November 9
Page 70
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
She’s crying.
My first thought is what happened and who did it happen to? My father? My grandmother? Cousins? Aunts? Uncles? Boddle, my mom’s dog?
“What’s wrong?” I ask her.
But then I look down at her lap and realize that everything is wrong. She’s reading the manuscript.
Ben’s manuscript.
Our story.
Since when did she start invading privacy? I point at it and shoot her an offended look. “What are you doing?”
She picks up a discarded tissue and wipes at her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she says, sniffling. “I saw the letter. And I would never read your personal things, but it was open this morning when I brought breakfast and I just . . . I’m sorry. But then”—she picks up some of the pages of the manuscript and flops them back and forth—“I read the first page and I’ve been sitting here for four hours now and haven’t been able to stop.”
She’s been reading it for four hours?
I walk over to her and grab the stack of pages from her lap. “How much did you read?” I pick the manuscript up and walk it back to the kitchen. “And why? You have no business reading this, Mom. Jesus, I can’t believe you would do that.” I shove the lid back on the cardboard box and I walk it to the trash can. I step on the lever to open the lid, and my mother is moving faster than I’ve ever seen her move before.
“Fallon, don’t you dare throw that away!” she says. She grabs the box from my hands and hugs it to her chest. “Why would you do that?” She sets the box on the counter, smoothing her hand over the top of it like it’s a prized possession I almost just broke.
I’m confused why she’s reacting this way to something that should infuriate her.
She releases a quick breath and then looks me firmly in the eye. “Sweetie,” she says. “Is any of this true? Did these things really happen?”
I don’t even know what to tell her, because I have no idea which “things” she’s referring to. I shrug. “I don’t know. I haven’t read it yet.” I pass her and walk toward the couch. “But if you’re referring to Benton James Kessler and the fact that he allowed me to completely fall in love with a fictitious version of himself, then yes. That happened.” I lift one of the couch cushions in search of my remote control. “And if you’re referring to the fact that I found out he was somehow responsible for a fire that almost killed me, but failed to point out that minor detail as I was falling in love with him, then yes, that happened, too.” I find my remote.
I sit on the couch and cross my legs, preparing for a twelve-hour binge of reality TV. Now would be the perfect time for my mother to leave, but instead, she walks over to the couch and sits next to me.
“You haven’t read any of this?” she asks, placing the box on the coffee table in front of us.
“I read the prologue last year. That was enough for me.”
I feel the warmth of her hand encase mine. I slowly turn my head to find that she’s looking at me with an endearing smile. “Sweetheart . . .”
My head falls against the back of the couch. “Can your advice please wait until tomorrow?”
She sighs. “Fallon, look at me.”
I do, because she’s my mother and I love her and for some reason, even though I’m twenty-three, I still do what she says.
She lifts a hand to my face and tucks my hair behind my left ear. Her thumb brushes the scars on my cheek, and I flinch because it’s the first time she’s ever purposefully touched them. Other than Ben, I’ve never allowed anyone to touch them.
“Did you love him?” she asks.
I don’t do anything for a few seconds. My throat feels like it’s burning, so rather than say yes, I just nod.
Her mouth twitches and she blinks fast, twice, like she’s trying not to cry. She’s still brushing her thumb across my cheek. Her eyes deviate from mine and she scrolls over the scars on my face and neck. “I’m not going to pretend that I know what you’ve gone through. But after reading those pages, I can assure you that you aren’t the only one who was scarred in that fire. Just because he chose not to show you his scars doesn’t mean they don’t exist.” She picks up the box and sets it on my lap. “Here they are. He’s put his scars on full display for you, and you need to show him the respect he showed you by not turning away from them.”
The first tear of the day escapes my eyes. I should have known I wouldn’t get away with not crying today.
She stands and gathers her things. She leaves my apartment without another word.
I open the box, because she’s my mother and I love her and for some reason, even though I’m twenty-three, I still do what she says.
I skim through the prologue I read last year. Nothing has changed. I flip to the first chapter and start from the beginning.
Ben’s novel—CHAPTER ONE
November 9th
Age 16
“Break in the sun till the sun breaks down, And death shall have no dominion.”
—Dylan Thomas
Most people don’t know what death sounds like.
I do.
Death sounds like the absence of footsteps down the hallway. It sounds like a morning shower not being taken. Death sounds like the lack of the voice that should be yelling my name from the kitchen, telling me to get out of bed. Death sounds like the absence of the knock on my door that usually comes moments before my alarm goes off.
