November 9

by Colleen Hoover

  Please keep the house until you're all grown and settled. It's a good house and despite this one thing, we had a lot of good memories here.

  Please know that you three boys made every second of my life worth living. And if I could take away this cancer, I would do it. I would be so selfish about it; I'd probably give it to someone else to suffer through just so I could spend more time with each of you. That's how much I love you.

  Please forgive me. I had two poor choices to choose from, neither of which I wanted. I just went with what would be more beneficial to all of us in the end. I hope one day you can understand. And I hope that by choosing to do this, I don't ruin this date for you. November 9th is significant to me, in that it's the same day Dylan Thomas died. And you boys know how much his poetry means to me. It's gotten me through a lot in life, especially your father's death. But my hope for you is that this date will just be a date for you in the future with little significance and little excuse to mourn.

  And please don't worry about me. My suffering is over. In the wise words of Dylan Thomas . . . After the first death, there is no other.

  With all my love,

  Mom

  I can barely read my mother's signature through my tears. Ian walks back into the room several minutes later and sits beside me.

  I want to thank him for making me read it, but I'm so mad I can't even speak. If I had just read the letter before the police took it, I would have known everything right then. The last two days would have turned out so different. I may not have been in such a state of shock had I been able to read the letter then. I also wouldn't have misconstrued everything and assumed a man had to do with her decision.

  And I would have actually stayed home last night, rather than make the choice to get in her car, drive to a stranger's house, and start a fire that went out of control.

  When I double over from the sobs, Ian puts his arm around me and pulls me in for a hug. I know he thinks I'm crying because of everything I just read, and he's partly right. He also probably assumes I'm crying for saying such hateful things about my mother, and he's partly right about that, too.

  But what he doesn't know is that most of these tears aren't tears of grief.

  They're tears of guilt for being responsible for ruining the life of an innocent girl.

  Fallon

  I set the page down and pick up another tissue. I don't think I've stopped crying since I started reading.

  I check my phone and there's a response from my father.

  Dad: Hey! I'd love to, I miss you, too. Tell me when and where and I'll be there.

  I try not to cry when I read his text, but I can't help but feel my bitterness has wasted a lot of good memories that could have been made with him. We'll just have to make up for it over the next few years.

  I've taken breaks to eat. To think. To breathe. It's almost 7:00 p.m. now and I've only made it through half of the manuscript. I usually get through books in a matter of a few hours, but this has been the hardest thing I've ever had to read in my life. I can't imagine how hard it must have been for Ben to write.

  I glance at the next page, trying to decide if I need another break before beginning. When I see that this next chapter is the day we met in the restaurant, I decide to continue reading. I need to know what motivated him to show up there that day. And more so, why he made the choice to enter my life.

  I sit back on the couch and take in a deep breath. And then I start reading chapter four of Ben's manuscript.

  Ben's novel--CHAPTER FOUR

  Age 18

  "Somebody's boring me. I think it's me."

  --Dylan Thomas

  My arm dangles over the side of the bed, and I can tell by the way my hand lies across the carpet that the bed doesn't have a frame or box springs. It's just a mattress on the floor.

  I'm on my stomach. There's a sheet draped halfway over me and I'm facedown on the pillow.

  I hate these moments. When I wake up too discombobulated to know where I am or who might be on the bed next to me. I usually lie still long enough to get a grip on my surroundings before moving in hopes I don't wake up whoever might be in the room with me. But this morning is different, because whoever was on this bed with me is already awake. I can hear a shower running.

  I try to count how many times this has happened--when I've gotten so drunk that I can barely remember anything the next day. I'm guessing at least five times this year, but this is by far the worst. I can usually at least remember which party I was at. Which friend I was with. Which girl I was flirting with before everything went black. But right now, I've got nothing.

  My heart begins to beat as hard as the pounding in my head. I know I'm about to have to stand up and find my clothes. I'll have to look around to try and figure out where I am. I'll have to figure out where I might have left my car. I might even be forced to call Kyle again. But he'll be my absolute last resort, because I'm not in the mood for another lecture today.

