"Hands off," I tell him.
He walks around me and leans his elbow against the dresser. "If you're packing underwear, that means you don't go commando. So by process of elimination, I've figured out that you're currently wearing a thong. Now I just have to find out what color it is."
I toss the contents of my drawer toward my suitcase. "It takes a lot more than smooth talk to get me down to my panties, Ben the Writer."
He grins. "Oh yeah? Like what? A fancy dinner?" He pushes off the dresser and stands up straight, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "Because it just so happens I have reservations at the Chateau Marmont tonight at seven."
I laugh. "You don't say." I walk around him to my closet again, attempting to hide the huge smile on my face. Thank you, Jesus. He's taking me to dinner. As soon as I reach my closet, my smile turns tepid. What the hell am I going to wear? I haven't been on a date since before my boobs were fully grown!
"Fallon O'Neil?" he says, this time from the doorway of my closet. "Will you go on a date with me tonight?"
I sigh and look down at my boring clothes. "What the hell am I going to wear to the Chateau?" I look back at him and make a face. "Couldn't we have just gone to Chipotle or something?"
He laughs and then steps into my closet, pushing past me. He sifts through the clothes in the back of my closet. "Too long," he says as he scoots hangers over one by one. "Too ugly. Too casual. Too dressy." He finally stops and pulls something off the rod. He turns around and holds up a black dress I've been meaning to throw away since the day my mother bought it for me.
She's always buying me clothes in hopes I'll actually wear them. Clothes that don't cover up my scars.
I shake my head and grab the dress from him, hanging it back in its spot. I grab one of the few long-sleeved dresses I own and I pull it off the hanger. "I like this one."
His eyes fall to the dress he initially picked out and he pulls it off the hanger and shoves it at me. "But I want you to wear this one."
I shove the dress back at him. "I don't want to wear that, I want to wear this."
"No," he says. "I'm paying for dinner, so I get to choose what to stare at while we eat."
"Then I'll pay for dinner and wear the dress I want to wear."
"Then I'll stand you up and go to Chipotle."
I groan. "I think we're having our first fight as a couple."
He smiles and holds out the hand with his dress of choice. "If you agree to wear this dress tonight, we can make up right now in this closet."
He's relentless. But I'm not wearing that damn dress. If I have to play the honesty card, I will.
I release a frustrated sigh. "My mother bought me that dress last year when she was going through her 'Let's fix Fallon' stage. But she has no idea how uncomfortable it is to be in my skin. So please don't ask me again to wear that dress, because I'm much more relaxed in clothes that don't show too much skin. I don't like making people uncomfortable, and if I wore something like that, they would feel weird looking at me."
Ben's jaw tenses and he looks away from me, down at the dress in his hands. "Okay," he says simply, dropping the dress to the floor.
Finally.
"But it's your own fault people feel uncomfortable looking at you."
I don't even hide my gasp. It's the first thing he's said to me all day that's made me feel like I was being spoken to by my father. I'm not gonna lie. It hurts. My throat feels like it's swelling shut, so I clear it.
"That wasn't very nice," I say quietly.
Ben takes a step closer to me. My closet is small enough as it is. I certainly don't need him standing even closer. Especially after saying something as hurtful as he just did.
"It's the truth," he says.
I close my eyes, because it's either that or stare at the mouth delivering such hateful words.
I exhale a calming breath, but it catches when his fingers brush the hair in front of my face. The unexpected physical contact forces me to squeeze my eyes shut even harder. I feel so stupid for not forcing him to leave, or in the least, pushing him out of the closet. But for some reason, I can't seem to move or speak. Or breathe for that matter.
He pushes the hair away from my forehead, running his fingers through it until it's no longer hanging in my face. "You wear your hair like you do because you don't want people to see too much of you. You wear long sleeves and collared shirts because you think it helps. But it doesn't."
It feels like his words are turning into fists and punching me directly in the stomach. I pull my face away from his hand, but I keep my eyes closed. I feel like I might cry again, and I've cried enough for one stupid anniversary.
