November 9

  "Fallon? Are you going to say anything?"

  "What am I supposed to say?" She doesn't sound happy. "Do you want me to congratulate you?"

  I feel her father fall against the back of his booth. "Well, I thought you'd be happy for me," he says.

  "Happy for you?"

  Okay. Whatever he told her has pissed her off. She's got spunk, I've got to give her that.

  "I didn't know I had it in me to become a father again."

  I don't know how I feel about that. For a second, I'm reminded that this man used to be in love with my mother, and this could have possibly been a situation he got himself into with her, had the cancer not taken her first.

  I mean . . . I know the cancer didn't take her. The gun did. But either way, the cancer was at fault.

  "Releasing sperm into the vagina of a twenty-four-year-old does not a father make," Fallon says.

  I laugh quietly. I don't know why, but just hearing the way she talks to him eases some of my guilt. Maybe because I'd always pictured her to be this meek, quiet girl, wallowing in self-pity. But she sounds like a firecracker.

  But still . . . this is insane. I shouldn't be here. Kyle would kill me if he found out what I was doing.

  "You don't think I have the right to call myself a father? What does that make me to you, then?"

  I shouldn't be listening in on their private conversation. I spend the next few moments trying to focus on the laptop I brought with me, but I'm just scrolling through screens, pretending to work, all the while listening to what an inconsiderate prick her father is.

  I can hear her sigh from where I'm seated. "You're impossible. Now I understand why Mom left you."

  "Your mother left me because I slept with her best friend. My personality had nothing to do with it."

  How could my mother have ever loved this man?

  Now that I think about it, I'm not so sure she did. He seemed to be the one sending all the letters and texts. I never saw anything she sent him, so maybe this was a short-lived, one-sided relationship that he can't get over.

  That makes me feel better, anyway. I shudder to think my mother was just a regular woman who sometimes made bad relationship choices, and not the all-knowing heroine I've probably made her out to be in my memory.

  The waiter interrupts their conversation to deliver their lunch. I roll my eyes when he pretends to just now notice that Donovan O'Neil is sitting there. I hear him ask Fallon if she'll take a picture of the two of them. I stiffen in my seat, wondering if she'll stand up and come into my view. I'm not so sure I'm ready to see what she looks like.

  But it doesn't matter if I'm ready or not, because she just told them to take a selfie and that she's heading to the bathroom. She begins to walk past me, and the second she comes into view, my breath hitches.

  She's walking in the opposite direction, so I don't see her face. What I do see is hair. Lots of it, long and thick and straight, chestnut brown, just like the shoes she has on, and it falls all the way down her back.

  And her jeans. They fit her so perfectly, it looks like they were custom made, molding to every curve, from her hips, all the way down to her ankles. They move with her so well, I find myself wondering what kind of panties she has on under them. Because I can't see a panty line. She could be wearing a thong, but she could also be going . . . what the hell, Ben? How in the hell did your brain move in this direction?

  My pulse speeds up because I know I need to leave. I need to get up and walk away and accept that she seems to be okay. Her father may be an asshole, but she's able to hold her own pretty well, so my being this close to either of them isn't good for anyone.

  But dammit if the waiter isn't eating up the fact that Donovan O'Neil is giving him the time of day. I don't even care about my food, if he would just bring me the check I could pay it and get the hell out of here.

  I start to bounce my knee up and down in nervousness. She's been in there a really long time. I know she's going to walk out any second, and I don't know if I should look at her or look away or smile or run or fuck what do I do? She's walking out.

  She's looking down and I still can't see her face, but her body is even more perfect from the front than it was from the back.

  When she glances up at me, my stomach drops. My heart feels like it melts, right in the confines of its chamber. For the first time in two years, I'm seeing exactly what I did to her.

  From the top of her left cheek, near her eye, all the way down to her neck, there are scars. Scars that are there because of me. Some more faded than others, but they're very prominent with the way the skin is pinkish in hue, brighter, and much more fragile looking than the parts of her that were unharmed. But it's not even the scars that stand out the most. It's her green eyes that are staring back at me now. The lack of confidence behind them speaks volumes of just how much damage I've caused to her life.

  She lifts a hand and pulls a piece of hair in her mouth, covering some of the scars. At the same time, she darts her eyes to the floor, allowing her hair to fall over her cheek and hide more of the scars. I keep watching her, because it hurts not to. I think about what that night must have been like for her. How scared she must have been. How much agony she must have gone through in the months afterward.

  I clench my hands in fists, because I've never felt more of a need to make things right. I want to drop to my knees right here in front of her and tell her how sorry I am for causing her so much pain. For ruining her career. For making her think it's necessary to have to hide her face with her hair when she's this fucking beautiful.

  She has no idea. She has no idea she's lifting her eyes and looking into the eyes of the guy who ruined her life. She has no idea that I would give anything to press my lips to that cheek--to kiss the scars I gave her, to tell her how incredibly sorry I am.

  She has no idea that I'm on the verge of tears just seeing her face, because it's equal parts exquisite and excruciating. I'm afraid if I don't smile at her right now, I'll cry for her.

