November 9

by Colleen Hoover

  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."

  I open my mouth to argue, because it seems like he knows everything about me. But then I clamp it shut, because I guess he doesn't really know much about me. We only spent one day together.

  "Did you write anything this year?"

  He nods. "I did. Did you kiss anyone this year?"

  I nod. "I did. Did you?"

  He shrugs.

  "Did you, Ben?"

  He nods. "A few."

  I try not to let that affect me, but exactly how many constitutes a few?

  "And did you compare them all to me?"

  He shakes his head. "I told you last year, that's completely unfair to the rest of the female population. You're incomparable."

  I'm so glad I came today. I don't care if I don't sleep for a week, it would be worth it just to have that compliment.

  "How about your guys? Did you go on all five dates?"

  "Guy," I correct him. "There was just one. I tried."

  He raises an eyebrow, so I immediately go into defense mode. "Ben, you can't expect me to put myself out there in a brand-new state when I've never really been out there. It takes time. I was so proud when I kissed the one guy. He thought I was stoked because of the kiss, but I was only happy because I crossed something off my homework."

  He laughs. "Well, one will do, I guess. But that means your homework for this year just got a lot harder."

  "Yeah, well. So will yours, then. And speaking of, I want proof of this book you're writing. I want to read something you wrote about us."

  "No," he says immediately.

  I lift up on the bed. "What? No? You can't tell me you wrote this year and not prove it to me. Give me something."

  "I don't like people to read what I write."

  I laugh. "Seriously? That's like an opera singer refusing to make sound when she performs."

  "It's nothing like that. I'll let you read it when I'm finished."

  "You're going to make me wait four years?"

  His lip curls up in a grin when he nods.

  I fall back down onto the pillow with a defeated flop. "Sigh."

  "Did you just say sigh? Out loud? Instead of actually sighing?"

  "Eye roll."

  He laughs and scoots closer to me. Now I'm looking up and he's looking down and that would be fine and dandy if he wasn't looking at me like he's planning out exactly how his lips are going to mesh with mine.

  I suck in a breath as his hand slides over my jaw. "I missed you, Fallon," he whispers. "A lot. And screw it if I'm not supposed to admit that, but I tried the whole alpha-male thing for two seconds and I just can't do it. So you don't get alpha-Ben today. I'm sorry."

  Wow. Is he . . .

  He is.

  "Ben," I say, narrowing my eyes. "Are you . . . booksting me?"

  He cocks an eyebrow. "Booksting?"

  "Yeah. When a hot guy talks books with a girl. It's like sexting, but out loud and with books instead of sex. Nor does it have to do with texts. Okay, so it's nothing like sexting, but it made sense in my head."

  He falls onto his back in laughter. I scoot toward him and place my hand on his chest as I lean over him. "Don't stop," I tease in a seductive voice. "Give me more, Ben. Did you read eBooks or . . ." I run my finger slowly down his chest. "Hardbacks?"

  He pulls his hands behind his head and a smug look washes over his face. "Oh, they were hardbacks, all right. And I'm not sure if you're ready for this, but . . . I have my very own TBR pile. You should see it, Fallon. It's huge."

  I let out a moan, but I'm not so sure it's pretend.

  "I also know what makes a kiss book-worthy now," he says. "So be prepared." He lifts up onto his elbow again and loses the smile. "Seriously though. This female attraction to the alpha-male throws me off a little bit, because I'm not anything like the guys you read about."

  Yeah. You're better.

  "I could never drive a motorcycle, or fight another man just for fun. And as much as I've fantasized about having sex with you this year, I don't think I could ever say, 'I own you,' with a straight face. And I've always wanted a tattoo, but probably just a small one, because no way in hell I could endure the pain. Overall, the books were interesting but they also made me feel highly inadequate."

  He can't be serious. "Ben, not all the guys in the books I read are like that."

  He tilts his head. "But you obviously like the bad boys if you like reading about them."

  "Actually, that's not true," I tell him. "I enjoy reading books like that because it's not at all the life I lead. It's completely different than any situation I'll ever be in, thank God. But I get entertainment out of it. Because as much as I like to read about a guy telling a girl she's so, so wet for him . . . if anyone ever said that to me during sex, I wouldn't be turned on by it. I would be terrified I accidentally peed on myself."

  Ben laughs.

  "And if you and I were having sex and you told me you owned me, I would literally crawl out from under you, put on my clothes, walk out of your house, and go puke in your front yard. So just because I like reading about those kinds of guys, doesn't mean I need my real-life guys to act like that."

  He grins. "Can I keep you?"

  Too bad he's only kidding. "I'm all yours for the next five hours."

  He pushes me flat on my back. "Tell me about this boy you kissed." His use of the word boy somehow seems like an insult to the guy. I like it. Jealous Ben is cute. "I need to know all the details about your kiss so I can add a subplot to the book."