"People don't feel uncomfortable when they look at you because of your scars, Fallon. They're uncomfortable because you make people feel like looking at you is wrong. And believe me--you're the type of person people want to stare at." I feel his fingertips graze my jaw and I flinch. "You have the most incredible bone structure, and I know that's a weird compliment, but it's true." His fingers leave my jaw and trail up my chin until he's touching my mouth. "And your lips. Men stare at them because they want to know what they taste like, and women stare at them out of jealousy because if they had lips the color of yours, they'd never have to buy lipstick again."
I release what might be a cross between a laugh and a cry, but I still don't dare look at him. I'm stiff as a board, wondering where he's going to touch me next. What he's going to say next.
"And I've only met one other girl in my life with hair as long and beautiful as yours, but I've already told you about Abitha. And just so you know, she doesn't hold a candle to you, despite being a great kisser."
I feel his hands come up and push my hair behind my shoulders. He's close enough that I know he can see the exaggerated rise and fall of my chest. But my God, it suddenly got really hard to breathe, like I'm ten thousand feet higher above sea level than I was five minutes ago.
"Fallon," he says, commanding my attention. His fingers meet my chin, and he tilts my face upward. When I open my eyes, he's a lot closer than I thought he was. He's looking down at me with a pointed stare. "People want to stare at you. Believe me, I'm one of them. But when everything about you screams, 'Look away,' then that's exactly what people are going to do. The only person who gives a shit about a few scars on your face is you."
I want so badly to believe him. If I could believe everything he's saying, then maybe my life would mean a whole lot more to me than it does right now. If I believed him, maybe I wouldn't be so nervous about the idea of auditioning again. Maybe I would be doing the exact thing my mother says a girl my age should be doing: finding out who I really am. Not hiding from myself.
Hell, I'm not even dressing for myself. I dress in what I think other people would prefer I wear.
Ben's eyes fall to my shirt, and for the first time, I notice his lungs are pulling in air with as much effort as mine are. He lifts his hand and fingers the top button on my shirt, popping it open. I suck in a quick breath. His eyes never leave my shirt and mine never leave his face. When he moves his fingers down to the second button, I could swear he pulls in a shaky breath.
I don't know what he's doing, and I'm terrified he's about to be the first person to see what's beneath this shirt. But for the life of me, I can't find words to stop him.
When the second button is freed, he moves down to the third. Before he flicks that button loose, his eyes lift to mine, and he looks just as scared as I feel right now. Our eyes remain locked until he gets to the last and final button. When it's loose, I look down at my shirt.
Only a sliver of skin is showing over my belly button, so I don't actually feel exposed yet. But I'm about to, because he slowly lifts both of his hands to the top of my shirt. Before he makes his next move, I squeeze my eyes shut again.
I don't want to see the look on his face when he sees just how much of my body was burned. Most of my entire left side, to be exact. What he sees when he looks at my cheek is only a fra
ction compared to what's beneath my clothes.
I feel my shirt being pulled open, and the more of me that becomes exposed, the harder it is to hold back tears. It's the worst time in the world for me to get emotional, but I guess tears aren't known for their impeccable timing.
His breaths are extremely audible, and so is the gasp I hear him suck in as soon as my shirt is open all the way. I want to shove him out of the closet and close the door and hide, but that's exactly what I've been doing for the last two years. So for reasons I can't explain, I don't ask him to stop.
Ben slips the shirt off my shoulders and slowly slides it down the length of my arms. He works it the rest of the way over my hands until it falls to the floor. I can feel his hands graze both of mine, and I'm too embarrassed to move, knowing exactly what he sees right now as he looks at me.
His fingers begin to rise up my hands and wrists, just as the first tear falls down my cheek. The tear doesn't faze him, though. Chills break out on most of my skin as he continues moving his hands up my forearms. Instead of trailing his fingers all the way to my shoulders, he pauses. I still don't dare open my eyes.
