November 9: A Novel (11 page)

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.

I wasn’t expecting this when he said to meet him at his house. I was more or less expecting an apartment, but this is a fairly modern two-story house. A
house
-house. He closes the front door behind me and heads for the stairs. I trail behind him.

“You didn’t bring luggage?” he asks.

I don’t want to think about how little time I’ll actually be here. “I’m heading back tonight.”

He stops mid-step and faces me. “Tonight? You aren’t even staying the night in California?”

I shake my head. “I can’t. I have to be back in New York by eight in the morning. My flight is at ten thirty tonight.”

“The flight is more than five hours,” he says, concerned. “With the time difference, you won’t even get home until after six in the morning.”

“I’ll sleep on the plane.”

His eyebrows draw apart and his mouth tightens. “I don’t like that for you,” he says. “You should have called. We could have changed the date or something.”

“I don’t know your phone number. Besides, that would have ruined the entire premise of your book. It’s November 9th or nothing, remember?”

I think he may be pouting, but I do recall him being the one to make that rule.

“I’m sorry I was late. We still have six hours left before I have to head to the airport.”

“Five and a half,” he clarifies. He begins walking up the stairs again. I follow him all the way to his room, but now I feel like he’s upset with me. I know there were probably ways around flying in and out on the same day, but to be honest, I wasn’t even sure he would show up. I thought he probably had crazy, spontaneous days with fake girlfriends all the time and he wouldn’t even remember me. I figured I wouldn’t be too embarrassed with myself for believing he would show up if I was able to get right back on the plane a few hours later and pretend it never happened.

But not only did he show up, he was still waiting two hours later.

Two hours.

It’s extremely flattering. I would have probably given up after the first hour, thinking he stood me up.

Ben opens a door and motions for me to walk in first. He smiles at me as I walk into his room, but his smile feels forced.

He has no right to be upset with me. We agreed to meet today and yes, I was late, but I showed up. I spin around and put my hands on my hips, ready to defend myself if he says another word about how little time we have. He closes the door and leans against it, but rather than bring it up again, he begins to kick off his shoes. The disappointment is gone from his face and he actually looks . . . I don’t know . . .
happy.

After his shoes are off, he steps quickly toward me and shoves me. I let out a shriek when I fall backward, but before I can panic, my back meets a cloud. Or a bed. Whatever it is, it’s the most comfortable thing I’ve ever lain on.

He steps forward with a smirk on his face and a gleam in his eye. “Let’s get comfortable,” he says. “We have a lot of talking to do.” He stands between my knees and lifts one of my legs to remove my shoe. They’re just flats, so he slides it off easily. Rather than drop my foot, he runs his hand slowly down my leg as he lowers it to the bed.

I forgot how hot it is in California
.
He really needs to turn on a fan.

He lifts my other leg and removes that shoe in the same fashion, moving his hand down my leg at a torturous pace, all the while grinning at me.

Is the elevation different here than in New York? God, it’s so hard to breathe in this room.

Once I’m barefoot, he steps around me and takes a seat at the head of the bed.

“Come here,” he says.

I flip onto my stomach and he’s lying on a pillow with his head propped up on his hand. He pats the pillow next to him. “I don’t bite.”

“Damn shame,” I say as I crawl my way to where he is. I lie down on the pillow and face him. “Ninety percent of our time together since we met has been spent on a bed.”

“Nothing wrong with that. I love your hair.”

His words send me into a tizzy, but I smile like I hear it every day. “Why, thank you.”

We quietly take each other in for a moment. I was starting to forget what he looked like, but now that I’m in front of him it’s like I never even left. He looks less like a teenager now than he did last year. And it makes me wonder if, when I see him again next year, he’ll look just like a man. Not that there’s any difference between a man and a nineteen-year-old, because they’re the same thing.

“We don’t have much time,” he says. “I have a ton of questions. I have a book to write and I know absolutely nothing about you.”