November 9 by Colleen Hoover

Description : November 9

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 stille 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...

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