Текст книги "November 9"

Автор книги: Colleen Hoover

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

“When is your first audition?”

He sure does have a lot of faith in me. “I haven’t looked into it yet. Honestly, I’m kind of terrified to audition. I’m scared people will take one look at me and laugh.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“With being laughed at?” I ask. “For one, it’s humiliating. And it’s a confidence killer.”

He looks at me pointedly. “I hope they laugh at you, Fallon. If people are laughing at you, it means you’re putting yourself out there to be laughed at. Not enough people have the courage to even take that step.”

I’m glad it’s dark, because I can feel my cheeks flush. He’s always saying things that seem so simple, yet profound at the same time.

“You kind of remind me of my mother,” I tell him.

“That’s exactly what I was going for,” he says sarcastically. He pulls me against his chest again and kisses me on top of the head. I need to get to the airport, but I try to stall it as long as possible because the looming goodbye is haunting me.

“You think we’ll ever see each other again?”

His arms tighten around me. “I hope so. I would be lying if I said I’m not already plotting to hunt you down when you’re twenty-three. But five years is a long time, Fallon. Who knows what could happen between now and then. Hell, I didn’t even have hair on my nuts five years ago.”

I laugh again, just like I’ve done with almost everything else he’s said today. I don’t know that I’ve ever genuinely laughed this much with one person.

“You really should write a book, Ben. A romantic comedy. You’re kind of funny.”

“The only way I’d be willing to write a romance novel is if you’re one of the main characters. And me, of course.” He pulls back and smiles down at me. “I’ll make you a deal. If you promise to audition for Broadway, I’ll write a book about the relationship we couldn’t have thanks to distance and immaturity.”

I wish he were serious, because I love that idea. If it weren’t for the one glaring flaw. “We’ll never see each other again, though. How would we know if the other stuck to the plan?”

“We hold each other accountable,” he says.

“Again . . . we’ll never see each other after tonight. And I can’t give you my phone number.”

I know better than to give him a way to contact me. There’s too much I need to do on my own and if he had my phone number, my entire focus would be on what time each day he’s supposed to call me.

Ben releases me and takes a step back, folding his arms across his chest. He begins to pace back and forth as he chews on his bottom lip. “What if . . .” He stops and faces me. “What if we meet up again next year on the same day? And the year after that? We’ll do it for five years. Same date, same time, same place. We’ll pick up where we left off tonight, but only for the day. I’ll make sure you’re following through with your auditions and I can write a book about the days we’re together.”

I let his words sink in for a moment. I try to match the serious look on his face, but the prospect of seeing him once a year fills me with anticipation and I’m doing my best not to act too giddy. “Meeting up once a year on the same date sounds like a really good basis for a romance novel. If you fictionalized our story, I’d add it to the top of my TBR.”

Now he’s smiling. So am I, because the thought of being able to look forward to today’s date is something I never thought would happen. November 9th has been an anniversary I’ve dreaded since the night of the fire, and this is the first time the thought of that date leaves me with a positive feeling.

“I’m serious about this, Fallon. I’ll start writing the damn book tonight if it means I’ll get to see you next November.”

“I’m serious, too,” I say. “We’ll meet every November 9th. Absolutely no contact in between, though.”

“That’s fair. November 9th or nothing. And we’ll stop after five years?” he asks. “When we’re both twenty-three?”

I nod, but I don’t ask him what I’m sure we’re both thinking. Which is what happens after the fifth year? I guess that’s worth saving for another day . . . when we see if both of us actually stick to this ridiculous plan.

“I have one concern,” he says, squeezing his bottom lip between his fingers. “Are we supposed to be . . . you know . . . monogamous? If so, I think we’re both getting a raw deal, here.”

I laugh at his absurdity. “Ben, there’s no way I would ask you to do that for five years. I think the fact that we’ll continue living our own lives is what makes this idea so great. We’ll both get to experience life like we’re supposed to at this age, but we also get to be with each other once a year. It’s the best of both worlds.”

“But what if one of us falls in love with someone else?” he asks. “Won’t that ruin the book if we don’t end up together in the end?”

“Whether or not the couple ends up together at the end of a book doesn’t determine whether that book has a happy ending or not. As long as the two people end up happy, it doesn’t really matter if they end up happy together.”

“What if we fall in love with each other? Before the five years is up?”

I hate that my first thought is how there’s no way he’d ever fall in love with me. I don’t know what I grow more tired of. The scars on my face or the self-deprecating thoughts in relation to the scars on my face. I dismiss the thoughts and force a smile.