  "A subplot?" I ask. "Does that mean you have an actual plot already?"

  His expression doesn't waver. "So how did you meet him?"

  "Rehearsals.
"

  "Did you go on a date with him?"

  "Two."

  "Why only two? What happened?"

  I want to say "sigh" again out loud. I really don't want to talk about him. "Nothing came of it. Do we really have to talk about it?"

  "Yep. It was part of the agreement."

  I groan. "Fine. His name is Cody. He's twenty-one. We were auditioning for the same play and we had a nice conversation. He asked for my number and I gave it to him."

  "You gave him your phone number?" Ben asks, dejected. "Why won't you give me your phone number?"

  "Because I actually like you. Anyway, we went out that weekend and kissed a few times. He was nice. Funny . . ."

  Ben makes a face. "Funnier than me?"

  "Your humor is incomparable, Ben. Stop interrupting me. So I agreed to go out with him a second time. We went back to his place to watch a movie. We started making out and . . . I just . . . I couldn't do it."

  "Couldn't do it? Like it it? Or just make out with him?"

  I don't know what's more strange. Talking to Ben about making out with another guy or the fact that I'm so comfortable talking to Ben about making out with another guy.

  Well, up to this point, anyway. Now I just want to shut up.

  "I couldn't do either. It was . . ." I close my eyes, not wanting to tell him the real reason why I couldn't do it. But it's Ben. He's easy to talk to.

  "It was different. He made me feel . . . I don't know. Flawed."

  I can see the roll in Ben's throat when he swallows. "Explain," he says, his voice clipped. I like that he seems a little upset, like he doesn't actually want to hear about me making out with someone else. I especially like how he seems a little protective of me.

  I think Ben has more alpha in him than he gives himself credit for.

  I blow out a heavy breath, preparing for the honesty I shouldn't really want to share, but for some reason want to share.

  "Last year when you touched me, you made me feel . . . pretty. Like I didn't have any scars. Or . . . not like that, I said that wrong. You made me feel like the scars were part of what made me pretty. And I've never once felt like that, nor did I think I'd ever feel like that. So when I was with Cody, I noticed everything. How he only touched the right side of my face. How he only kissed the right side of my neck. How, when we were making out, he insisted the lights be off."

  Ben makes a face like he's in pain again, but this time he's very convincing. "Go on," he says, forcing the words out of his mouth.

  "He tried to take off my bra at one point and I just couldn't do it. I didn't want him to see it. He was really nice about it and didn't ask me to keep going. And if I'm being honest, that bothered me a little. I kind of wanted him to console me and act like he still wanted me, but he seemed a little relieved that I stopped it."

  Ben rolls onto his back and rubs his hands up and down his face. After a moment, he resumes his position, looking down on me. "Please don't ever speak to that fucking douchebag again."

  A surprising wave of heat rolls over me with those words. His thumb brushes my jaw and his expression is full of sincerity. "What didn't you want him to see?"

  The confusion on my face prompts him to be more detailed. "You said, 'I didn't want him to see it.' But if your shirt was already off and he already saw your scars, what is it you're referring to?"

  I swallow. I want to pull a pillow over my face and hide. I can't believe he caught that.

  In fact, I think I will pull a pillow over my face.

  "Stop," he says, when I try to grab for the pillow. He tucks it back under my head and leans in closer. "It's me, Fallon. Don't be embarrassed. Tell me what you were referring to."

  I inhale a deep breath, hoping more air in my lungs will somehow give me more courage to answer him. And then I release the breath as slow as possible so I can drag out having to answer him.

  I cover my eyes with my arm and say it as fast as I can. "My left breast."

  I wait for him to ask more questions, or make me move my arm, but he doesn't. I can't believe I just told him that. I've never told anyone that, not even Amber. During the fire, not only was most of the left half of my body burned, but as if that wasn't punishment enough, I was injured when they tried to pull me out the top-story window. Luckily I don't remember anything between falling asleep that night and waking up in the hospital, but the scars are a daily reminder. And my left breast bore the brunt of most of it. And I'm not stupid. I know to guys, breasts are supposed to be beautiful and symmetrical, and mine aren't.

  I feel Ben's hand meet my wrist and he pulls my arm from my face. He gently palms my cheek. "Why would it bother you for anyone to see it? Because it's scarred?"

  I nod, but then I shake my head. "This is so embarrassing, Ben."

  "Not to me," he says. "And it sure as hell shouldn't be for you. I've seen you without a shirt already, remember? As I recall, it was pretty magnificent."

  "You've seen me without a shirt, but you should see me without a bra. You would understand."

  Ben immediately lifts up onto his elbow. "Okay."

  I stare at him in disbelief. "That wasn't an invitation."

  "But I want to see it."

  I shake my head. I even laugh, because there's no way in hell I'm just going to plop my boob out of my shirt so he can gawk at its hideousness.

