November 9 - Hoover Colleen - Страница 19
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So far in my “research” I’ve concluded that Fallon is absolutely right. Kisses in books and kisses in real life aren’t exactly the same. And every single time I read one of these novels, I cringe when I think about the few times I kissed Fallon last year. They absolutely were not book-worthy, and even though I’ve been doing a lot of reading this past year, I’m still not sure what makes a kiss book-worthy. But I know she deserved better than what I gave her.
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.
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