4. Chapter 4
Four
Word of the day: Nedovtipa
Definition: Czech word for someone who is unable to take a hint
Free sourdough bread gift certificate in hand, a stomach full of deconstructed chili dogs, and a victory in my head, I walk out of the bar alone.
Noah had to leave early for a shift, though he gave me a solid handshake before he left, and I vowed never to wash my hands again.
Margot slipped out shortly after, attempting to catch the ferry in time to make it home for her nightly rerun of Wheel of Fortune.
Stephan took one look at a very sleepy Lennon and wrapped her in his jacket, pulling her out of the booth and on the way to his apartment.
So, that left Fletcher and me. And, I was not sticking around for that. I happily collected my champion's trophy for sourdough and bounced right back outside.
The air is crisp but not cold. I take a deep breath, inhaling of the aroma of laundry detergent, a hint of dried leaves, and the distant food carts still open on the avenues.
The brownstones glow under streetlights, their stoops dotted with pumpkins and the occasional flicker of early Halloween decorations.
Little plastic dog skeletons propped up like they’re peeing in a yard and colorful mums in big terracotta pots add to the aesthetic.
By-standers walk in their different apartments, turning on landscape and fairy lights. The neighborhood—like the season—is gently winding down.
And, the entire way home, Fletcher walks five feet behind me, his stupid boots stomping in puddles I’ve avoided until now. Every time I look over my shoulder to make sure he’s there, he suddenly looks at the tops of buildings and the skyline, like he is very interested in the view.
Maybe if it were someone who’s actually menacing-looking, I would be alarmed. But Fletcher, hands in his pockets and long legs trying to slow down his quick strides, looks like a puppy that hasn’t grown into its oversized paws yet.
Finally, when we’re four blocks from my apartment and I’ve taken the most absurd route to get there, I huff and turn on my heel.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m walking you home.”
“Please, don’t.”
I’m desperate for friendship, sure. But, not that desperate.
“I would do the same for Lenny if she were walking home alone.”
Lenny. Stephan called her that earlier, too. Huh. Should I be calling her that? The only reason I even know her name is the lease agreement that’s been stuck to the side of the fridge since I moved in.
“I’ve walked home alone plenty of times before.”
“At night? In the back alley?”
“Yes.” No. “I can handle myself just fine.”
It’s not like I’m completely unprepared; I do have a weapon.
“Right, your neon hot pink knife is very intimidating.”
Damn, how did he see that?
“Just—” I make a frustrated noise, which comes out like someone slammed their hands on a keyboard and hoped a word came out of it. “I would really appreciate it if you did not walk me home.”
“Okay.” His thumbs poke out of the ends of his pockets. “Fine.”
We keep walking as the streets grow quieter, the laughter and clatter from the avenues fading behind us like the needle of a record player pulling at the end of a smooth song.
As we snake through the streets, soft shadows from swaying leaves sprinkle the sidewalk.
A cool breeze whispers past my cheeks and tugs at my sleeves, down to my fingertips.
Behind me, Fletcher's shoes made a rhythmic, hollow thud every ten feet—the only sound besides the breeze around us.
“You’re still walking me home.”
“I am not.” He keeps his eyes straight ahead. “This is how I get home.”
“Is it, though?”
“Yes.”
“Well, can you…walk some other route.”
“Can you walk some other route?”
I choose not to answer that.
And we keep on pushing. I am content to spend the rest of this walk in utter silence, but when Fletcher mutters out two words, I turn on a dime.
“I’m sorry.”
I’ve always had a poor poker face. My old best friend used to say I had a face so easy to read, I might as well have a window straight into my mind on my forehead. I think that’s why Fletcher’s chin jerks back at whatever my expression looks like right now.
“You—what?”
“I’m sorry. About this morning. And the trivia thing. I’ve been known to be bad with people.” My brow raises. “And words,” he mumbles. “I’ve been working on it. It just takes me a minute, sometimes. But I did mean what I said about romance. I don’t get it.”
“Yes, well, you made that clear.”
“Not in the way it sounds. I’ve…tried, okay?”
A hand emerges from his pocket, reaching up to smooth down a wayward strand of hair.
“You’ve tried?”
“Hard.”
“How so?”
I can see his shoulders lift out of the corner of my eye. “The Great Gatsby. A Farewell to Arms. The Sorrows of Young Werther, The—”
“Those are not romances.”
“It said there was romance in the descriptions.”
“Just because something has romantic scenes doesn’t mean it’s a romance.” I scoff and look at a passing woman, like Can you believe this guy? She turns her stroller the other way and moves her legs faster, like a pigeon.
“It doesn’t?”
“Not even a little.”
“Then what signifies a romance? A real one?”
“It’s subjective. But to me, and I think a lot of others, it’s about the ending. What you’ve been reading and watching, those are tragic love stories.”
He is silent for so long I check behind me to make sure he didn’t turn the corner.
“Is there a difference?”
“Is there a— Yes, there is a massive difference.”
He shrugs, as if to say, if you say so, and something about it irks me.
“Is there a difference between hard pretzels in a bag and a pastry soft pretzel homemade by a woman’s soft hands?”
He opens to answer, but I cut him off. Mr. Trivia will wait for all my questions.
“Is there a difference between a two-dollar pizza and a pizza that costs twenty-six dollars and comes with microgreens?”
“I think I understand what you’re—”
“How about the Q train and the G train? Still the same thing?”
“Okay, well now you’re pushing it.”
I swerve past a trashcan in my way. “It matters because of what you feel when the book closes. Or, when the title credits pop up. What are you left with?”
“Nausea, usually.”
My eyes roll as we turn the corner where the entrance of my building sits amid all the other apartments.
A warm, yellow light from the street lamps caresses the brownstones—brick facades highlighted against the night—as a gentle breeze whispers through the sparse trees, their shadows stretching and shifting across the sidewalk.
I come to a full stop at the steps that lead to the lobby. “Well, this is me, as I am sure you know.”
“I do know that.” He points over his shoulder to the brownstone directly across the street. “And, that is me.”
I grind down on my molars. “You live there?”
“Have for the last two years.”
“Lennon didn’t mention it.”
Lennon mentions nothing, to be fair. Our conversations are less conversations and more me asking where I should eat and her shrugging with an ‘eat what you want,’ before slipping off to her room.
“Does she even talk to you?”
No, but he doesn’t know that. Does he?
“I came with her tonight,” I say, as if that is proof that we are more than just two strangers living one wall apart.
“If she talked to you, then you would know exactly why I live nearby.”
And with that ominous statement, Fletcher turns on his heel and heads right toward his own apartment, hands still in his pockets.
“Have a good night, Flora Anderson.”
It’s not until later that night, when I get tucked under my fall bedspread, that I realize he had my jacket in his hands as he crossed the street.