  "I want to do the book justice, and your injuries are something I have to talk about. So you should let me see it. We'll consider it research."

  It feels like his words just backhanded my heart. "What?" My voice is so unsteady, it sounds like I'm crying. But I'm not. Yet. "What do you mean you'll have to talk about it in the book? You aren't really writing about my scars, are you?"

  Confusion encompasses his face. "It's part of your story. Of course I'm writing about it."

  I lift up on my elbows and narrow my eyes in his direction. "I wanted you to fictionalize me and make me pretty, Ben. You can't make the main character a freak show. No one wants to identify with that. Main characters should be beautiful and . . ."

  Ben immediately rolls on top of me and covers my mouth with his hand. He inhales a deep breath in preparation for what seems like a fight. He releases it quickly, his jaw twitching with irritation.

  "You listen to me," he says, keeping his hand secured over my mouth so that I can't interrupt him. "It pisses me off that you allow something so trivial to define such a huge part of you. I can't make you pretty in this book, because that would be an insult. You're fucking beautiful. And you're funny. And the only times I'm not completely enamored by you are the moments you're feeling sorry for yourself. Because I don't know if you've realized this yet, but you're alive, Fallon. And every time you look in the mirror, you don't have the right to hate what you see. Because you survived when a lot of people don't get that lucky. So from now on when you think about your scars, you aren't allowed to resent them. You're going to embrace them, because you're lucky to be on this earth to see them. And any guy you allow to touch your scars better thank you for that privilege."

  My chest hurts.

  I can't breathe.

  He removes his hand from my mouth and when he does, I gasp for breath. My eyes rim with tears and I can't stop myself from shaking as I try to suppress them. Ben lowers himself completely on top of me, cradling my head in his hands. He presses his lips to the side of my head and then whispers, "You deserved that, Fallon."

  And I nod, because he's right.

  He's right.

  Of course he's right. I'm alive and I'm healthy and yes, the fire left its thumbprint on my skin, but it didn't take the most important parts of me. It wasn't able to reach anything beneath the surface. So why am I treating myself like it did?

  I have to stop doing this to myself.

  "Shh," he whispers, thumbing the tears on my cheeks. My emotions are all over the place. I'm so pissed that he felt he has the right to even talk to me that way, but the fact that he just talked to me that way made my heart wish it had lips so it c
ould kiss him. And I'm pissed off at myself for being so self-centered these last few years. Sure, the fire sucked. Yes, I wish it never happened. But it did and I can't change it so I need to get over it.

  I want to laugh, because everything he just said feels like a weight has been removed from my chest and I'm breathing for the first time in three years.

  Everything feels different. Newer. Like the air is buzzing, reminding me that I'm lucky to be here, breathing it in.

  So I do just that. I take in a deep breath and I throw my arms around him, burying my head in the crevice of his neck and shoulder.

  "Thank you," I whisper. "You asshole."

  I feel him laughing, so I lie back down on my pillow and allow him to wipe more tears away. He's looking down at me like I'm a beautiful mess, and I'm not going to allow myself to question that. Because I am. I'm a beautiful fucking mess and he's lucky to be on top of me right now.

  I slide my hands to his chest and feel his heart pounding through his shirt. It's pounding as hard as mine is.

  We lock eyes and he doesn't ask permission when he dips his head and brushes my mouth with his. "Fallon, I'm worked up so damn tight. I'm going to kiss you now and I'm not sorry."

  And then his lips claim mine. My head is swimming, my body feels like it's floating and I can't move my arms. But I don't have to, because he raises my hands above my head and interlocks our fingers, pushing them into the mattress. His tongue slides against mine and there's so much feeling in it, it's as if he's kissing me the same way he looks at me. From the inside out.

  He slowly plants kisses down my neck, keeping my hands secured to the bed, not allowing me to touch him back while he explores my skin. God, I've missed him. I've missed the way I feel when I'm with him. I wish I could have this every day. Once a year isn't near enough.

  The pressure on my right hand disappears as he runs his fingers down the length of my arm, all the way to my waist. His mouth has returned to mine and he's kissing me again as his hand slowly begins to crawl inside my shirt. Just feeling his fingertips on my skin reminds me of why I think about him every night when my head meets my pillow.

  "I'm taking off your shirt," he says.

  I don't even hesitate.

  I don't even hesitate?

  He pulls the shirt over my head and tosses it behind him. His eyes fall to my breasts, covered with a black lace bra that I was convinced he wouldn't see tonight. He smiles a devilish smile, running his fingertips over the lace. He cups my right breast in his hand, dragging his thumb over the fabric covering my nipple. The second he does that, I flinch, because I've read enough books to know that the next move is going to be touching me beneath the fabric. My entire body tenses because I don't think I want him to remove my bra. I don't want him to see all of me. No one has ever seen all of me.