I feel his forehead rest gently against mine and the fact that he's breathing as hard as I am is the only thing that gives me a sense of comfort in this moment.
My stomach clenches when his hands meet the top of my jeans.
This is going too far.
Too far, too far, too far, but all I can do is suck in a wild breath and let his fingers pop open the button on my jeans, because as much as I wish he would stop, I get the feeling he's not undressing me for pleasure. I'm not sure what he's doing, but I'm too immobile to ask.
Breathe, Fallon. Breathe. Your lungs need new air.
His forehead is still resting against mine, and I can feel his breath crashing against my lips. I have a feeling his eyes are wide open, though, and he's staring down between us, watching his hands as they work down my zipper.
When the zipper reaches its destination, he slides his hands between my jeans and hips--casually enough for me to believe it doesn't even bother him that he's touching the scars on my left side. He pushes my jeans down over my hips and then begins to slowly lower himself as he slides them down the length of my legs. The breath from his mouth moves down my body until I feel it stop at my stomach, but his lips never once touch my skin.
When my jeans are at my feet, I step out of them one foot at a time.
I have no idea what happens next. What happens next? What. Happens. Next?
My eyes are still closed, and I have no idea if he's standing or kneeling or walking away.
"Lift your arms," he says.
His voice is rough and close, and it startles me to the point that my eyes flick open involuntarily. He's standing directly in front of me, holding the dress he dropped to the floor earlier.
I look up at him, and I absolutely wasn't expecting to see this look on his face. His eyes are so heated and fierce, it's as if it's taking every last ounce of his restraint not to remove my last two items of clothing.
He clears his throat. "Please lift your arms, Fallon."
I lift them, and he raises the dress over my head and slips it down my arms. He pulls it until my head slips through and he keeps pulling it, adjusting it over my curves. When the dress is finally in place, he lifts my hair and lets it fall down my back. He takes a half step back and eyes me up and down. He clears his throat, but his voice still comes out raspy when he speaks.
"Fucking beautiful," he says with a slow grin. "And red."
Red?
I look down at the dress, but it's definitely black.
"Your panties," he says as clarification. "They're red."
I let out a burst of what I thought was going to be laughter, but it sounds more like a warbled cry. That's when I realize tears are still streaming down my cheeks, so I bring my hands to my face and attempt to wipe them away, but they keep coming.
I can't believe he just undressed me to prove a point. I can't believe I allowed it. Now I know exactly what Ben meant when he said he finds it difficult to control his indignation in the presence of absurdity. He thinks my insecurities are absurd, and he took it upon himself to prove that to me.
Ben steps forward and wraps his arms around me. Everything about him is comforting and warm and I have no idea how to respond. One of his hands meets the back of my head and he presses my face against his chest. I'm now laughing at the ridiculousness that is my tears, because who does this? Who cries when a guy undresses her for the first time?
"That's a record," Ben says, pulling me away from his chest so he can look down at me. "Made my girlfriend cry less than three hours into our relationship."
I laugh again, and then I press my face to his chest and hug him back, because why couldn't he have been there the second I woke up in the hospital two years ago? Why did I have to go two whole years before finally being given the tiniest bit of confidence?
After another minute or two of me trying to rein in my erratic emotions, I'm finally calm enough to realize that he doesn't smell so good when my face is pressed against a shirt he's been wearing for two days.
I take a step back and run my fingers under my eyes again. I'm not crying anymore, but I'm sure mascara is everywhere now.
"I'll wear this stupid dress on one condition," I say. "You have to go home and take a shower first."
His smile widens. "That was already part of my plan."
We stand in silence for a bit longer, and then I can't take being in this closet for another second. I push his shoulders and shove him out into the bedroom. "It's almost four o'clock now," I tell him. "Be back at six and I'll be dressed and ready to go."
He walks toward the door to my bedroom, but faces me again before he exits. "I want you to wear your hair up tonight."
"Don't push your luck."