“Ben, of course you’re going to fall in love with me. Hence the reason for the five-year rule. We need firm guidelines so our hearts won’t take over until you’ve finished your book.”

I can see the contemplation in his eyes as he nods. We’re both quiet for a moment as we ponder the deal we’ve just made. But then he leans against the car next to me and says, “I’ll need to study up on my romance novels. You’ll need to give me some suggestions.”

“I can absolutely do that. Maybe next year you can take that kiss from a seven to a ten.”

He laughs, resting an elbow on top of the car as he faces me. “So just to be safe, if kissing scenes are something you like most about books, what’s your least favorite thing? I need to know so I don’t screw up our story.”

“Cliff-hangers,” I say immediately. “And insta-love.”

He makes a face. “Insta-love?”

I nod. “When two characters meet and supposedly have this great connection right off the bat.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Fallon, I think we might already be in trouble if that’s one of your least favorite things.”

I think about his statement for a moment. He might be right. It’s been a pretty unbelievable day with him. If he put today in writing, I’d probably roll my eyes and say it was too cheesy and unrealistic. “Just don’t propose to me before my flight and I think we’ll be fine.”

He laughs. “Pretty sure I asked you to marry me when we were on your bed earlier. But I’ll try not to get you pregnant before your flight.” We’re both smiling when he reaches for my door and motions for me to climb inside the car. Once we’re on the road, I open my purse and pull out a pen and paper.

“What are you doing?”

“Giving you homework,” I say. “I’ll write down five of my favorite romance novels to get you started.”

It makes me laugh thinking about Ben fictionalizing our story, but I also hope he actually does it. It’s not every day a girl can say she has a genuine work of fiction loosely based on her relationship with the author. “You better make me funnier when you develop my character. And I want bigger boobs. And less flab.”

“Your body is perfect. So is your humor,” he says.

I don’t know why I bite the inside of my cheek like I’m embarrassed to smile. Since when did flattery become embarrassing? Maybe it always has been but I just haven’t been flattered enough to know.

At the top of the list of books, I write down the name of the restaurant and today’s date, in case he forgets. “There,” I say, folding up the paper and sticking it in his glove box.

“Get another piece of paper,” he orders. “I have homework for you, too.” He thinks quietly for a moment and then says, “I have a few things. Number one . . .”

I write down the number one.

“Make sure people laugh at you. At least once a week.”

I scoff. “You expect me to go on an audition every week?”

He nods. “Until you get a role you want, yes. Number two, you need to date. You said earlier that I was the first guy you’ve brought back to your apartment. That’s not enough experience for a girl your age, especially if I’m basing a romance novel on us. We need a little more angst. Go on at least five dates by the time I see you again.”

“Five?” He’s insane. That’s five more than I planned to go on.

“And I want you to kiss at least two of them.”

I stare at him in disbelief. He nudges his head toward the paper in my hands. “Write it down, Fallon. That’s assignment number three. Kiss two guys.”

“Are you about to tell me assignment number four is to find a pimp?”

He laughs. “Nope. Just three assignments. Get laughed at once a week, go on five dates, kiss at least two of them. Piece of cake.”

“For you, maybe.” I write down his stupid assignments and then fold up the paper and put it in my purse.

“What about social media? Are we allowed to Facebook stalk each other?” he asks.

Shit. I hadn’t thought about that, even though I haven’t really utilized social media much in the past two years. I reach over and grab Ben’s phone. “We’ll block each other,” I tell him. “That way we can’t cheat.”

He groans, as if I just foiled his plans. I go through both of our phones and search our profiles, blocking one another on every social media platform I can think of. When I’m finished with that, I hand him back his phone and use mine to call my mother.

I had a really early breakfast with her before she left for work today. The breakfast also doubled as our goodbye. She’ll be in Santa Barbara for two days, which is why Amber was going to drive me to the airport.

“Hey,” I say when she answers the call.

“Hey, sweetie,” she says. “Are you at the airport yet?”

“Almost. I’ll text you when I land in New York, but you’ll be asleep.”

She laughs. “Fallon, mothers don’t sleep when their children are hurtling through the sky at five hundred miles an hour. I’m leaving my phone on, so you better text me as soon as you land.”

“I will, I promise.”

Ben glances at me out of the corner of his eye, probably wondering who I’m talking to.

“Fallon, I’m really happy you’re doing this,” she says. “But I’m going to warn you, I might miss you a lot and I might sound sad when you call, but don’t get homesick. I’ll be fine. I promise. I’m sad that I won’t get to see you as often, but I’m even happier that you’re taking this step. And I promise that’s all I’m going to say about it. I love you and I’m proud of you and I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Love you, too, Mom.”

