I still can't believe he hit me. In all my life, he's never hit me. He's come very close a time or two. Either he's really stressed about his wedding or I've really pissed him off this time.
"Can we get out of here?" I ask.
She shrugs. "I guess. Where do you want to go?"
"Wherever you are."
Just seeing her smile releases so much of my tension. "I have an idea," she says.
*
"Are you cold?"
It's the third time I've asked her and she keeps saying no, but she's shivering. I pull her against me and wrap the blanket more securely around us.
She wanted to come to the beach, despite the fact that it's almost dark and November. We got takeout from Chipotle, of course, and she set up a makeshift picnic with blankets we took from my house. We finished eating about half an hour ago and we've just been making small talk, getting to know more about each other. But with the heaviness of what happened back at the house, all of the questions so far have been safe. But neither of us has asked the other a question in at least two minutes, so we may be all out of small talk. Or maybe the silence is a question in itself.
I'm holding her hand under the blanket and we're both just staring at the waves as they crash against the rocks. After a while, she lays her head on my shoulder.
"I haven't been to the beach since I was sixteen," she says.
"Are you scared of the ocean?"
She lifts her head off my shoulder and pulls her knees up, wrapping her arms around them. "I used to come all the time. Whenever I had a day off, this is where I'd be. But then the fire happened and it took a long time to recover. I was in and out of the hospital and physical therapy. The sun isn't good for skin when it's trying to heal, so I just . . . never came back. Even after it was okay to be in direct sunlight again, I no longer had the confidence to show up to a place where everyone revealed the most amount of skin they could get away with."
Once again, I'm at a loss for what to say to her. I hate knowing the fire took away so much of her confidence, but I think I'm still clueless when it comes to how much it actually took away from her life.
"It feels good to be back," she whispers.
I squeeze her hand, because I'm sure that's all she really wants.
We sit in silence again, and my mind keeps going back to what happened with Kyle in the hallway. I don't know how much she heard, but she's still here, so it couldn't have been much. However, to say she saw a different side to Kyle than I would have wanted her to see is an understatement. She probably thinks he's an asshole, and based on the few minutes she witnessed of him, I wouldn't blame her.
"When I was in fourth grade, there was this older kid who used to pick on me," I tell her. "Every day on the bus he would either hit me or say mean things to me. It went on for months, and there were a couple of times I would actually get off the bus with a bloody nose."
"Jesus," she says.
"Kyle is a couple years older than me. He was in middle school, but we rode the same bus because we went to a fairly small school. One day, after the kid hit me right in front of Kyle, I expected him to take up for me. To beat the kid's ass, because I'm his little brother. That's what big brothers are supposed to do. Protect their little brothers from bullies." I stretch my legs out in front of me and sigh. "But Kyle just sat there, staring at me. He never intervened. And when we got home, I was so angry with him. I told him it was his job as my brother to teach the bullies a lesson. He laughed and said, 'And how will that teach you anything?'
"I didn't know what to say, because what the hell was I supposed to be learning by getting my ass kicked every day? Kyle said, 'What is stopping one bully going to teach you? Nothing. If I intervened, what would you gain from that besides learning to rely on someone else rather than yourself? There will always be bullies, Ben. You need to learn how to deal with them yourself. You need to learn how to not let them get to you. And me beating up some kid for you isn't going to teach you a damn thing.' "
Fallon faces me. "Did you listen to him?"
I shake my head. "No, I went to my room and cried because I thought he was just being mean. And the kid continued to pick on me for weeks after that. But then one day, it just clicked. I don't know what it was, but I slowly started defending myself. I stopped letting him get to me as much as he did. Stopped acting so scared around him. And after a while, when he realized his insults didn't bother me, he finally backed off."
She's quiet, but I can tell she's wondering why I'm telling her this story.
"He's a good brother," I say to her. "He's a good person. I hate that you saw the side of him you did today, because that's not him. He had a right to be upset with me and no, I don't want to talk about it. But my brothers are really good people and I just wanted you to know that."
She's looking at me appreciatively. I wrap my arm around her and pull her to my chest as I lay down on the blanket beneath us. I'm looking up at the stars now, surprised at how long it's been since I've actually seen them.
"I was excited about the idea of having a sibling," she says. "I know I acted like I wasn't happy when my dad told me last year, but I've always wanted a sister or brother. Unfortunately, the girl my dad was engaged to wasn't pregnant after all. She thought he had money thanks to his semi-celebrity status. When she found out he was actually broke, she left him."
Wow. I don't feel so bad about my family drama she witnessed today. "That's awful," I say to her. "Was he upset?" Not that I care if he was upset. The man deserves any negative karma that's returned to him with the way he treated her that day.
She shrugs. "I don't know. My mom told me all that. I haven't even spoken to him since last year."
That makes me sad for her. As much of a douchebag as he is, he's still her father, so I know that has to hurt. "What kind of person fakes pregnancy to trap a man? That's messed up. Although it does sound like a great plotline for a book."
She laughs against my chest. "It's tripe and way overused as a subplot." She rests her chin on her arms and smiles at me. The moonlight is hitting her face, shining down on her like she's on a stage.