He laughs. "Why the hell does luck exist if I'm not supposed to push it?"
I point at the door. "Go. Shower. And shave while you're at it."
He opens the door and begins to back out. "Shave, huh? You plan on putting those lips on my face tonight?"
"Go," I say with an exasperated laugh.
He shuts the door, but I can still hear what he says to Amber and Glenn as soon as he walks into the living room. "They're red! Her panties are red!"
Ben
What the hell am I doing?
She's moving to New York. It's dinner. That's it.
But seriously, what the hell am I doing? I shouldn't be doing this.
I pull on a pair of jeans and walk to my closet to find a clean shirt. Right when I get the shirt over my head, the door swings open.
"Hey," Kyle says, leaning against the doorframe. "Nice of you to come home for a change." Jesus. Not now. "Want to have dinner with me and Jordyn tonight?"
"Can't. I have a date." I walk to my dresser and grab my cologne. I can't believe Fallon willingly got as close to me as she did with the way I smelled today. It's a little embarrassing.
"Oh yeah? With who?"
I slide my wallet off the dresser and grab my jacket. "My girlfriend."
Kyle laughs as I slip past him and begin walking down the hallway. "Girlfriend?" He knows I don't do girlfriends, so he follows after me to drain me for more info. "You know if I tell Jordyn you're on a date with your girlfriend, she'll question me until my head explodes. You better give me something to work with."
I laugh. He's right; his girlfriend likes to know everything about everyone. And for some reason, since she's about to move in with us, she thinks we're already family. And she's especially nosy when it comes to family.
Kyle follows me straight out the front door, all the way to my car. He grabs my door before I can shut it. "I know where you were last night."
I stop trying to shut the door and fall against the seat. Here we go again. "Your girlfriend has a big mouth, you know that?"
He leans against the door, staring down at me with his arms folded across his chest. "She's worried about you, B
en. We all are."
"I'm fine. You'll see. I'll be fine."
Kyle stares at me silently for a few moments, wanting to believe me this time. But I've promised him I'll be fine so many times, it falls on deaf ears now. And I get it. But he has no idea that this time really is different.
He gives up and shuts my door without another word. I know he's only trying to help, but he doesn't need to. Things really are going to change. I knew that for a fact the moment I laid eyes on Fallon today.
*
I walk up to her front door at approximately 5:05 p.m. I'm early, but like I said . . . she's leaving for New York and I'll never see her again. Fifty-five extra minutes with her isn't nearly as many as I want.
The door opens almost as soon as I knock on it. Amber grins at me and steps aside. "Why hello, Fallon's boyfriend whom I've never heard of." She motions to the couch. "Take a seat. Fallon's in the shower."
I glance at the couch and then at the hallway that leads to Fallon's bedroom. "You don't think she needs my help in the shower?"
Amber laughs, but then just as quick, her face falls flat and serious. "No. Sit."
Glenn is seated on the couch opposite the one I'm being forced to sit on. I give him a nod and he raises an eyebrow in warning. I guess this is the moment Fallon warned me about.
Amber crosses the living room and takes a seat next to Glenn. "Fallon tells me you're a writer?"
I nod. "Ben the Writer. That would be me."
Right before she fires her second question, Fallon suddenly appears in the opening to the hallway. "Hey. Thought I heard you out here."
There are no signs of her actually having just taken a shower. I turn back to Amber and she shrugs. "Can't blame me for trying."
I stand up and walk toward the hallway, pointing at Amber but looking at Fallon. "Your roommate is sneaky-sneaky."
"That she is," Fallon says. "And you're here an hour early."
"Fifty-five minutes."
"Same thing."
"Is not."
She turns around and walks backward through her bedroom door. "I'm so tired of fighting with you, Ben." She heads toward a bathroom off the side of her bedroom. "I just finished packing. Haven't even started getting ready yet."
I resume my spot on her bed. "No worries. I've already made myself comfortable." I reach over and pick up the book sitting on her nightstand. "I'll just read until you're finished."