Fallon

I just lived through the longest minute of my life.

Sitting on my couch, watching the second hand on my clock move at a snail’s pace as it processed the date from November 8th to November 9th.

Although there was no sound when the second hand struck midnight, my whole body jerked as if every chime from every clock on every wall in every house just rang inside my head.

My phone lights up at ten seconds after midnight. It’s a text from Amber.

It’s just a date on a calendar, like any other. I love you, but my offer still stands. If you want me to spend the day with you, just text.

I also notice a missed text from my mother that came in two hours ago.

I’m bringing you breakfast tomorrow. I’ll let myself in when I get there, so no need to set an alarm.

Crap.

I really don’t want company when I wake up. Not from Amber, not from my mom, not from anyone. At least I know my dad won’t remember the anniversary. That’s a plus side to our sporadic relationship.

I click the button on the side of my cell phone to lock it, and then I wrap my arms back around my knees. I’m sitting on my couch, dressed in pajamas that I don’t plan to take off until November 10th. I’m not leaving this house for the next twenty-four hours. I’m not speaking to a single person. Well, except to my mom when she brings me breakfast, but after that, I’m taking the day off from the world.

I decided after what I went through last year with Ben, that this date is cursed. From now on, no matter how old or married I am, I will never leave my home on November 9th.

I’ve also reserved it as the only day I’ll allow myself to think about the fire. To think about Ben. To think about all the things I wasted on him. Because no one is worth that much heartache. No excuse is good enough to justify what he did to me.

Which is why, when I left his apartment last year, I drove straight to the police station and filed a restraining order against him.

It’s been exactly one year and I haven’t heard from him since the night I drove away.

I never told anyone what happened. Not my father, not Amber, not my mother. Not because I didn’t want him to get in trouble, because I do believe he deserves to pay for what he did to me.

But because I was embarrassed.

I trusted this man. I loved him. I believed whole-heartedly that the connection between us was rare and real and that we were one of a lucky few who found love like ours.

Finding out that he was lying throughout our entire relationship is something I’m still trying to process. Every day I wake up and force myself to push thoughts of him out of my head. I went on with my life as if Benton James Kessler had never entered it. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Most of the time it doesn’t.

I thought about seeing a therapist. I thought about telling my mom about him and his responsibility for the fire. I even thought about talking to my dad about him. But it’s hard to bring him up when most of the time I’m trying to pretend he never existed.

I keep telling myself it will get easier. That I’ll meet someone someday who will be able to blind me to thoughts of Ben, but so far I won’t even bring myself to trust someone enough to flirt with them.

It’s one thing to experience trust issues with men due to infidelity. But Ben lied to me on such a large scale that I have no idea what was true, what was a lie and what was fabricated for his book. The only thing I know to be accurate is that he was somehow responsible for the fire that almost took my life. And I don’t care if it was intentional or an accident, that isn’t the part that infuriates me the most.

I’m the most devastated when I think about all the times he made my scars feel beautiful, while never once admitting that he was actually the one who put them there.

No excuse will ever justify those lies. So there isn’t even a point in hearing them.

In fact, there isn’t even a point in allowing myself to think about it any more than I already have. I should just go to bed. Maybe by some miracle, I’ll sleep through most of tomorrow.

I reach over and turn off the lamp next to my couch. As I’m making my way toward the bedroom, there’s a knock on my front door.

Amber.

She’s done well not to bring up today’s date until yesterday. She pretended she wanted to have a sleepover out of the blue a few hours ago, but I declined. I know she just doesn’t want me to be alone tonight, but it’s a lot easier to mope when there’s no one to judge you.

I unlock my apartment door and open it.

No one is here.

Chills run up my arms. Amber wouldn’t do something like this. She wouldn’t find humor in pranking a girl who lives alone this late at night.

I immediately step back inside the apartment to slam the door shut, but right before I go to close it, I glance down at the ground and see a cardboard box. It isn’t wrapped, but there’s an envelope on it with my name sprawled across the top.

I glance around, but there’s no one near my door. There is a car pulling away, though, and I wish it wasn’t so dark so I could see if I recognized the vehicle.

I glance back down at the package and then quickly scoop it up and rush inside, locking the door behind me.

It looks like one of the cardboard gift boxes that department stores use to package shirts, but the contents are much heavier than a shirt. I set it on the kitchen counter and peel the envelope off the top of it.

It isn’t sealed. The flap is just tucked into the back of the envelope, so I pull the piece of paper out and unfold it.

I lay the pages carefully on the table next to the box.

I bring a hand to my cheek, checking for tears, because I can’t believe there aren’t any. I thought surely if I’d heard from him again, I would be an emotional wreck.

But I’m not. My hands aren’t shaking. My heart isn’t aching.

I bring my fingers to my throat to see if I even have a pulse. Because surely I haven’t spent so much of this past year building up an emotional wall so high, that even words like the ones he just wrote can’t penetrate it.

But I’m scared that’s exactly what’s happened. Not only will Ben never break these walls back down, but I’m afraid he’s forced me to build them so thick and high that I’ll be hiding behind them forever.

He’s right about one thing, though. I owe him nothing.