When I hang up the phone, I catch Ben staring at me again.

“I can’t believe you haven’t introduced me to your mother yet,” he says. “We’ve been dating for ten hours now. If it doesn’t happen soon, I’ll start to take it personal.”

I’m laughing as I shove my phone inside my purse. He reaches over and takes my hand in his and holds it the entire way to the airport.

We’re fairly quiet the rest of the drive. Aside from asking my flight information, the only other thing he says is “We’re here.”

Rather than pull into a parking garage like I was hoping he would, he pulls into the drop-off lane. I feel pathetic that I’m disappointed he didn’t offer to walk me inside, because he drove me all the way to the airport. I can’t be greedy.

He unloads my two suitcases from his trunk and I grab my purse and my carry-on from inside the car. He closes his trunk and then walks over to me. “Have a safe flight,” he says as he kisses me on the cheek and gives me a quick hug. I nod and he makes his way back to his car. “November 9th!” he yells. “Don’t forget!”

I smile and wave, but internally I’m confused and disappointed by the lack of emotion in his goodbye.

Maybe it’s better this way, though. I was kind of dreading having to watch him drive away, but that not book-worthy goodbye somehow made it a little easier. Maybe because I’m kind of pissed about it.

I inhale a deep breath and push it out of my head as I watch his car move away. I grab my suitcases and head inside with not much time to spare before my flight. The airport is still buzzing despite it being so late at night, so I maneuver my way through the crowd and to a kiosk. I print my boarding pass, check my luggage, and make my way to security.

I try not to think about what I’m doing. How I’m about to move from a place I’ve lived my entire life to a city where I know absolutely no one. The thought of it makes me want to call a cab and go straight back to my apartment, but I can’t.

I have to do this.

I have to force myself to make a life before the one I’m not living swallows me whole.

I pull my driver’s license out of my purse and prepare to hand it to the security agent as I wait in line. There are five people in front of me.

Five people is enough time to talk myself out of moving to New York, so I close my eyes and think about everything in New York that I’m excited about. Hot dog stands. Broadway. Times Square. Hell’s Kitchen. The Statue of Liberty. The Museum of Modern Art. Central Park.

“Faaaallooon!”

My eyes flick open.

I turn around and Ben is standing at the revolving door. He begins running toward me.

In slow motion.

I cover my mouth with my hand and try not to laugh as he slowly stretches out an arm like he’s reaching out for me. He’s yelling, “Doooon’t goooo yeeeet!” as he moves slowly through the crowd of people.

People from all directions stop to see what the commotion is all about. I want to dig myself a hole and hide but I’m laughing too hard to care about how embarrassing this is. What in the world is he doing?

When he finally reaches me after what seems like forever, a huge grin spreads across his face. “You didn’t really think I was just going to drop you off and leave like that, did you?”

I shrug, because that’s exactly what I thought just happened.

“You should know your own boyfriend better than that.” He takes my face in his hands. “I had to create angst so I could try to make this kiss a ten.” He presses his mouth to mine and kisses me with so much emotion, I forget all the things. Everything. I forget where I am. Who I am. There’s a guy and I’m a girl and we’re kissing and the feels and the knots in my stomach and the chills on my skin and the hand in my hair and my arms that feel too heavy and now he’s grinning against my lips.

My eyelids flutter open and I didn’t even know kisses could really make eyelids flutter open. But they do and mine did.

“On a scale of one to ten?” he asks.

The room feels like it’s spinning, so I suck in a huge rush of air and try not to sway. “A nine. Definitely a solid nine.”

He shrugs. “I’ll take it. But next year, it’ll be an eleven. Promise.” He presses a kiss to my forehead and releases me. He begins to walk backward and I’m aware of everyone in our vicinity staring at us, but I can’t help but not give a shit. Right before he reaches the revolving door, he cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “I hope the entire state of New York laughs at you!”

I don’t think I’ve ever smiled so big. I lift a hand and wave goodbye as he disappears.

It really was a ten.

Second November

9th

Her tears and my soul, they live parallel lives.

Run, ache, burn.

Repeat.

Her tears and my soul, they live parallel lives.

–BENTON JAMES KESSLER

Ben

When you swing upon a memory

So dark and far away

You get caught upon a mystery

That guides you through the day.

Although you’re standing weak

And don’t know your way around

I will always be there

For you when you’re down.

I wrote that piece of shit poem when I was in the third grade. It was the first thing I ever showed anyone.