  To say he's been disappointed in how I've turned out is an understatement. Things haven't been the same at home since the day our mother died two years ago.

  Well . . . I haven't been the same. Kyle and Ian are hoping my downward spiral will find an uphill slope soon. They were hoping once I graduated high school that I would get serious with college, but that hasn't happened in the way they maybe think it has. In fact, my grades are so bad due to absences, I'm not even sure I'll make it through the semester.

  And I try. God do I try. Every day I wake up and I tell myself that today will be better. Today will be the day I resolve myself of guilt. But then something will happen that will trigger that feeling that I want to drown faster than it appeared. And that's exactly what I do. I drown out everything with alcohol, friends, and girls. And at least for the rest of that night, I don't have to think about the mistakes I made. The life I ruined.

  That thought forces my eyes to open and face the sunlight beaming into the room. I squint and cover my eyes with my hand. I wait a moment before attempting to stand up and find my clothes. When I can finally stand upright, I locate my pants. I find the T-shirt I remember putting on before class yesterday.

  But after that? Nothing. I remember absolutely nothing.

  I find my shoes and slip those on. When I'm fully dressed, I take a second to look around the room. It doesn't look familiar at all. I walk to the window and look outside and see that I'm in an apartment building. Nothing looks familiar though, but that could be because I can't open my eyes wide enough to see very far. Everything hurts.

  I'm about to find out where I am though, because the door to the bathroom is opening up behind me. I squeeze my eyes shut, because I have no idea who she is or what she'll expect.

  "Morning, sunshine!"

  Her familiar voice flies across the room at the speed of a torpedo and goes straight through my heart. My knees feel like they're about to buckle beneath me. In fact, I think they are. I reach for a nearby chair and I take a quick seat, dropping my head into my hands. I can't even look at her.

  How could she do this to Kyle?

  How could she let me do this to Kyle?

  Jordyn walks closer to me, but I still refuse to look at her. "If you're about to puke, you better do it in the bathroom."

  I shake my head, wanting her voice to go away, wanting her apartment to go away, wanting the second-worst thing I've ever done to go away. "Jordyn." When I hear the weakness in my voice, I can tell why she thinks I'm on the verge of being sick. "How did this happen?"

  I hear the dip of her mattress as she plops down on the bed a few feet in front of me. "Well . . ." she says. "I'm sure it started with a shot or two. A few beers. Some pretty girls. And then it ended with you calling me crying at midnight last night, rambling about the date and how you need to go home but you were too drunk and you didn't want to call Kyle because he'd be mad at you." She stands and walks toward her closet. "And believe me, he would have been pissed. And if you tell him I let you sleep it off here so that he wouldn't find
out, he'll be pissed at me. So you better not rat me out, Ben. I'll kill you."

  My mind is trying to catch up, but she talks too fast.

  So I called her? For help?

  We didn't . . .

  God, no. She wouldn't do that. I, on the other hand, seem to have no control over the things I do when I get in that state. But at least I called her before I did something stupid. She and Kyle have been together long enough that she's like a sister to me, and I would trust her not to tell Kyle. But the question still remains . . . why was I naked? In her bed?

  She walks back out of the closet and it's the first time I've looked at her today. She looks normal. Not guilty at all. A little bit tired, maybe, but smiley as usual.

  "I saw your ass this morning," she says, laughing. "What the hell did you do? I told you to use my shower, but you could have put your clothes back on afterward." She makes a face. "Now I have to wash my sheets."

  She begins to pull her sheets off her mattress. "I hope when I move in with Kyle you start wearing boxers or something. And I can't believe I was forced to sleep on my own couch while your drunk ass stole my bed." I want to tell her to slow down, but every time she talks, I feel more and more relieved. "You owe me big-time."

