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?” 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.