  And then this thing happens when she passes me, where everything inside my chest constricts. Because I'm worried that what just passed between us--that one tiny smile--is all that will ever pass between us. And I don't know why that worries me, because before today, I wasn't even sure I ever wanted to see her.

  But now that I've seen her, I don't know that I want to stop. And the fact that her father is behind me right now, beating her down, telling her she's not pretty enough to act anymore, makes me want to climb over this booth and strangle him. Or at least climb into the booth next to her and defend her.

  This is the exact moment the waiter decides to bring me my food. I try to eat. Really, I do, but I'm still reeling from hearing the way her father speaks to her. I slowly down French fries as I listen to her father grow more and more insincere. At first, I'm relieved when I hear she has plans to move away.

  Good for you, I think.

  Knowing she's brave enough to move across the country and pursue acting again fills me with more respect for her than I've ever had for anyone. But hearing her father continuously try to tell her she's not good enough fills me with more disrespect than I've ever had for anyone.

  I hear her father clear his throat. "You know that's not what I meant. I'm not saying you've reduced yourself to audiobooks. What I'm saying is that you can find a better career to fall back on now that you can't act anymore. There isn't enough money in narration. Or Broadway, for that matter."

  I don't hear what she says next, because all I see is red. I can't believe this man--a father who is supposed to defend and support his daughter in the wake of a challenge--is saying these things to her. Maybe he's practicing tough love, but the girl has been through enough.

  The conversation ceases for a moment. Long enough for her father to request a refill. Long enough for the waiter to bring me my own refill, and long enough for me to get up and go to the bathroom, try to calm myself down and then return to my seat without strangling the man behind me.

  "
You make me want to swear off men forever," she says.

  Hell, her father makes me want her to swear off men forever. If men are really as shallow as this one, all women should swear off men forever.

  "That shouldn't be a problem," her father says. "I've only known you to go on one date, and that was over two years ago."

  And that's when all reason goes out the window.

  Does he not have any idea what today is? Does he not have one single fucking clue what his daughter has been through emotionally in the past two years? I'm sure she spent a good year recovering, and I can tell just by the few seconds I looked in her eyes that she doesn't have a single ounce of confidence in her. And here he is commenting on the fact that she hasn't dated since her accident?

  My hands are shaking, I'm so pissed. I think I might even be angrier than the night I caught his car on fire.

  "Well, Dad," she says, her voice strained. "I don't really get the same attention from guys that I used to get."

  I'm sliding out of the booth, unable to stop myself. But I'll be damned if I allow this girl to spend one more second without someone defending her in a proper way.

  I'm sliding into the seat next to her.

  "Sorry I'm late, babe," I say, wrapping my arm around her shoulders.

  She stiffens beneath my arm, but I keep going. I press my lips to the side of her head, unintentionally taking in the floral scent of her shampoo. "Damn L.A, traffic," I mutter.

  I reach for her father's hand and before I say my name, I wonder if he'll recognize it somehow, having known my mother. She changed back to her maiden name a few years after my father's death, so he may have no idea who I am. I hope. "I'm Ben. Benton James Kessler. Your daughter's boyfriend."

  Not a single flash of recognition registers in his expression. He has no idea who I am.

  Her father's hand falls into mine and I want to yank him across the table and punch his teeth in. I probably would if I didn't feel her grow even more tense beside me. I lean back and pull her against me, whispering in her ear. "Just go with it."

  It's as if a lightbulb goes off in her head at this very second, because the confusion on her face turns into delight. She smiles affectionately at me, leaning into me, and she says, "I didn't think you'd make it."

  Yeah, I want to say. I didn't think I'd be sitting here, either. But since I can't possibly make your life worse on this date, the least I can do is try to make it a little bit better.

  Fallon

  I make a new pile with the pages I've already read. I stare down at the manuscript in disbelief. I know I should be angry that he's lied to me for so long, but being in his head is somehow justifying his behavior to me. And not only that, but it's also justifying my father's behavior.

  Ben is right. Now that I look back on that day, I can see that my father wasn't entirely to blame. He was expressing his opinion over my career, which every parent has the right to do. And even though I disagreed with him and the way he delivered it, he never was the best at communication. Besides, I obviously had it out for him as soon as he sat down at the booth. He went into defense mode, I was in attack mode, and things just went south from there.

  I need to remember that there's more than one way people show love. And even though his way and my way are completely opposite, it's still love.

  I go to flip to the next chapter, but a few pieces of notebook paper fall out of the section between chapters five and six. I set the pages of the manuscript down and pick up the letter. It's another note written by Ben.

  Fallon,

  You know everything that happens after this point in the manuscript. It's all here. Every day we spent together and even a few days we didn't. Every thought I've ever had in your presence . . . or close to it.

