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.” His 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.”