"What kind of fucked-up situation did you get yourself in, Ben? Are you an idiot?"
Just as the question leaves his mouth, I see her walk around the corner. She stops short as she takes in the scene, and the shock that appears on her face reassures me that she didn't hear anything else.
Fallon
I slam the pages back on top of the others.
He's fucked up.
Ben is a twisted, fucked-up writer. How dare he take something real . . . something that I suffered through . . . and turn it into fiction with a ridiculous plotline.
I'm pissed. How could he do this? But then again, he didn't finish it, so am I even allowed to be angry?
But why would he do this? Doesn't he know how personal that story is to me? I can't believe he would try to capitalize on such an awful tragedy.
I'd almost like it better if he was telling the truth and he really did start the fire. At least then I wouldn't feel like he was taking advantage of my story.
Why would he make up part of the fight when everything else surrounding the fight between him and Kyle actually happened? Did he even make up any of it at all?
I laugh at myself. It's not true. He didn't meet me until two years after the fire. There was no way he could have been there. Besides, what are the chances he would run into me on the anniversary of the fire, exactly two years later? He would have had to have been following me.
He wasn't following me.
Was he?
I need water.
I get water.
I need to sit down again.
I sit down.
Spin, spin, spin. The web of possible lies is spinning, my mind is spinning, my stomach is spinning. It even feels like the blood in my veins is spinning. I stack the pages of the manuscript back into a neat and tidy pile, just as I found them.
Why would you write this, Ben?
I look at the cover and run my fingers over the title. November 9.
He needed a good plot. Is that what he's done? He just fabricated his plotline?
There's no way he could be responsible for the fire. It makes absolutely no sense. My father is to blame. He knows, the police know and I know it.
I find myself lifting the cover page off the stack. I stare down at the first page of the manuscript, and I do the only thing I can to find more answers.
I read.
November 9
by
Benton James Kessler
"To begin, at the beginning."
--Dylan Thomas
Prologue
Every life begins with a mother. Mine is no different.
She was a writer. I'm told my father was a psychiatrist, but I wouldn't know for sure since I never had the chance to ask him. He died when I was three. I have no memory of him, but I suppose it's for the best. It's hard to grieve people you don't remember.
My mother had a master's degree in poetry and completed her thesis on the Welsh poet Dylan Thomas. She quoted him often, although her most favorite quotes weren't from his world-famous poetry, but rather from his everyday dialogue. I never could tell if she respected Dylan Thomas as a poet or a person. Because from what I've learned about him in my research, there wasn't much to respect about his character. Or maybe that's what is to be respected--the fact that Dylan Thomas did little to gain popularity as a person and everything to gain it as a poet.
I suppose I should get on with how my mother died. I should probably also get on with how a girl who inspired me to write this book relates to a story that begins with my mother. And I suppose if I get on with both of those things, I should also get on with how Dylan Thomas relates to my mother's life, most importantly her death, and how both led me to Fallon.
It seems so complicated, when in fact, it's very simple.
Everything relates.
Everything is connected.
And it all begins on November 9th. Two years before I came face to face with Fallon O'Neil for the very first time.
November 9th.
The first and last time my mother would die.
November 9th.
The night I intentionally started the fire that almost claimed the life of the girl who would one day save mine.
Fallon
I stare at the pages in front of me in complete disbelief. Bile rushes up the back of my throat.
What have I done?
I swallow hard to force it back down and it stings.
What kind of monster did I give my heart to?
My hands are shaking. I'm unable to move. I can't decide if I need to read more--to get to the next page where it's obviously going to state that everything I read is a work of Ben's magnificent yet twisted imagination. That he's found a way to make our story marketable by mixing fact and fiction. Do I read more?
Or do I run?
How can I run from someone I've slowly given myself to over the course of four years?
Or is it six?
Has he known me since I was sixteen?
Did he know me the day we met in the restaurant?
Was he there because of me?
So much blood, all of it, every drop is rushing through my head, even my ears begin to ache from the pressure. Fear grips my body like I'm a cliff and it's dangling from my ledge. It grips every part of me.
I need to get out of here. I grab my phone and quietly call for a cab.
They say there's one down the street and it will arrive in a few minutes.
I'm consumed by so much fear. Fear of these pages in my hands. Fear of deception. Fear of the man asleep in the next room who I just promised all of my tomorrows to.
I scoot the chair back to get my stuff together, but before I stand, I hear his bedroom door open. On high alert, I swing my head over my shoulder. He's paused in his doorway, wiping sleep from his eyes.
If I could freeze this moment, I would take full advantage so that I could study him. I would run my fingers over his lips to see if they really were as soft as the words that come from them. I would pick up his hands and brush my thumbs over his palms to see if they really felt capable of caressing the scars they were responsible for. I would wrap my arms around him and stand on my tiptoes to whisper in his ear, "Why didn't you tell me that the foundation you taught me to stand on is made from quicksand?"
I see his gaze flicker to the pages of his manuscript that are gripped tightly in my hand. In a matter of seconds, every thought he has flashes across his face.
He's wondering how I found it.
He's wondering how much I've read.
Ben the Writer.
I want to laugh, because Benton James Kessler isn't a writer. He's an actor. A master of deception who just completed a four-year-long performance.
For the first time, I don't see him as the Ben I fell in love with. The Ben who singlehandedly changed my life.
Right now, I see him only as a stranger.
Someone I know absolutely nothing about.
"What are you doing, Fallon?"
His voice makes me flinch. It sounds exactly the same as the voice that said, "I love you," just an hour ago.
Only now, his voice fills me with panic. Terror consumes me as a rush of unease takes over.
I have no idea who he is.
I have no idea what his motive has been these past few years.
I have no idea what he's capable of.
He begins to advance toward me, so I do the only thing I can think to do. I run to the other side of the table, hoping to put a safe distance between myself and this man.
Hurt washes over his face when he sees my reaction, but I have no idea if it's genuine or rehearsed. I have no idea if I should believe everything I just read . . . or if he made it all up for the sake of having a plotline.
I've cried for lots of reasons in my life. Mostly from sadness, sometimes out of frustration or anger. But this is the first time a tear has ever escaped because of fear.
Ben watches the tear roll down my cheek and he holds up a reassuring hand. "Fallon." Hi
s eyes are wide, and they hold almost as much fear as mine. But I have no idea anymore if what I see on his face is real. "Fallon, please. Let me explain."
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.
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 r
esponsibility 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.