November 9: A Novel(26)

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 f*cked-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.”