November 9
Page 66
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“What kind of fucked-up situation did you get yourself in, Ben? Are you an idiot?”
Just as the question leaves his mouth, I see her walk around the corner. She stops short as she takes in the scene, and the shock that appears on her face reassures me that she didn’t hear anything else.
Fallon
I slam the pages back on top of the others.
He’s fucked up.
Ben is a twisted, fucked-up writer. How dare he take something real . . . something that I suffered through . . . and turn it into fiction with a ridiculous plotline.
I’m pissed. How could he do this? But then again, he didn’t finish it, so am I even allowed to be angry?
But why would he do this? Doesn’t he know how personal that story is to me? I can’t believe he would try to capitalize on such an awful tragedy.
I’d almost like it better if he was telling the truth and he really did start the fire. At least then I wouldn’t feel like he was taking advantage of my story.
Why would he make up part of the fight when everything else surrounding the fight between him and Kyle actually happened? Did he even make up any of it at all?
I laugh at myself. It’s not true. He didn’t meet me until two years after the fire. There was no way he could have been there. Besides, what are the chances he would run into me on the anniversary of the fire, exactly two years later? He would have had to have been following me.
He wasn’t following me.
Was he?
I need water.
I get water.
I need to sit down again.
I sit down.
Spin, spin, spin. The web of possible lies is spinning, my mind is spinning, my stomach is spinning. It even feels like the blood in my veins is spinning. I stack the pages of the manuscript back into a neat and tidy pile, just as I found them.
Why would you write this, Ben?
I look at the cover and run my fingers over the title. November 9.
He needed a good plot. Is that what he’s done? He just fabricated his plotline?
There’s no way he could be responsible for the fire. It makes absolutely no sense. My father is to blame. He knows, the police know and I know it.
I find myself lifting the cover page off the stack. I stare down at the first page of the manuscript, and I do the only thing I can to find more answers.
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.
Just as the question leaves his mouth, I see her walk around the corner. She stops short as she takes in the scene, and the shock that appears on her face reassures me that she didn’t hear anything else.
Fallon
I slam the pages back on top of the others.
He’s fucked up.
Ben is a twisted, fucked-up writer. How dare he take something real . . . something that I suffered through . . . and turn it into fiction with a ridiculous plotline.
I’m pissed. How could he do this? But then again, he didn’t finish it, so am I even allowed to be angry?
But why would he do this? Doesn’t he know how personal that story is to me? I can’t believe he would try to capitalize on such an awful tragedy.
I’d almost like it better if he was telling the truth and he really did start the fire. At least then I wouldn’t feel like he was taking advantage of my story.
Why would he make up part of the fight when everything else surrounding the fight between him and Kyle actually happened? Did he even make up any of it at all?
I laugh at myself. It’s not true. He didn’t meet me until two years after the fire. There was no way he could have been there. Besides, what are the chances he would run into me on the anniversary of the fire, exactly two years later? He would have had to have been following me.
He wasn’t following me.
Was he?
I need water.
I get water.
I need to sit down again.
I sit down.
Spin, spin, spin. The web of possible lies is spinning, my mind is spinning, my stomach is spinning. It even feels like the blood in my veins is spinning. I stack the pages of the manuscript back into a neat and tidy pile, just as I found them.
Why would you write this, Ben?
I look at the cover and run my fingers over the title. November 9.
He needed a good plot. Is that what he’s done? He just fabricated his plotline?
There’s no way he could be responsible for the fire. It makes absolutely no sense. My father is to blame. He knows, the police know and I know it.
I find myself lifting the cover page off the stack. I stare down at the first page of the manuscript, and I do the only thing I can to find more answers.
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.
