knees with so much excitement I worry she might launch herself into the next car. Meanwhile, Fletcher holds onto the overhead bar with one hand, smiling down at me as I sit below him. Every time the car comes to a halt, he gets smacked by someone standing nearby not holding on tight enough. Hegives me this look that says tourists, amiright? I have to actively fight my snickers. When it’s our turn to get off, I loop my arm around Sloane, and Fletcher loosely drops one hand to my shoulder, gently guiding where to go.
The Majestic Theatre looms grand and golden at 245 West 44th Street, its vintage marquee lit with a halo of tiny bulbs that spell out The Phantom of the Opera in serifed, ghostly letters. A black and white mask is displayed above the entrance, which Sloane takes enough pictures of to fill up her entire camera roll.
Thankfully, the long line moves quickly, and inside, the air shifts to something reverent. Plush red carpets hush our footsteps, and chandeliers drip down from the ceilings like golden icicles. The lobby feels like a finger pointing at us, saying we are not dressed fancy enough for the occasion—well, at least Fletcher and I aren’t. Sloane is always dressed appropriately for every occasion.
We slip into our seats, Sloane clutching her Playbill like it’s made of glass, her mouth a permanent soft ‘O,’ while Fletcher keeps readjusting his legs to get comfortable.
I wish I could tell you what happened in any of the show. People sang. Cried. Danced. Laughed. Cried some more and sang some more. It was all probably amazing—big dresses, curly hair, masked men, I mean, really, right up my alley—but all I could focus on was Fletcher’s shoulder touching mine, and when we came back after the intermission and my eyes started to feel heavy, he gently raised one finger to my chin and tilted it to rest on the warmth of his jacket, pulling me close. He shh, shh, shh’s when I stir and lets me rest easy on him right there. I try to look up enough to get a gist of what’s happening, but truthfully, does it matter? When I have two of my most favorite people sitting on either side of me, the soft background of an orchestra, the dry scent of Playbills, and a faint sweetness from caramel popcorn drifting in from the lobby all around me.
On the way back home after the show, Sloane must have been either too mesmerized by the show or just that exhausted from our long, energy-filled day, because she only tapped on my shoulders and signed to me a few times and kept her phone in her pocket the whole way. Fletcher watches to make sure we get in the apartment okay, and once we’re settled into the dark living room, Sloane jumps on the couch and passes out before I can even slip off my shoes.
The older sister in me threatens to poke, prod, and lecture her about the importance of scrubbing off her makeup and not sleeping in a sequin dress under an oversized I LOVE NYC t-shirt, but she looks so sweet there I can’t make myself do it.
When I get into my own bed, Lennon sends me a slew of pictures from today: a selfie with Sloane and Stephan next to a man dressed at Spiderman, Fletcher staring dead at the camera while Stephan holds up a middle finger next to his face, a shot of Sloane and I walking arm in arm down the busy street with leaves falling around us. But the last makes me suck in a breath right to my throat; it’s a candid of Fletcher and I in our row boat, and he’s smirking either at me or the water—likely pestering on my poor paddling skills—and I’m laughing big and bright and yes, loud and yes, maybe a bit too much. But, when I zoom in on his face, Fletcher doesn’t seem to mind my laugh a single bit. So, I save it to my camera roll and stare at it like it’s a new art piece and I need to dive into the meaning of every color, every brush stroke, every tiny dot and sparkle along the way.
I fall asleep just like that, gripping my open phone with a picture zoomed in on Fletcher’s smirking face.
There really was no turning back now, Fletcher thought, as he made the sixth attempt of wrapping up Flora’s birthday gift. The video propped up on his phone is the only light in the apartment’s kitchen as he can’t comprehend how the lady in the demonstration has used three pieces of tape to wrap a book when he’s used ten and there’s still an exposed rectangle space on the back. No turning back for how he felt about her. No turning back on what he’s got planned next. And no turning back for the way he knows for them to continue forward, Cedric Brooks must come to an end.
Twenty-seven
Wordoftheday:meraki
Definition: a Greek wordthat refers to doing something with soul, creativity, or love
Fletcher is, and I say this with so much reverence, the worst person at blowing up balloons I have ever seen.
I don’t know if it's his large fingers or the lack of ability to hold the pump and the end of the balloon at the same time, but he has popped four orange ones and let five black ones go flying across the living room.
“Chalk it up to one more thing you can be better than me at.”
“We should make a list.” I pop a candy corn pumpkin in my mouth.
“You probably already have one.” He squints and pulls the bowl of candy a little closer to his side.
The temp continues its steady drop outside. Even in the warmth of Fletcher’s apartment, just looking outside has my shoulders shivering. Between his window and ours, there’s a brisk palette of orange and mahogany. Fletcher’s apartmentsmells like leather, musk, and Ticonderoga pencils, with a hint of the petrichor after this morning’s rainstorm. The city outside moves on like normal—the hiss of a bus braking, leaves skittering across the sidewalk like dry paper. Every once in a while, a horn cuts through, short and sharp—an impatient uber driver sitting at a light that just turned green.
And still, with all the distant city noise outside, it fades under the sound of whatever vinyl Fletcher is playing—The Cranberries, or Nat King Cole, or the occasional Sheryl Crow.
“So, you guys do this every year?” I pump up a new orange balloon to stick in the plastic strips meant to hold the balloons up.
“We always get together one way or another, yeah. Last year we handed out candy to the kids at your apartment.”
“Were there a lot of kids there?” The only ones I’ve ever seen is one of the workers downstairs bringing his ten-year-old twice a week and Miss Gonzalez has her grandsons over constantly.
“Mmm, nope. Stephan ate all the candy, and Ryan sat outside the elevator scaring everyone that got off.”
“And you were…”
“Sitting on the other side of the elevator in a ghost mask helping Ryan scare everyone.”
An image flashes in my mind: Fletcher in the hallway, long legs scrunched down uncomfortably and a mask on his face as he jumps at everyone passing by. The thought is so laughable that my fingers slip on my balloon, and it goes flying across his living room. “You were not.”
