November 9: A Novel (27 page)

He seems so concerned. So genuine. Maybe it’s fiction. Maybe he turned our story into fiction. Surely he didn’t do this to me. I point at the manuscript, hoping he doesn’t notice the trembling of my hand. “Is that true, Ben?”

He glances to the manuscript, but then he looks back up at me, as if he can’t stomach seeing the pages on the table.
Shake your head, Ben. Deny it. Please.

He does nothing.

His lack of denial hits me hard and I gasp.

“Let me explain. Please. Just . . .” He begins to move toward me, so I stumble backward until I meet the wall.

I need out of here. I need to get away from him.

He moves right instead of left, which puts him further away from the front door than me. I can make it. If I move fast enough, I can make it to the door before him.

But why is he allowing that to happen? Why would he allow me the chance to run?

“I want to leave,” I tell him. “Please.”

He nods, but he’s still holding a hand up in the air, palm facing me. His nod tells me one thing, but his hand is asking me to stay put. I know he wants to give me an explanation . . . but unless he’s going to tell me that what I just read isn’t true, then I don’t want to stay and listen to anything else he has to say.

I just need him to tell me it’s not true.

“Ben,” I whisper, my hands pressed flat against the wall behind me. “Please tell me what I read isn’t true. Please tell me I’m not your fucking
plot
twist.”

My words pull out the one expression I was hoping I wouldn’t see.
Regret.

I taste the bile again.

I clench my stomach.

“Oh, God.”

I want out. I need out of here before I’m too sick and weak to leave. The next few seconds are a hazy blur as I mutter, “Oh, God,” again and rush toward the couch. I need my purse. My shoes. I want out, I want out, I want out. I reach the door and slide the dead bolt to the left, but his hand cups mine and his chest meets my back, pressing me against the door.

I squeeze my eyes shut when I feel his breath against the back of my neck. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” His words are as desperate as the grip he has on me when he spins me around to face him. He’s wiping away my tears and his own begin to form in his eyes. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t go.”

I won’t fall for this. I won’t let him fool me again. I push against him, but he grips my wrists, holding them to his chest as he presses his forehead against mine. “I love you, Fallon. God, I love you so much. Please don’t leave. Please.”

And that’s when everything inside of me morphs from one extreme to the next. I’m no longer scared.

I’m angry.

Pissed.

Because hearing those words come out of his mouth make me reflect on the difference I feel hearing them now than from just an hour ago. How dare he lie to me. Use me for the purpose of a book. Make me believe he saw the real me—not the scars on my face.

The scars he’s responsible for.

“Benton James Kessler. You do
not
love me. Never speak those words again. Not to me—not to anyone. Those three words are a disgrace when they fall from your mouth.”

His eyes widen and he stumbles backward when I shove my hands into his chest. I don’t give him time to spit out more lies and false apologies.

I slam his door and fumble with the strap of my purse, putting it over my shoulder. My bare feet meet the pavement and I take off in a sprint toward the cab I see pulling into his complex. I hear him calling my name.

No.

I won’t listen. I owe him nothing.

I swing open the door and climb inside. I tell the driver my address, but by the time the driver enters it into the GPS, Ben is at the car. Before I notice the window is down, he reaches his hand inside and covers the button that rolls it up. His eyes are pleading.

“Here,” he says, shoving pages at me. They fall in my lap, some slide to the floor. “If you won’t let me explain, then read it. All of it. Please, just—”

I grab a handful of pages from my lap and throw them toward the seat next to me. I grab what’s left in my lap and I try to toss them out the window, but he catches them and shoves them back inside the car.

I’m rolling up my window when I hear him mutter under his breath, “Please don’t hate me.”

But I’m scared it’s already too late.

I tell the driver to leave, and when I’m a safe distance across the parking lot, the cab pauses before pulling out onto the road. I glance back at him. He’s standing in front of his apartment door, his hands gripping the back of his head. He’s watching me leave. I grab as many pages of the manuscript as I can reach and I toss them out the window. Before the cab pulls away, I turn just in time to see him fall to his knees on the pavement in defeat.

It took four years for me to fall in love with him.

It only took four pages to stop.

9
th

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.