I walk to my bedroom and crawl into bed, leaving every single page unread on the kitchen counter.

 

• • •

It’s 11:15.

I’m squinting, so that means there’s sun. Which means it’s 11:15 a.m.

I bring my hand to my face and I cover my eyes. I wait a few seconds and then I pick up my cell phone.

It’s November 9th.

Shit.

I mean, it’s no surprise I didn’t sleep for twenty-four hours straight, so I don’t know why I’m upset. Especially considering the eleven hours of sleep I did get. I’m not sure I’ve slept this much since I was a teenager. And I especially haven’t slept this much on today’s anniversary. I normally don’t sleep at all.

I stand in the middle of my bedroom and debate how to proceed with today. Behind door number one lies my bathroom, my toothbrush, and my shower.

Behind door number two lies a couch, a television, and a refrigerator.

I choose door number two.

When I open it, I suddenly wish I had chosen door number one.

My mother is sitting on my couch.

Shit. I forgot she was bringing me breakfast. Now she’ll think I do nothing but sleep every day, all day.

“Hey,” I say to her as I walk out of my bedroom. She glances up, and I’m immediately confused by her expression.

She’s crying.

My first thought is what happened and who did it happen to? My father? My grandmother? Cousins? Aunts? Uncles? Boddle, my mom’s dog?

“What’s wrong?” I ask her.

But then I look down at her lap and realize that everything is wrong. She’s reading the manuscript.

Ben’s manuscript.

Our story.

Since when did she start invading privacy? I point at it and shoot her an offended look. “What are you doing?”

She picks up a discarded tissue and wipes at her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she says, sniffling. “I saw the letter. And I would never read your personal things, but it was open this morning when I brought breakfast and I just . . . I’m sorry. But then”—she picks up some of the pages of the manuscript and flops them back and forth—“I read the first page and I’ve been sitting here for four hours now and haven’t been able to stop.”

She’s been reading it for four hours?

I walk over to her and grab the stack of pages from her lap. “How much did you read?” I pick the manuscript up and walk it back to the kitchen. “And why? You have no business reading this, Mom. Jesus, I can’t believe you would do that.” I shove the lid back on the cardboard box and I walk it to the trash can. I step on the lever to open the lid, and my mother is moving faster than I’ve ever seen her move before.

“Fallon, don’t you dare throw that away!” she says. She grabs the box from my hands and hugs it to her chest. “Why would you do that?” She sets the box on the counter, smoothing her hand over the top of it like it’s a prized possession I almost just broke.

I’m confused why she’s reacting this way to something that should infuriate her.

She releases a quick breath and then looks me firmly in the eye. “Sweetie,” she says. “Is any of this true? Did these things really happen?”

I don’t even know what to tell her, because I have no idea which “things” she’s referring to. I shrug. “I don’t know. I haven’t read it yet.” I pass her and walk toward the couch. “But if you’re referring to Benton James Kessler and the fact that he allowed me to completely fall in love with a fictitious version of himself, then yes. That happened.” I lift one of the couch cushions in search of my remote control. “And if you’re referring to the fact that I found out he was somehow responsible for a fire that almost killed me, but failed to point out that minor detail as I was falling in love with him, then yes, that happened, too.” I find my remote.

I sit on the couch and cross my legs, preparing for a twelve-hour binge of reality TV. Now would be the perfect time for my mother to leave, but instead, she walks over to the couch and sits next to me.

“You haven’t read any of this?” she asks, placing the box on the coffee table in front of us.

“I read the prologue last year. That was enough for me.”

I feel the warmth of her hand encase mine. I slowly turn my head to find that she’s looking at me with an endearing smile. “Sweetheart . . .”

My head falls against the back of the couch. “Can your advice please wait until tomorrow?”

She sighs. “Fallon, look at me.”

I do, because she’s my mother and I love her and for some reason, even though I’m twenty-three, I still do what she says.

She lifts a hand to my face and tucks my hair behind my left ear. Her thumb brushes the scars on my cheek, and I flinch because it’s the first time she’s ever purposefully touched them. Other than Ben, I’ve never allowed anyone to touch them.

“Did you love him?” she asks.

I don’t do anything for a few seconds. My throat feels like it’s burning, so rather than say yes, I just nod.

Her mouth twitches and she blinks fast, twice, like she’s trying not to cry. She’s still brushing her thumb across my cheek. Her eyes deviate from mine and she scrolls over the scars on my face and neck. “I’m not going to pretend that I know what you’ve gone through. But after reading those pages, I can assure you that you aren’t the only one who was scarred in that fire. Just because he chose not to show you his scars doesn’t mean they don’t exist.” She picks up the box and sets it on my lap. “Here they are. He’s put his scars on full display for you, and you need to show him the respect he showed you by not turning away from them.”

The first tear of the day escapes my eyes. I should have known I wouldn’t get away with not crying today.

She stands and gathers her things. She leaves my apartment without another word.

I open the box, because she’s my mother and I love her and for some reason, even though I’m twenty-three, I still do what she says.

I skim through the prologue I read last year. Nothing has changed. I flip to the first chapter and start from the beginning.