Chapter 26: November 9: Part 6 – Chapter 26

I set the page down and pick up another tissue. I don’t think I’ve stopped crying since I started reading.

I check my phone and there’s a response from my father.

I try not to cry when I read his text, but I can’t help but feel my bitterness has wasted a lot of good memories that could have been made with him. We’ll just have to make up for it over the next few years.

I’ve taken breaks to eat. To think. To breathe. It’s almost 7:00 p.m. now and I’ve only made it through half of the manuscript. I usually get through books in a matter of a few hours, but this has been the hardest thing I’ve ever had to read in my life. I can’t imagine how hard it must have been for Ben to write.

I glance at the next page, trying to decide if I need another break before beginning. When I see that this next chapter is the day we met in the restaurant, I decide to continue reading. I need to know what motivated him to show up there that day. And more so, why he made the choice to enter my life.

I sit back on the couch and take in a deep breath. And then I start reading chapter four of Ben’s manuscript.

—

My arm dangles over the side of the bed, and I can tell by the way my hand lies across the carpet that the bed doesn’t have a frame or box springs. It’s just a mattress on the floor.

I’m on my stomach. There’s a sheet draped halfway over me and I’m facedown on the pillow.

I hate these moments. When I wake up too discombobulated to know where I am or who might be on the bed next to me. I usually lie still long enough to get a grip on my surroundings before moving in hopes I don’t wake up whoever might be in the room with me. But this morning is different, because whoever was on this bed with me is already awake. I can hear a shower running.

I try to count how many times this has happened—when I’ve gotten so drunk that I can barely remember anything the next day. I’m guessing at least five times this year, but this is by far the worst. I can usually at least remember which party I was at. Which friend I was with. Which girl I was flirting with before everything went black. But right now, I’ve got nothing.

My heart begins to beat as hard as the pounding in my head. I know I’m about to have to stand up and find my clothes. I’ll have to look around to try and figure out where I am. I’ll have to figure out where I might have left my car. I might even be forced to call Kyle again. But he’ll be my absolute last resort, because I’m not in the mood for another lecture today.

To say he’s been disappointed in how I’ve turned out is an understatement. Things haven’t been the same at home since the day our mother died two years ago.

Well . . .

haven’t been the same. Kyle and Ian are hoping my downward spiral will find an uphill slope soon. They were hoping once I graduated high school that I would get serious with college, but that hasn’t happened in the way they maybe think it has. In fact, my grades are so bad due to absences, I’m not even sure I’ll make it through the semester.

And I try.

do I try. Every day I wake up and I tell myself that today will be better. Today will be the day I resolve myself of guilt. But then something will happen that will trigger that feeling that I want to drown faster than it appeared. And that’s exactly what I do. I drown out everything with alcohol, friends, and girls. And at least for the rest of that night, I don’t have to think about the mistakes I made. The life I ruined.

That thought forces my eyes to open and face the sunlight beaming into the room. I squint and cover my eyes with my hand. I wait a moment before attempting to stand up and find my clothes. When I can finally stand upright, I locate my pants. I find the T-shirt I remember putting on before class yesterday.

But after that? Nothing. I remember absolutely nothing.

I find my shoes and slip those on. When I’m fully dressed, I take a second to look around the room. It doesn’t look familiar at all. I walk to the window and look outside and see that I’m in an apartment building. Nothing looks familiar though, but that could be because I can’t open my eyes wide enough to see very far. Everything hurts.

I’m about to find out where I am though, because the door to the bathroom is opening up behind me. I squeeze my eyes shut, because I have no idea who she is or what she’ll expect.

“Morning, sunshine!”

Her familiar voice flies across the room at the speed of a torpedo and goes straight through my heart. My knees feel like they’re about to buckle beneath me. In fact, I think they are. I reach for a nearby chair and I take a quick seat, dropping my head into my hands. I can’t even look at her.

How could she do this to Kyle?

How could she let do this to Kyle?

Jordyn walks closer to me, but I still refuse to look at her. “If you’re about to puke, you better do it in the bathroom.”

I shake my head, wanting her voice to go away, wanting her apartment to go away, wanting the second-worst thing I’ve ever done to go away. “Jordyn.” When I hear the weakness in my voice, I can tell why she thinks I’m on the verge of being sick. “How did this happen?”

