November 9(37)

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.”

The tattoo is sketched in ink from one side of his wrist to the other. He nods and tells the guy he’s ready. Ben motions to me. “Can she sit in my lap and distract me?”

The guy shrugs, pulling Ben’s arm in front of him, but he says nothing. As soon as the thought begins to cross my mind that this guy is probably wondering what Ben is doing with someone who looks like I do, Ben interrupts my bout of insecurity. “Come here,” he says, patting his leg. “Distract me.”

I do what he says, but the only way I can sit on his lap is if I straddle him. At least I’m in jeans, but I still feel awkward that I’m sitting like this in the middle of a tattoo parlor. Ben’s hand comes to rest on my waist and he squeezes. I can hear the buzz of the needle and the slight difference in the sound once it presses into his skin. He doesn’t even make a face other than giving me a tiny smile. I do what I can to distract him, so I continue the small talk we shared on the beach.

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Malachite green.”

I make a face. “That’s a very specific green, but okay.”

“It’s what color your eyes are. Also happens to be my favorite mineral.”

“You have a favorite mineral?”

“Do now.”

I look down to avoid him seeing my embarrassed smile straight on. I feel his hand squeeze my waist again. I’m guessing the needle is distracting him more than I am, so I throw out another question.

“What’s your favorite food?”

“Pad Thai,” he says. “Yours?”

“Sushi. They’re almost the same thing.”

“Not even close,” he says.