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.