Page 94 of Drawn Together
“Can I say neither?”
“No.”
“Then, Halloween I guess.”
I hum. “I think me too. Mostly because of the weather and the childhood memories and football.”
“You like football?” His nose is curled so high right now that I would love nothing more than a mirror to turn it back on him.
“Oh, goodness no. But I like the feeling of it being in the background. It feels like fall back home. Chili in the crock pot and tiny burger sliders. We’d run around on the beach and my dad would be screaming at the tv in the background. I couldn’t tell you a single thing about the games, but I like it as white noise when I miss home.”
He nods. “Sounds about right.”
“But I’m super excited for Christmas this year. I’ve never been to the city during winter. Is it as nice as everyone says?
Fletcher's eyes light up as he finishes a single balloon, looking up at me with the rivaled joy of a toddler showing off their newest art piece. When he sees my amusement, he tosses it to the side in a no big deal gesture.
“Honestly?”
“Yes, please.”
“I’ve never cared much for it.”
My shoulders fall. I was kind of looking forward to it. More than kind of, actually. The last few weeks, I’ve been having daydreams of snowfall and red noses and hot chocolates with Fletcher. Mitten hands, big coats, and cozy fireplaces in coffee shops.
“But,” Fletcher leans in a little closer, his shoulder brushing mine, “knowing it’s your first Christmas here…for the first time,I’m looking forward to it. You know, since you like lights and all that stuff.”
“I do like lights and stuff.”
“There’s a neighborhood in the Upper West Side called Candy Cane Lane—they go all out. Like, hundreds of those horrendous ten-foot Rudolphs and Santas, and one house at the end of a cul-de-sac has a big light show where their trees look like they’re talking and singing.” He glances up at my wide grin and quickly looks away. “You’d like it.”
“I do like horrendous things.”
“Like vampires and operas.”
“Just the one.”
“Good to know.”
“Speaking of operas, my costume came in yesterday.”
“Oh?”
“Mhm.”
When I tried the white dress and stockings this morning, my own jaw dropped at the fit of it. I’ve accepted that my body isn’t perfect. There are dips and curves and dimples and cellulite. I’ve gone through seasons of healthy eating, dieting, working out and fueling my body like the temple it could be. I’ve also gone through phases of couch rotting and eating an entire family-sized lasagna in one sitting and baking desserts every other day with no one to give the extras to (and you know, I just hate to waste them). I’m currently in the sweet spot right between those two, which is nice, but the evidence of both stages is there. My legs are muscular in some spots, and when I get on my tiptoes to put books back on the top shelf at Nook and Cranny, Lennon regularly tells me she is jealous of my tight calves. But then my thighs are soft—squishy. A perfect pillow for my laptop. There are little pale white lines across them like the scar where lightning struck a tree. And all that’s good by me. I like myself perfectly fine.
But the problem with being unproportional, in all areas, is that nothing ever seems to fit just right. Too tight in the rear, too loose in the waist. Too long in the torso, too short on my legs. It’s why I’ve had all my jeans altered. Anyway, the point being: when I tried on the Christine Daaé costume, I was thoroughly shocked that it was perfect. It hugged my waist and flared out at my legs with these gothic, creepy drapings on my arms—just like the girl we saw on stage two weeks ago. My hair was already just like hers, not a single need to touch it. Lennon happened to slide into the apartment just as I was eyeing myself in the tall mirror in the hallway and said that my, and I quote, ‘boobs look like they were propped on a shelf.’ Which, I took as the highest compliment.
I am not about to say those words to Fletcher, though, so I settle on. “It fits.”
“I’m glad?” He scrunches his nose in a confused way, and I take in his own clothes.
Jeans, a white tee, and a burgundy button-up that’s open. There’s a little pocket in the shirt that holds a mechanical pencil, and something about that image is really cute to me. Like he never knows when he might need to write something down. He’s got his glasses on again today and every time he looks down at the balloon arch, they slip so he has to wiggle them back up with a couple nose scrunches. He leans across from me, grabbing the tail end of the arch’s plastic holder to slip his balloon into, and the movement has my eyes catching on his belt buckle again. I bet he’s never had to have clothes altered. I bet they come specially made for him. Like, some designer in Sicily thought of what a tall, skinny nerd would need to wear on a Thursday night in his apartment while prepping for a Halloween party, and boom, there came Fletcher and his very cute clothes.
“How many more do you think we need?” He eyes the arch, and I’m forced to look away from his pants again.
It’s mostly full, an array of light and dark oranges and black with a few white ghosts popped up here and there, but the middle section is lacking some.