Which reminds me . . .
"Are you ever going to tell me about this rehearsal you mentioned earlier? What's it for?"
She loses the smile. "Community theater," she says. "Tomorrow is opening day and we have dress rehearsals in the morning, which is why I need to be back so early. I don't have a lead role and it doesn't pay anything, but I enjoy it because a lot of the actors look to me for advice. I don't know why, maybe because I've had a lot of experience in the past, but it feels good. It's nice that I'm not cooped up in my apartment all the time."
I like hearing that. "What about work?"
"My schedule is flexible. I'm still recording audiobooks and I get enough work to pay the bills, so that's good. Although I did have to move apartments because my rent was a little steep, but . . . overall things are going well. I'm happy there."
"Good," I say to her, running my fingers through her hair. "I'm happy you're happy there."
And I am. But I'm not going to lie, a part of me was selfishly hoping I'd see her today and she'd tell me New York didn't work out. That she lives in L.A. again and she thinks her five-year rule is stupid and that she wants to see me tomorrow.
"Do you even have a job?" she asks. "I can't believe I don't know that about you. I let you fondle my breasts and I don't even know what you do for a living."
I laugh. "I go to UCLA. Full-time student with a double major, so it doesn't leave much time for work. But I don't have many bills. I have enough money left over from my mom's inheritance to support myself through college, so it works for now."
I almost ask him how old he was when his mother died, but I'm not sure he wants the conversation to take that turn right now. "What are your two majors?"
"Creative writing and Communications. The majority of writers don't have much luck finding a career to sustain themselves, so I want to have a backup plan."
Sh
e smiles. "You don't need a backup plan because in a few years, you'll have a bestselling novel to pay your bills."
I hope she doesn't actually think that.
"What's it called?" she asks.
"What's what called?"
"Our book. What's the title going to be?"
"November Nine."
I watch her reaction, but her expression reveals nothing of what she thinks of the title. After a few seconds, she lays her head on my chest so I can't see her face anymore.
"I didn't tell you this last year," she says, her voice much quieter than before. "But November 9th is the anniversary of the fire. And being able to look forward to seeing you on this date makes me not dread the anniversary as much as I used to. So thank you for that."
I suck in a quiet breath, but before I can even give her a response, she scoots closer and presses her lips firmly to mine.
Fallon
"Are you sure about this?"
He nods, but everything else about his demeanor says he's not.
Half an hour ago, we were making out on the beach. Five minutes into our kiss, he sat straight up and announced he wanted a tattoo. "Tonight," he said. "Right now."
So here we are. He's sitting in the chair, waiting on the tattoo artist, and I'm leaning against the wall, waiting for him to chicken out.
He won't tell me what the tattoo means. He's getting the word poetic across his left wrist, written inside a music staff. I don't know why he won't tell me the meaning behind it, but at least it's not my name. I mean, I like the guy. A lot. But permanently inking a girl's name into your skin is a pretty alpha-male thing to do this early on in a relationship. Especially on the wrist. And why did I just refer to this as a relationship?
Oh, God. What if that's why he's getting a tattoo? What if he's trying to come off as more of a tough guy? I should probably warn him that he's doing it wrong.
I clear my throat to get his attention. "Um. I hate to say this Ben, but a wrist tattoo of the word poetic isn't very alpha-male. It's quite the opposite, actually. You sure you don't want to go with a skull? Some barbed wire? Something bloody, maybe?"
His lip curls up into a crooked grin. "Don't worry, Fallon. I'm not doing this to impress girls."
I don't know why I love that answer as much as I do. The tattoo artist walks back into the room and points at Ben's wrist where he drew the outline of the tattoo a few minutes earlier. "If you like the placement, we'll get started."
The tattoo is sketched in ink from one side of his wrist to the other. He nods and tells the guy he's ready. Ben motions to me. "Can she sit in my lap and distract me?"
The guy shrugs, pulling Ben's arm in front of him, but he says nothing. As soon as the thought begins to cross my mind that this guy is probably wondering what Ben is doing with someone who looks like I do, Ben interrupts my bout of insecurity. "Come here," he says, patting his leg. "Distract me."
I do what he says, but the only way I can sit on his lap is if I straddle him. At least I'm in jeans, but I still feel awkward that I'm sitting like this in the middle of a tattoo parlor. Ben's hand comes to rest on my waist and he squeezes. I can hear the buzz of the needle and the slight difference in the sound once it presses into his skin. He doesn't even make a face other than giving me a tiny smile. I do what I can to distract him, so I continue the small talk we shared on the beach.
"What's your favorite color?"
"Malachite green."
I make a face. "That's a very specific green, but okay."
"It's what color your eyes are. Also happens to be my favorite mineral."
"You have a favorite mineral?"
"Do now."
I look down to avoid him seeing my embarrassed smile straight on. I feel his hand squeeze my waist again. I'm guessing the needle is distracting him more than I am, so I throw out another question.
"What's your favorite food?"
"Pad Thai," he says. "Yours?"
"Sushi. They're almost the same thing."
"Not even close," he says.
"They're both Asian food. What's your favorite movie?"
"These questions are boring. Try harder."