Actually, I don’t even think I showed it to anyone. My mother found it in my room, which is how I came to respect the beauty of privacy. She showed everyone in my entire family and it made me never want to share my work again.

I realize now that my mother wasn’t trying to embarrass me. She was just proud of me. But I still never show anyone the things I write. It’s almost like saying every thought out loud. Some things just aren’t for public consumption.

And I don’t know how to explain that to Fallon. She assumes, based on our agreement last year, that I’m writing a novel that she’ll one day read. And as much as she claims it’s fiction, every sentence I’ve written in the past year is more truthful than anything I’d ever admit out loud. I’m hoping after today I can start rewriting it in order to give her something to read, but the last year of writing down my fucked-up life has been kind of therapeutic.

And even though I’ve been busy with school and what I now call my “writing therapy,” I still found time to complete the homework she gave me. And then some. I’ve read twenty-six romance novels, only five of which Fallon recommended. What she failed to tell me is that two of the novels she suggested were firsts in a series, so of course I had to finish the series.

So far in my “research” I’ve concluded that Fallon is absolutely right. Kisses in books and kisses in real life aren’t exactly the same. And every single time I read one of these novels, I cringe when I think about the few times I kissed Fallon last year. They absolutely were not book-worthy, and even though I’ve been doing a lot of reading this past year, I’m still not sure what makes a kiss book-worthy. But I know she deserved better than what I gave her.

I’d be lying if I said I haven’t kissed anyone since I kissed Fallon last November. I’ve been out with girls a few times since then, and when Fallon jokingly said she wanted me to compare every girl to her, she got her wish. Because that’s exactly what happened with both the girls I kissed. One of them wasn’t nearly as funny as Fallon. The other was way too self-absorbed. And neither of them had good taste in music, but that doesn’t count since I have no idea what taste in music Fallon has.

It’s definitely something I had planned to find out today. I have a list of things I need to know in order to work on the real novel I promised her. However, it looks like that list will go unanswered and the entire last year of studying romance novels and writing about our first November 9th together was for naught.

Because she didn’t show up.

I look at the clock again to make sure it matches the time on my cell phone. It does.

I pull the slip of homework out to make sure I got the time right. I did.

I look around me once more to make sure this is the same restaurant where we met last year. It is.

I know this, because the restaurant changed ownership recently and has a different name. But it’s still the same building at the same address with the same food.

So . . . where the hell are you, Fallon?

She’s almost two hours late. The waitress has refilled my drink four times. And five glasses of water in two hours is a lot for my bladder, but I’m giving myself half an hour before I go to the restroom, because I’m worried if I’m not sitting here when she walks in, she’ll think I didn’t show and she’ll leave.

“Excuse me.”

My pulse immediately quickens at her words and my head jerks up. But . . . she’s not Fallon.

I immediately deflate.

“Is your name Ben?” the girl asks. She’s wearing a name tag. Tallie. Tallie is wearing a Pinkberry name tag. How does Tallie know my name?

“Yeah. I’m Ben.”

She exhales and points at her name tag. “I work down the street. Some girl is on the phone there and says it’s an emergency.”

Fallon!

I impress myself with how fast I’m out of the booth and out the door. I run down the street until I get to Pinkberry and I swing the door open. The guy behind the counter looks at me strange and takes a step back. I’m out of breath and panting, but I point to the phone behind him. “Someone’s on hold for me?” He grabs the phone, presses a button, and hands me the receiver.

“Hello? Fallon? Are you okay?”

I don’t immediately hear her voice, but I can tell it’s her from her sigh alone.

“Ben! Oh, thank God you were still there. I’m so sorry. My flight was delayed and I tried calling the restaurant, but their number was disconnected and then my flight was boarding. I finally figured out the number by the time I landed, and I’ve tried calling several times but I just keep getting a busy signal, so I didn’t know what else to do. I’m in a cab now and I’m really, really sorry I’m so late but I had no way of getting in touch with you.”

I didn’t know my lungs could hold this much air. I exhale, relieved and disappointed for her but completely stoked that she actually did it. She remembered and she came and we’re actually doing this. Never mind the fact that she’s now aware I was still waiting at the restaurant two whole hours later.

“Ben?”

“I’m here,” I say. “It’s fine, I’m just glad you made it. But it’s probably faster if you just meet me at my house; the traffic is a nightmare here.”

She asks for the address and I give it to her.

“Okay,” she says. She sounds nervous. “I’ll see you in a little while.”

“Yeah, I’ll be there.”