I hear the dip of her mattress as she plops down on the bed a few feet in front of me. “Well . . .” she says. “I’m sure it started with a shot or two. A few beers. Some pretty girls. And then it ended with you calling me crying at midnight last night, rambling about the date and how you need to go home but you were too drunk and you didn’t want to call Kyle because he’d be mad at you.” She stands and walks toward her closet. “And believe me, he would have been pissed. And if you tell him I let you sleep it off here so that he wouldn’t find out, he’ll be pissed at . So you better not rat me out, Ben. I’ll kill you.”

My mind is trying to catch up, but she talks too fast.

So I called her? For help?

We didn’t . . .

I, on the other hand, seem to have no control over the things I do when I get in that state. But at least I called her before I did something stupid. She and Kyle have been together long enough that she’s like a sister to me, and I would trust her not to tell Kyle. But the question still remains . . .

She walks back out of the closet and it’s the first time I’ve looked at her today. She looks normal. Not guilty at all. A little bit tired, maybe, but smiley as usual.

“I saw your ass this morning,” she says, laughing. “What the hell did you do? I told you to use my shower, but you could have put your clothes back on afterward.” She makes a face. “Now I have to wash my sheets.”

She begins to pull her sheets off her mattress. “I hope when I move in with Kyle you start wearing boxers or something. And I can’t believe I was forced to sleep on my own couch while your drunk ass stole my bed.” I want to tell her to slow down, but every time she talks, I feel more and more relieved. “You owe me big-time.”

She loses the smile on her face as she takes a seat on the mattress across from me again. She leans forward and looks at me sincerely. “I don’t want to pry into your life. But I love your brother and as soon as my lease is up, we’re all going to be living together. So I’m only going to say this once. Are you listening?”

I nod.

“We’re only given one mind and body at birth. And they’re the only ones we get, so it’s up to us to take care of ourselves. I hate to say this, Ben, but right now, you are the absolute version of yourself that you could possibly be. You’re depressed. You’re moody. You’re only eighteen, and I don’t even know where you’re getting your alcohol, but you drink way too much. And as much as your brothers have tried to help you, no one can force you to want to be a better person. Only you can do that, Ben. So if you have any hope left in you at all, I suggest you dig deep for it, because if you don’t find it, you’ll never be the best version of yourself. And you’re going to bring your brothers down with you, because they love you that much.”

She stares at me just as long as it takes for her words to make sense in my head. She sounds like my mother, and that thought hits me hard.

I stand up. “Are you finished? Because I’d like to go find my car now.”

She sighs with disappointment and it makes me feel bad, but I refuse to let her see that all I can think about now is my mother and how, if she saw me today, what would she think of me?

* * *

After a few texts to friends, I discovered where my car was. As Jordyn drops me off, I debate apologizing to her. I stall at the car with the door halfway shut, wondering what to say. Finally, I lean down and look at her.

“Sorry for the attitude earlier. I appreciate you helping me last night, and thanks for the ride.” I go to shut the door, but she calls my name and steps out of the car. She looks at me over the hood.

“Last night . . . when you called? You kept saying something about the date today, and . . . I don’t want to pry. But I know it’s the anniversary of what happened with your mom. And I think maybe it would be good for you if you went to see her.” She looks down and taps her fingers on the hood. “Think about it, okay?”

I stare at her for a moment and then I give her one quick nod before getting into my car.

I know it’s been two years. I don’t need a reminder. Every single day I wake up and take my first breath, I’m reminded of that day.

* * *

I grip the steering wheel, unsure if I’m going to get out of my car. It’s bad enough that I drove out to the cemetery in the first place. I’ve never visited her gravesite before. I just don’t feel the need to because I don’t feel like she’s really there. I talk to my mother sometimes. Of course the conversations are one-sided, but I still talk to her. I don’t feel like I need to stare at a headstone in order to do that.

Maybe I was hoping it would help. But the fact of the matter is, I’ve accepted my mother’s death. I understand why she did it. And I know that if she didn’t make the choice to take her own life, the cancer would have taken her soon after. But everyone in my family seems to think I can’t move on. That I miss her so much it’s affecting my life.

I do miss her, but I’ve moved on from that. What I haven’t moved on from is what I did that night.

I listened to Kyle when he said not to mention Fallon or her father ever again. I don’t look them up online. I don’t drive by whatever houses they may live in now. Hell, I don’t even know where they live. And I don’t plan to find out. Kyle was right in that I need to keep my distance from that. They chalked it up as accidental, and the last thing I need is someone growing suspicious of that night.

But I still think about that girl every single day. She lost her career because of me. A career. One lots of people only dream about. And my actions from that night are going to follow her for the rest of her life.

