November 9: A Novel(37)

Wow. I don’t feel so bad about my family drama she witnessed today. “That’s awful,” I say to her. “Was he upset?” Not that I care if he was upset. The man deserves any negative karma that’s returned to him with the way he treated her that day.

She shrugs. “I don’t know. My mom told me all that. I haven’t even spoken to him since last year.”

That makes me sad for her. As much of a douchebag as he is, he’s still her father, so I know that has to hurt. “What kind of person fakes pregnancy to trap a man? That’s messed up. Although it does sound like a great plotline for a book.”

She laughs against my chest. “It’s tripe and way overused as a subplot.” She rests her chin on her arms and smiles at me. The moonlight is hitting her face, shining down on her like she’s on a stage.

Which reminds me . . .

“Are you ever going to tell me about this rehearsal you mentioned earlier? What’s it for?”

She loses the smile. “Community theater,” she says. “Tomorrow is opening day and we have dress rehearsals in the morning, which is why I need to be back so early. I don’t have a lead role and it doesn’t pay anything, but I enjoy it because a lot of the actors look to me for advice. I don’t know why, maybe because I’ve had a lot of experience in the past, but it feels good. It’s nice that I’m not cooped up in my apartment all the time.”

I like hearing that. “What about work?”

“My schedule is flexible. I’m still recording audiobooks and I get enough work to pay the bills, so that’s good. Although I did have to move apartments because my rent was a little steep, but . . . overall things are going well. I’m happy there.”

“Good,” I say to her, running my fingers through her hair. “I’m happy you’re happy there.”

And I am. But I’m not going to lie, a part of me was selfishly hoping I’d see her today and she’d tell me New York didn’t work out. That she lives in L.A. again and she thinks her five-year rule is stupid and that she wants to see me tomorrow.

“Do you even have a job?” she asks. “I can’t believe I don’t know that about you. I let you fondle my breasts and I don’t even know what you do for a living.”

I laugh. “I go to UCLA. Full-time student with a double major, so it doesn’t leave much time for work. But I don’t have many bills. I have enough money left over from my mom’s inheritance to support myself through college, so it works for now.”

I almost ask him how old he was when his mother died, but I’m not sure he wants the conversation to take that turn right now. “What are your two majors?”

“Creative writing and Communications. The majority of writers don’t have much luck finding a career to sustain themselves, so I want to have a backup plan.”

She smiles. “You don’t need a backup plan because in a few years, you’ll have a bestselling novel to pay your bills.”

I hope she doesn’t actually think that.

“What’s it called?” she asks.

“What’s what called?”

“Our book. What’s the title going to be?”

“November Nine.”

I watch her reaction, but her expression reveals nothing of what she thinks of the title. After a few seconds, she lays her head on my chest so I can’t see her face anymore.

“I didn’t tell you this last year,” she says, her voice much quieter than before. “But November 9th is the anniversary of the fire. And being able to look forward to seeing you on this date makes me not dread the anniversary as much as I used to. So thank you for that.”

I suck in a quiet breath, but before I can even give her a response, she scoots closer and presses her lips firmly to mine.





Fallon


“Are you sure about this?”

He nods, but everything else about his demeanor says he’s not.

Half an hour ago, we were making out on the beach. Five minutes into our kiss, he sat straight up and announced he wanted a tattoo. “Tonight,” he said. “Right now.”

So here we are. He’s sitting in the chair, waiting on the tattoo artist, and I’m leaning against the wall, waiting for him to chicken out.

He won’t tell me what the tattoo means. He’s getting the word poetic across his left wrist, written inside a music staff. I don’t know why he won’t tell me the meaning behind it, but at least it’s not my name. I mean, I like the guy. A lot. But permanently inking a girl’s name into your skin is a pretty alpha-male thing to do this early on in a relationship. Especially on the wrist. And why did I just refer to this as a relationship?

Oh, God. What if that’s why he’s getting a tattoo? What if he’s trying to come off as more of a tough guy? I should probably warn him that he’s doing it wrong.

I clear my throat to get his attention. “Um. I hate to say this Ben, but a wrist tattoo of the word poetic isn’t very alpha-male. It’s quite the opposite, actually. You sure you don’t want to go with a skull? Some barbed wire? Something bloody, maybe?”

His lip curls up into a crooked grin. “Don’t worry, Fallon. I’m not doing this to impress girls.”

I don’t know why I love that answer as much as I do. The tattoo artist walks back into the room and points at Ben’s wrist where he drew the outline of the tattoo a few minutes earlier. “If you like the placement, we’ll get started.”