November 9: A Novel

“Let me get this straight,” Miles says, looking at me and Fallon from across the table. “You blocked each other on social media. You don’t know each other’s phone numbers, so no contact whatsoever. But you’ve met up every year since you were eighteen?”

“Crazy, huh?” Fallon says, lowering her glass to the table.

“It’s a little bit like Sleepless in Seattle,” Tate says.

I immediately shake my head. “It’s nothing like that. They only agreed to meet up once.”

“True. It’s like One Day, then. That movie with Anne Hathaway?”

Again, I dismiss her comparison. “That just focuses on one particular day every year, but the two people still interact throughout the year like normal. Fallon and I have no contact.” I don’t know why I’m being so defensive. I think writers just naturally become defensive when their ideas are compared to other ideas, even if it’s done innocently. But mine and Fallon’s story is one-of-a-kind, and I feel somewhat protective of it. Very protective of it, actually.

“When will you stop? Or do you plan on doing this for the rest of your lives?”

Fallon glances at me and smiles. “We stop when we’re twenty-three.”

“Why twenty-three?” Ian asks.

Fallon answers the next few questions being fired at us, so I use the opportunity to excuse myself from the conversation to refill my drink. I lean against the counter and watch all of them interact from the kitchen.

I’m happy she’s here. I feel like having her here somewhat eases the grief everyone is feeling. She wasn’t tied to Kyle in any way, so no one feels forced to walk on eggshells around her. She’s like the breath of fresh air we all needed this week. I know I already thanked her for coming today, but one day I’ll tell her exactly how much it means to me that she showed up.

She glances at me from her chair, and when she sees the small smile on my face, she excuses herself from the table and walks into the kitchen.

My entire body relaxes when her arms slide around my waist. She plants a kiss on my arm and then stifles a yawn.

“You tired?”

She looks up at me and nods. “Yeah. Still on New York time, and it’s after midnight there. You mind if I use your shower before we go to bed?”

I lift my finger to her mouth. “You have something in your teeth.” She bares her teeth and I wipe what looks like a piece of pepper from her tooth. “All gone,” I say, giving her a quick peck on the lips. “And yes, you can use my shower. Let me know if you need assistance.” I wink at her, just as Ian leans against the counter beside us, narrowing his eyes at me.

“Did you just pick something out of her teeth?”

I don’t say anything because I don’t know what he plans to do with my answer.

“I’m being serious,” he says, looking at Fallon now. “Did he just pick something out of your teeth?”

She nods hesitantly.

Ian smirks. “Wow. My brother is in love with you.”

I can feel Fallon freeze against me.

“That’s not awkward at all,” I say sarcastically.

Ian shakes his head with a sly grin. “It’s not awkward, Ben. It’s cute. You’re in love.”

“Stop,” I say to him.

Ian releases a lighthearted laugh, and for once, I don’t mind being picked on by him. It’s the most air that’s been let in this house in two days.

“People don’t do gross things like that unless they’re in love,” Tate says from the table. “It’s a proven fact. It’s on the Internet or something.”

I grab Fallon’s hand and pull her out of the kitchen, away from the teasing. “Good night, guys. Fallon has other pressing hygiene issues I need to assist her with.”

I hear them laughing as we exit the kitchen and walk upstairs together.

To my bedroom.

Where we’ll spend the night.

Together.

In my bed.

It’s tricky knowing I won’t see her for another year, so I have no idea how far she’s willing to take it. I think that would all depend on how far she’s taken it with guys in the past.

Of course I don’t want to think about her with anyone else, but that’s the whole point of meeting her every year. I want to make sure she’s experiencing life like every girl her age should, and that means experiencing different people. But every night I close my eyes, I selfishly pray that she’s sleeping in her bed alone.

I want to ask her about it, but I’m not sure how to bring it up.

I open my bedroom door and follow her inside. It’s different walking into my room with her this time. It almost feels like there are expectations that have to be met before we exit this room in the morning. Conversations that need to be had. Bodies that need touching. Minds that need sleep. And not enough time to cram it all in before she’ll leave me again for another year.

I close and lock the door behind me. She’s facing the bed as she reaches up and pulls her hair into a knot, securing it with a rubber band she’s had around her wrist all day. I take a moment to admire the perfection of the curve between her neck and shoulder. I step forward and slip my arms around her waist so that I can press my lips against that very spot. I shower her in soft kisses from her shoulder to her ear and back down again. I kiss away the chills I’m responsible for. She makes a quiet sound, somewhere between a sigh and a moan.

“I’ll let you shower,” I tell her without releasing her. “Towels are under the sink.”

She squeezes my hands that are wrapped around her waist and then breaks away from me. Rather than head toward the bathroom, she walks toward my closet. “Can I sleep in one of your shirts?” she asks.

I glance at the closet and then at her. My manuscript is in my closet, sitting on the shelf. What I’ve written of it, anyway. At this point, the last thing I want her to do is read a single word of it. I grip the back of the shirt I’m wearing and pull it over my head.

“Here,” I say, handing it to her. “Wear this one.”

She grabs the shirt from my hands, but as soon as she looks up, she stops mid-step. She swallows, staring straight at my stomach. “Ben?”

“Yeah?”

She points at my stomach. “You have abs?”

I laugh and look down at my abdomen. She said it like it was a question, so I give her the obvious answer. “Um . . . yeah? I guess.”

She covers her mouth with my shirt, hiding her grin. “Wow,” she says, her words muffled by my shirt. “I like them.”

And then she rushes toward the bathroom and closes the door.