November 9: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

inside Pinkberry?” She almost sounds offended. She turns away from me to study the choice of toppings again. “Have you at least heard of Starbucks?”
    I laugh and point to the gummy bears. The server scoops a spoonful into my container. “I practically live in Starbucks. I’m a writer. It’s a rite of passage.”
    She’s standing in front of me in line, waiting for our turn to pay, but she’s looking at my container with disgust.
    “Oh, my God,” she says. “You can’t come to Pinkberry and just eat
toppings
.” She looks up at me like I’ve killed a kitten. “Are you even human?”
    I roll my eyes and nudge her shoulder to turn her back around. “Stop berating me or I’ll dump you before we even find a table.”
    I pull a twenty out of my wallet and pay for our dessert. We maneuver our way through the crowded restaurant, but there aren’t any free tables. She heads straight for the door, so I follow her outside and down the sidewalk until she finds an empty bench. She takes a seat on it cross-legged and sets her bowl in her lap. It’s the first time I take a look at her bowl and realize she didn’t get a single topping.
    I look down at my bowl—full of nothing
but
toppings.
    “I know,” she says, laughing. “Jack Sprat could eat no fat . . .”
    “His wife could eat no lean,” I finish.
    She smiles and spoons a bite into her mouth. She pulls the spoon out and licks frozen yogurt off her bottom lip.
    I wasn’t expecting this today of all days. To be sitting across from this girl, watching her lick ice cream off her lips and having to swallow air just to make sure I’m still breathing.
    “So you’re a writer?”
    Her question gives me the footing I need to pull my mind out of the gutter. I nod. “Hope to be. I’ve never done it professionally, so I’m not sure I can call myself a writer yet.”
    She shifts until she’s facing me and props her elbow on the back of the bench. “It doesn’t take a paycheck to validify that you’re a writer.”
    “
Validify
isn’t actually a word.”
    “See?” she says. “I didn’t even know that, so you’re obviously a writer. Paycheck or not, I’m calling you a writer.
Ben the Writer.
That’s how I’m going to refer to you from this point forward.”
    I laugh. “And how should I refer to you?”
    She chews on the tip of her spoon for a few seconds, her eyes narrowed in contemplation. “Good question,” she says. “I’m kind of in transition at this point.”
    “Fallon the Transient,”
I offer.
    She smiles. “That works.”
    Her back meets the bench when she faces forward. She uncrosses her legs, allowing her feet to meet the ground. “So what kind of writing do you want to do? Novels? Screenplays?”
    “Hopefully everything. I don’t really want to put a cap on it yet, I’m only eighteen. I kind of want to try it all, but my passion is definitely novels. And poetry.”
    A quiet sigh leaves her mouth before she takes another bite. I don’t know how, but it feels like my answer just made her sad.
    “What about you, Fallon the Transient? What’s your life goal?”
    She shoots me a sidelong glance. “Are we talking about life goals now or what our passion is?”
    “Not much of a difference.”
    She laughs half-heartedly. “There’s a huge difference. My passion is acting, but that’s not really my goal in life.”
    “Why not?”
    Her eyes narrow in my direction before she looks back down at her container again. She begins stirring at the frozen yogurt with her spoon. She sighs with her entire body this time, like she’s crumbling to the ground.
    “You know, Ben. I appreciate how nice you’ve been since we became a couple, but you can stop with the act. My dad isn’t here to witness it.”
    I was about to take another bite, but my hand freezes before the spoon hits my mouth. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, baffled by the nosedive this conversation just took.
    She stabs at her yogurt with the spoon before leaning