“Oh, wait! Ben? Um . . . I kind of told the girl who answered the phone that you would give her twenty bucks if she took you the message. Sorry about that. She just acted like she wasn’t going to do it, so I had to bribe her.”

I laugh. “No problem. See you soon.”

She tells me goodbye and I hand the phone to Tallie, who is now standing behind the register. She holds out her hand for the twenty dollars. I pull out my wallet and hand her the twenty.

“I would have paid ten times that for her phone call.”

• • •

I pace back and forth in the driveway.

What am I doing?

There is so much wrong with this. I barely even know the girl. I spent a few hours with her and here I am committing to writing a book about her? About us? What if we don’t even click this time? I could have been having a manic episode last year and was just in an exceptionally receptive and good mood. She might not even be funny. She could be a bitch. She could be stressed out over her flight delay and she might not even want to be here.

I mean, who does that? What sane person would fly across the country to see someone for one day who they barely know?

Probably not many people. But I would have been on a flight without hesitation today if we were supposed to meet up in New York.

I’m rubbing my hands down my face when the cab rounds the corner. I’m trying to mentally psych myself into believing that this is perfectly normal. It’s not crazy. It’s not commitment. We’re friends. Friends would fly across the country to spend time together.

Wait. Are we friends? We don’t even communicate, so that probably wouldn’t even qualify as acquaintances.

The cab is pulling into the driveway now.

For fuck’s sake, lose the nerves, Kessler.

The car stops.

The back door opens.

I should greet her at the door. It’s awkward with me being so far away.

I’m walking toward the cab when she begins to step out.

Please be the same Fallon I met last year.

I grip the door handle and pull it the rest of the way open. I try to play it cool, to not come off nervous. Or worse, excited. I’ve studied enough romance novels to know girls like it when the guys are somewhat aloof. I read somewhere those kinds of guys are called alpha males.

Be a jackass, Kessler. Just a little bit. You can do it.

She steps out of the car, and when she does, it’s like in the movies where everything is in slow motion. Not at all similar to my version of slow motion. This is much more graceful. The wind picks up and strands of hair blow across her face. She lifts her hand to pull the hair away, and that’s when I notice what a difference one year can make.

She’s different. Her hair is shorter. She has bangs. She’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt, which is something she admitted to never doing before last year.

She’s covered in confidence, from head to toe.

It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

“Hey,” she says, as I reach behind her to close her door. She seems to be happy to see me and that alone makes me smile back at her.

So much for playing aloof.

I literally lasted zero seconds when it came to the alpha-male alter ego I’ve been practicing.

I release a yearlong pent-up breath and I step forward and pull her into the most genuine embrace I’ve ever given anyone. I wrap my hand around the back of her head and pull her to me, breathing in the crisp winter scent of her. She immediately wraps her arms around me and buries her face against my shoulder. I feel a sigh escape her and we stand in the same position until the cab has backed out of the driveway and disappears around the corner.

And even then, we don’t let go.

She’s squeezing the back of my shirt in her fisted hands and I’m trying not to be obvious about the fact that I might be a little bit obsessed with her new hairstyle. It’s softer. Straighter. Lighter. Refreshing, and fuck, it hurts.

Again.

Why is she the only one who makes me wince like this? She sighs against my neck and I almost push her away, because dammit, this is too much. I’m not sure what bothers me more. The fact that we seem to have picked up right where we left off last year or the fact that last year wasn’t a fluke. If I’m being honest, I kind of think it’s the latter. Because this past year was hell having to go every minute of the day with her on my mind and not knowing if I’d ever see her again. And now that I know she’s committed to this idiotic plan of mine to meet up once a year, I foresee another long year of agony ahead of me.

I’m already dreading the second she leaves, and she just now showed up.

She lifts her head from my shoulder and looks up at me. I brush her bangs back with my hand to see more of her face. Despite how frantic she sounded on the phone earlier, she seems completely peaceful right now.

“Hello, Fallon the Transient.”

Her smile grows even wider. “Hello, Ben the Writer. Why do you look like you’re in pain?”

I try to smile, but I’m sure the look on my face right now isn’t an attractive one. “Because keeping my mouth off of you is really painful.”

She laughs. “As much as I want your mouth on me, I must warn you that a hello kiss is probably only going to be a six.”

I promised her an eleven. It’ll have to wait.

“Come on. Let’s go inside so I can find out what color panties you have on.” She’s laughing that familiar laugh as I grab her hand and walk her toward the house. I can already tell I have nothing to worry about. She’s the same Fallon I remember from last year. Maybe even a little better.

So . . . maybe that means I have everything to worry about.