My first thought is what happened and who did it happen to? My father? My grandmother? Cousins? Aunts? Uncles? Boddle, my mom’s dog?
“What’s wrong?” I ask her.
But then I look down at her lap and realize that everything is wrong. She’s reading the manuscript.
Ben’s manuscript.
Our story.
Since when did she start invading privacy? I point at it and shoot her an offended look. “What are you doing?”
She picks up a discarded tissue and wipes at her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she says, sniffling. “I saw the letter. And I would never read your personal things, but it was open this morning when I brought breakfast and I just . . . I’m sorry. But then”—she picks up some of the pages of the manuscript and flops them back and forth—“I read the first page and I’ve been sitting here for four hours now and haven’t been able to stop.”
She’s been reading it for four hours?
I walk over to her and grab the stack of pages from her lap. “How much did you read?” I pick the manuscript up and walk it back to the kitchen. “And why? You have no business reading this, Mom. Jesus, I can’t believe you would do that.” I shove the lid back on the cardboard box and I walk it to the trash can. I step on the lever to open the lid, and my mother is moving faster than I’ve ever seen her move before.
“Fallon, don’t you dare throw that away!” she says. She grabs the box from my hands and hugs it to her chest. “Why would you do that?” She sets the box on the counter, smoothing her hand over the top of it like it’s a prized possession I almost just broke.
I’m confused why she’s reacting this way to something that should infuriate her.
She releases a quick breath and then looks me firmly in the eye. “Sweetie,” she says. “Is any of this true? Did these things really happen?”
I don’t even know what to tell her, because I have no idea which “things” she’s referring to. I shrug. “I don’t know. I haven’t read it yet.” I pass her and walk toward the couch. “But if you’re referring to Benton James Kessler and the fact that he allowed me to completely fall in love with a fictitious version of himself, then yes. That happened.” I lift one of the couch cushions in search of my remote control. “And if you’re referring to the fact that I found out he was somehow responsible for a fire that almost killed me, but failed to point out that minor detail as I was falling in love with him, then yes, that happened, too.” I find my remote.
I sit on the couch and cross my legs, preparing for a twelve-hour binge of reality TV. Now would be the perfect time for my mother to leave, but instead, she walks over to the couch and sits next to me.
“You haven’t read any of this?” she asks, placing the box on the coffee table in front of us.
“I read the prologue last year. That was enough for me.”
I feel the warmth of her hand encase mine. I slowly turn my head to find that she’s looking at me with an endearing smile. “Sweetheart . . .”
My head falls against the back of the couch. “Can your advice please wait until tomorrow?”
She sighs. “Fallon, look at me.”
I do, because she’s my mother and I love her and for some reason, even though I’m twenty-three, I still do what she says.
She lifts a hand to my face and tucks my hair behind my left ear. Her thumb brushes the scars on my cheek, and I flinch because it’s the first time she’s ever purposefully touched them. Other than Ben, I’ve never allowed anyone to touch them.
“Did you love him?” she asks.
I don’t do anything for a few seconds. My throat feels like it’s burning, so rather than say yes, I just nod.
Her mouth twitches and she blinks fast, twice, like she’s trying not to cry. She’s still brushing her thumb across my cheek. Her eyes deviate from mine and she scrolls over the scars on my face and neck. “I’m not going to pretend that I know what you’ve gone through. But after reading those pages, I can assure you that you aren’t the only one who was scarred in that fire. Just because he chose not to show you his scars doesn’t mean they don’t exist.” She picks up the box and sets it on my lap. “Here they are. He’s put his scars on full display for you, and you need to show him the respect he showed you by not turning away from them.”
The first tear of the day escapes my eyes. I should have known I wouldn’t get away with not crying today.
She stands and gathers her things. She leaves my apartment without another word.
I open the box, because she’s my mother and I love her and for some reason, even though I’m twenty-three, I still do what she says.
I skim through the prologue I read last year. Nothing has changed. I flip to the first chapter and start from the beginning.
Ben’s novel—CHAPTER ONE
November 9th
Age 16
“Break in the sun till the sun breaks down, And death shall have no dominion.”
—Dylan Thomas
Most people don’t know what death sounds like.
I do.
Death sounds like the absence of footsteps down the hallway. It sounds like a morning shower not being taken. Death sounds like the lack of the voice that should be yelling my name from the kitchen, telling me to get out of bed. Death sounds like the absence of the knock on my door that usually comes moments before my alarm goes off.
