November 9 - Hoover Colleen - Страница 1
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November
9
Also by Colleen Hoover
Slammed
Point of Retreat
This Girl
Hopeless
Losing Hope
Finding Cinderella
Maybe Someday
Ugly Love
Maybe Not
Confess
First published in the USA by Atria, an imprint of Simon & Schuster, Inc., 2015
This edition first published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2015
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © Colleen Hoover, 2015
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.
The right of Colleen Hoover to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
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Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-4711-5462-1
eBook ISBN: 978-1-4711-5463-8
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd are committed to sourcing paper that is made from wood grown in sustainable forests and supports the Forest Stewardship Council, the leading international forest certification organisation. Our books displaying the FSC logo are printed on FSC certified paper.
To Levi—
You have great taste in music and your hugs are awkward.
Never change.
Contents
First November 9th
Fallon
Ben
Fallon
Ben
Fallon
Second November 9th
Ben
Fallon
Ben
Fallon
Third November 9th
Fallon
Ben
Fallon
Ben
Fallon
Ben
Fourth November 9th
Fallon
Ben
Fifth November 9th
Fallon
Ben
Fallon
Fallon
Fallon
Sixth November 9th
Fallon
Ben’s novel—CHAPTER ONE
Fallon
Ben’s novel—CHAPTER TWO
Fallon
Ben’s novel—CHAPTER THREE
Fallon
Ben’s novel—CHAPTER FOUR
Fallon
Last November 9th
Ben
First November
9th
I am translucent, aquatic.
Drifting, aimless.
She is an anchor, sinking in my sea.
—BENTON JAMES KESSLER
Fallon
I wonder what kind of sound it would make if I were to smash this glass against the side of his head.
It’s a thick glass. His head is hard. The potential for a nice big THUD is there.
I wonder if he would bleed. There are napkins on the table, but not the good kind that could soak up a lot of blood.
“So, yeah. I’m a little shocked, but it’s happening,” he says.
His voice causes my grip to tighten around the glass in hopes that it stays in my hand and doesn’t actually end up against the side of his skull.
“Fallon?” He clears his throat and tries to soften his words, but they still come at me like knives. “Are you going to say anything?”
I stab the hollow part of an ice cube with my straw, imagining that it’s his head.
“What am I supposed to say?” I mumble, resembling a bratty child, rather than the eighteen-year-old adult that I am. “Do you want me to congratulate you?”
My back meets the booth behind me and I fold my arms across my chest. I look at him and wonder if the regret I see in his eyes is a result of disappointing me or if he’s simply acting again. It’s only been five minutes since he sat down, and he’s already turned his side of the booth into his stage. And once again, I’m forced to be his audience.
His fingers drum the sides of his coffee cup as he watches me silently for several beats.
Taptaptap.
Taptaptap.
Taptaptap.
He thinks I’ll eventually give in and tell him what he wants to hear, but he hasn’t been around me enough in the last two years to know that I’m not that girl anymore.
When I refuse to acknowledge his performance, he eventually sighs and drops his elbows to the table. “Well, I thought you’d be happy for me.”
I force a quick shake of my head. “Happy for you?”
He can’t be serious.
He shrugs, and a smug smile takes over his already irritating expression. “I didn’t know I had it in me to become a father again.”
A loud burst of disbelieving laughter escapes my mouth. “Releasing sperm into the vagina of a twenty-four-year-old does not a father make,” I say, somewhat bitterly.
His smug smile disappears, and he leans back and cocks his head to the side. The head-cock was always his go-to move when he wasn’t sure how to react onscreen. “Just look like you’re contemplating something deep and it’ll pass for almost any emotion. Sad, introspective, apologetic, sympathetic.” He must not recall that he was my acting coach for most of my life, and this look was one of the first he taught me.
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