Sometimes I wonder how she’s doing now. There have been several times I’ve wanted to research her—maybe even see her up close—just to see how badly she was injured in the fire. I don’t know why. Maybe I think it’ll help me move on in some way if I see that she’s living a good life. But the one thing that prevents me from looking her up is the fact that she may not be. Her life could be so much worse than I expected, and I’m afraid of how I’ll take it if that’s the case.

Just as I’m about to crank my car, another car pulls into the parking lot beside me. The driver’s side door opens and before he even steps out, I can feel the dryness creep into my throat.

I can tell it’s him by the back of his neck, his height, the way he carries himself. Donovan O’Neil has a very recognizable presence about him, and considering I saw him plastered all over the TV the night of the fire, I’ll never get his face out of my head.

I look around me, wondering if I should crank my car and back away before he notices me. But he’s not even aware of his surroundings. In his right hand, he’s holding a bundle of hydrangeas. He’s heading toward her gravesite.

I’m suddenly brought back to the night I was sitting in this same car, watching him from across his street. This feels like that, only now I’m watching out of curiosity rather than hatred. He doesn’t stay at her gravesite long. He replaces the wilted flowers with the new ones. He stares at her headstone for a moment, and then he walks back to his car.

He’s familiar with this routine, like he does it all the time. And for a moment, I feel guilty for thinking he never cared about her. Because it’s obvious he did, if he’s still visiting her gravesite two years later.

He looks at his watch on his way back to his car, and then he picks up his pace. He’s late for something. And I wonder if, by some miracle, that something has to do with his daughter. I tell myself to stop when I reach for the ignition. I say, “Don’t do this, Ben,” out loud, hoping I listen to myself.

But curiosity wins today, because I’m following his car out of the cemetery and I have absolutely no idea why I’m doing it.

* * *

I park a few cars down from his at the restaurant he pulled into. I watch him as he goes inside the restaurant. I see someone stand up to hug him—

—and I clench my jaw so tight it hurts.

My palms begin to sweat. I don’t know if I actually want to see her. But I know there’s no way I’m leaving here with her so close without at least going inside and walking past their table. I have to know. I need to know what I’ve done to her.

I grab my laptop before walking inside so I can have something to focus on while I’m sitting alone. Or at least pretend I’m focusing on it. When I walk inside, I can’t see her face to even know for sure if she’s Fallon. Her back is to me. I try not to stare because I don’t want her father seeing me paying them any attention.

“Table or booth?” The waitress asks.

I nod at the booth behind theirs. “Can I get that one?”

She smiles and grabs a menu. “Just one today?”

I nod and she leads me to the booth. My heart is pounding so fast, I can’t even find the courage to glance at her when I walk by. I take a seat so that I’m facing the opposite direction. I’ll work up the courage in a few minutes. There’s nothing wrong with me being here. I don’t know why it feels like I’m breaking the law when all I’m doing is sitting down for a meal.

My hands are threaded together on the table in front of me. I try to come up with a multitude of reasons to turn around and glance over my shoulder, but I’m afraid when I do I may not be able to stop staring. I have no idea what kind of damage I’ve done to her, and I’m scared if I look in her eyes, I’ll see that she’s sad.

But I’m scared if I look in her eyes, I’ll miss the fact that she could be happy.

“I’m only half an hour late, Fallon. Cut me some slack,” her father says.

He said her name. That’s definitely her. In the next few minutes, I could be coming face-to-face with the girl whose life I almost took.

Luckily, a waiter comes up and takes my order, distracting me from myself. I’m not at all hungry, but I order something anyway, because what kind of guy comes into a restaurant and doesn’t order any food? I don’t want to draw attention to myself.

The waiter tries to strike up a conversation with me about the fact that the guy behind us looks just like Donovan O’Neil, the actor who played Max Epcott. I pretend I don’t know who that is and he’s wildly unimpressed. I just want him to go away. Finally, he does. I lean back in the booth so I can hear more of their conversation.

“So, yeah. I’m a little shocked, but it’s happening,” her father says.

I wait for her to respond. I missed whatever he just said to her, thanks to nosey McWaiter, but her silence proves it wasn’t something she wanted to hear.

“Fallon? Are you going to say anything?”

“What am I supposed to say?”

Do you want me to you?”

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

“

for you?”

“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.”

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 . . .

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 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.

, 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 want her to swear off men forever. If men are really as shallow as this one, 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.”

, I want to say.