  As you can tell from the chapter you just finished, I wasn't in a good place when we met. The two years of my life since the fire had been hell, and I was doing everything I could to drown out the guilt I felt. But that first day I spent with you was the first day in a very long time that I felt happy. And I could tell that I made you happy, and that's something I never thought possible. And even though you were moving away, I knew that if there was a way we could each start looking forward to November 9th, it could make a huge difference in both of our lives. So I swore to myself that on the days I spent with you, I would allow myself to enjoy it. I wouldn't think about the fire--I wouldn't think about what I did to you. For one day each year, I wanted to be this guy who was falling for this girl, because everything about you captivated me. And I knew if I allowed my past to eat me up in your presence, that I would somehow slip. That you would find out what I'd done to you. I knew that if you ever found out the truth, there was no way you could forgive me for all I had taken.

  Even though I should probably feel a world of guilt, I don't regret a single minute I spent with you. Of course I wish I had handled things differently. Maybe if I had walked up to you and your father that day and explained the truth, I would have saved you a lot of heartache. But I can't dwell on all the things I should have done differently, when to me this was our fate. We were drawn to each other. We made each other happy. And I know without a doubt there were several times during the past few years that we were madly in love with each other at the same time. Not everyone experiences that Fallon, and I'd be lying if I said I regretted it.

  And that's one of my biggest fears--that you've spent the past year assuming I've told you more than one lie, but I haven't. The only lie I've ever told you is the one I omitted--the part where I was responsible for the fire. Every word that came out of my mouth in your presence beyond that was the absolute truth. When I said you were beautiful, I meant it.

  If you take one thing from this manuscript, let it be this one simple paragraph. Absorb these words. I want them to stain your soul, because these words are the most important. I'm terrified that my lies have resulted in a loss of the confidence you gained during the times we were together. Because while I did withhold a huge truth from you, the one thing I couldn't have been more honest about was your beauty. And yes, you have scars. But anyone who sees your scars before they see you doesn't deserve you. I hope you remember that and believe that. A body is simply a package for the true gifts inside. And you are full of gifts. Selflessness, kindness, compassion. All the things that matter.

  Youth and beauty fade. Human decency doesn't.

  I know I said in my previous letter that I didn't write this for your forgiveness. While that's the truth, I'm not going to pretend that I'm not praying on my knees for your forgiveness, hoping for a miracle. I'm not going to act like I won't be sitting at the restaurant for hours upon end, hoping you walk through those doors. Because that's exactly where I'll be. And if you don't show up today, I'll be there next year. And the next. Every November 9th I'll wait for you, hoping one day you'll be able to find enough forgiveness to love me again. But if that doesn't happen and you never show, I'll still be grateful to you until the day that I die.

  You saved me the day we met, Fallon. I know I was only eighteen, but my life would have turned out so different had we not spent that time together. The first night we had to say goodbye, I drove straight home and started writing this book. It became my new life goal. My new passion. I took college more seriously. I took life more seriously. And because of you and the impact you had on my life, the last two years I spent with Kyle were great ones. When he died, he was proud of me. And that means more to me than you will ever know.

  So whether or not you can find it in your heart to love me again, I needed to thank you for saving me. And if there is any part of you capable of forgiving me, you know where I'll be. Tonight, next year, the next, for eternity.

  The choice is yours. You can continue reading this manuscript, and hopefully it will help you find closure. Or you can stop reading now and come forgive me.

  Ben

  Last November

  9th

  If lies were written, I would erase them

  But they are spoken; etched wi
thin

  With convalesced truth, I scream out my atonement

  Let me repent against your skin.

  --BENTON JAMES KESSLER

  Ben

  There were 83,456 words in the manuscript I dropped off at her front door last night. There are roughly 23,000 words in the first five chapters, before she would have gotten to the note. She could have easily read 23,000 words in three hours. If she started the manuscript right after I dropped it off, she would have finished the first section by 3 a.m.

  But it's almost midnight. It's been almost twenty-four hours since I saw her pick up the manuscript and close her door. Which means she's had twenty-one hours to spare and she's still not here.

  Which means, obviously, she isn't coming.

  Most of me believed she wouldn't show up today, but a small part of me still held out hope. I can't say that her choice has broken my heart, because that would mean my heart was still whole to be broken.

  I've been heartbroken for a solid year, so her not showing up feels just as crippling as the last 365 days have felt.

  I'm surprised the restaurant has let me wait it out here in this booth for so long. I've been here since the crack of dawn this morning in hopes that she stayed up and read the manuscript last night. Now that it's almost midnight, that's a good eighteen hours I've spent occupying this booth. That's gonna be one big tip.

  At 11:55 p.m., I leave the tip. I don't want to be here when the clock strikes November 10th. I'd rather wait out the last five minutes in my car.

  When I open the door to leave the restaurant, the waitress shoots me a pitiful look. I'm sure she's never seen anyone wait so long after being stood up, but at least it'll give her a good story to tell.

  It's 11:56 p.m. when I reach the parking lot.

  It's 11:56 p.m. when I see her open her door and step out of her car.

  It's still 11:56 p.m. when I clasp my hands behind my head and suck in a rush of cool November air just to see if my lungs are working.

  She's standing by her car, the wind blowing strands of hair across her face as she looks at me from across the parking lot. I feel like if I take a step toward her, the earth would crumble beneath my feet from the weight of my heart. We both stand still for several long seconds.