I drop my head back and look up at the ceiling while I think. "Okay, who was your first girlfriend?" I ask, bringing my eyes back to him.
"Brynn Fellows. I was thirteen."
"I thought you said her name was Abitha."
He grins. "You have a good memory."
I raise a serious brow. "It's not that I have a good memory, Ben. I'm just insanely jealous and unstable when it comes to your past loves."
He laughs. "Abitha was the first girl I kissed. Not my first girlfriend. I was fifteen, dated her for a year."
"Why'd you break up?"
"We were sixteen." He says that like it's a valid reason. He can see the question in my expression so he says, "That's what you do when you're dating at sixteen. You break up. What about you? Who was your first boyfriend?"
"Real or fake?"
"Either," he says.
"You." I watch his eyes closely to see if there's pity in them, but it looks more like pride. "How many people have you slept with?"
He tightens his mouth. "Not answering that."
"More than ten?"
"Nope."
"Less than one?"
"Nope."
"More than five?"
"I don't kiss and tell."
I laugh. "Yes you do. In five years, you'll be telling the whole world about us in your book."
"Four years," he clarifies.
"When's your birthday?" I ask him.
"When's yours?"
"I asked you first."
"But what if you're older than me? Isn't that a turnoff for girls? Dating guys younger than them?"
"Isn't it a turnoff for guys to date girls with scars on over half their face?"
His hand squeezes my waist and he eyes me hard. "Fallon." He says my name like it's an entire lecture in itself.
"I was trying to be funny," I say.
He doesn't smile. "I don't think self-deprecation is very funny."
"That's only because you aren't the self who's doing the deprecating."
The corner of his mouth twitches as he tries to hold back his smile. "July Fourth," he says. "The whole country celebrates my birthday every year. It's quite epic."
"July 25th, which means you are officially older than me. I can safely pursue you now and not be considered a cougar."
He runs his hand up my waist a couple of inches, and then his thumb moves side to side, slowly. "You can't pursue the willing, Fallon."
Oh, dang. He deserves a kiss for that comment, but there's a guy with a tattoo gun two feet away and I'm not the type of girl who would make out with a guy in public. Apparently I draw the line at straddling them.
"There's something I need to know about you," he says with a poignant stare. "And when I ask you this question, I want you to think very long and hard about the answer, because it might make or break this connection we have."
I swallow hard. "Okay. What do you need to know?"
He winces, just a little, and I'm not sure if it's from the tattoo gun or because he's nervous to ask the question. "Okay," he says. "If you could only listen to one band for the rest of your life, which band would you choose, and why?"
I instantly relax. This is easy. I thought he was about to dig a whole lot deeper than my favorite band.
"X Ambassadors."
"Never heard of them," he says.
"I've seen them twice," the guy with the tattoo gun says. Ben and I both look at him, but he's focused on his work.
I look back at Ben and arch my eyebrow. "Why would my favorite band make or break us?"
"A lot can be said about a person through their taste in music. Pretty sure I read that in one of the books you gave me. If you would have picked a band I hated, it would have been a major turnoff."
"Well, you might still hate them once you listen to them, so we aren't in the clear yet."
"In that case, I'll never listen to them," he says confidently.
"Not if I have anything to do with it."
"What's your favorite lyric by them?" he asks.
"It changes depending on my mood."
"Well then, what's your favorite lyric right now?"
I close my eyes briefly and hum one of the songs in my head until I get to the lyric that fits this moment. I open my eyes and smile. "You're so gorgeous, 'cause you make me feel gorgeous."
A faint smile works its way across his mouth. "I like that," he says, brushing his thumb across the skin of my waist. We stare at each other for a while. I can see the rise of his chest becoming more prominent, and knowing he's getting worked up despite having a needle piercing his skin makes me feel a little triumphant.
I think about maybe just leaning forward and giving him a small peck on the mouth, but before I can, the tattoo artist says, "Done!"
I slide off his lap and we look at the finished product before it's bandaged up. It turned out great, but I still don't know what prompted it or why he needed it tonight, but I'm glad I got to be here with him while he had it done.
He stands up and pulls his wallet out of his pocket to tip the guy. When he takes my hand in his to walk me to his car, every step I take grows heavier and heavier, because I know with each step, we're closer to another goodbye.
On our drive to the airport, I'm on edge the entire way. I keep asking myself if this new urge to not want to get on that plane to go back to New York is a result of my feelings for Ben or for New York.
I know I told him at the beach that I'm happy in New York, but I'm still almost as unhappy there as I was here. I just don't want him to know that. I'm hoping my involvement in the community theater will help me make a few more friends. After all, it's only been one year. But it's been a tough year. And as much as I tried to stick with the homework he gave me, going on audition after audition is exhausting when all I get are rejections. It makes me wonder if my father is right. I might be dreaming too big. And despite Ben having given me a lot of my confidence back, it doesn't make an industry built on looks any less shallow.
And Broadway is so far out of my reach it's laughable. The amount of people who show up for auditions makes me feel like a small ant in a massive colony. The only chance I probably have of standing out is if the role requires someone who actually has facial scars. And so far, I haven't gotten that lucky.