November 9
Page 68
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.
Sixth November
9th
Fate.
A word meaning destiny.
Fate.
A word meaning doom.
—BENTON JAMES KESSLER
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.
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.
Sixth November
9th
Fate.
A word meaning destiny.
Fate.
A word meaning doom.
—BENTON JAMES KESSLER
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.