  She loses the smile on her face as she takes a seat on the mattress across from me again. She leans forward and looks at me sincerely. "I don't want to pry into your life. But I love your brother and as soon as my lease is up, we're all going to be living together. So I'm only going to say this once. Are you listening?"

  I nod.

  "We're only given one mind and body at birth. And they're the only ones we get, so it's up to us to take care of ourselves. I hate to say this, Ben, but right now, you are the absolute worst version of yourself that you could possibly be. You're depressed. You're moody. You're only eighteen, and I don't even know where you're getting your alcohol, but you drink way too much. And as much as your brothers have tried to help you, no one can force you to want to be a better person. Only you can do that, Ben. So if you have any hope left in you at all, I suggest you dig deep for it, because if you don't find it, you'll never be the best version of yourself. And you're going to bring your brothers down with you, because they love you that much."

  She stares at me just as long as it takes for her words to make sense in my head. She sounds like my mother, and that thought hits me hard.

  I stand up. "Are you finished? Because I'd like to go find my car now."

  She sighs with disappointment and it makes me feel bad, but I refuse to let her see that all I can think about now is my mother and how, if she saw me today, what would she think of me?

  *

  After a few texts to friends, I discovered where my car was. As Jordyn drops me off, I debate apologizing to her. I stall at the car with the door halfway shut, wondering what to say. Finally, I lean down and look at her.

  "Sorry for the attitude earlier. I appreciate you helping me last night, and thanks for the ride." I go to shut the door, but she calls my name and steps out of the car. She looks at me over the hood.

  "Last night . . . when you called? You kept saying something about the date today, and . . . I don't want to pry. But I know it's the anniversary of what happened with your mom. And I think maybe it would be good for you if you went to see her." She looks down and taps her fingers on the hood. "Think about it, okay?"

  I stare at her for a moment and then I give her one quick nod before getting into my car.

  I know it's been two years. I don't need a reminder. Every single day I wake up and take my first breath, I'm reminded of that day.

  *

  I grip the steering wheel, unsure if I'm going to get out of my car. It's bad enough that I drove out to the cemetery in the first place. I've never visited her gravesite before. I just don't feel the need to because I don't feel like she's really there. I talk to my mother sometimes. Of course the conversations are one-sided, but I still talk to her. I don't feel like I need to stare at a headstone in order to do that.

  So why am I here?

  Maybe I was hoping it would help. But the fact of the matter is, I've accepted my mother's death. I understand why she did it. And I know that if she didn't make the choice to take her own life, the cancer would have taken her soon after. But everyone in my family seems to think I can't move on. That I miss her so much it's affecting my life.

  I do miss her, but I've moved on from that. What I haven't moved on from is what I did that night.

  I listened to Kyle when he said not to mention Fallon or her father ever again. I don't look them up online. I don't drive by whatever houses they may live in now. Hell, I don't even know where they live. And I don't plan to find out. Kyle was right in that I need to keep my distance from that. They chalked it up as accidental, and the last thing I need is someone growing suspicious of that night.

  But I still think about that girl every single day. She lost her career because of me. A good career. One lots of people only dream about. And my actions from that night are going to follow her for the rest of her life.

  Sometimes I wonder how she's doing now. There have been several times I've wanted to research her--maybe even see her up close--just to see how badly she was injured in the fire. I don't know why. Maybe I think it'll help me move on in some way if I see that she's living a good life. But the one thing that prevents me from looking her up is the fact that she may not be. Her life could be so much worse than I expected, and I'm afraid of how I'll take it if that's the case.

  Just as I'm about to crank my car, another car pulls into the parking lot beside me. The driver's side door opens and before he even steps out, I can feel the dryness creep into my throat.

  What is he doing here?

  I can tell it's him by the back of his neck, his height, the way he carries himself. Donovan O'Neil has a very recognizable presence about him, and considering I saw him plastered all over the TV the night of the fire, I'll never get his face out of my head.

  I look around me, wondering if I should crank my car and back away before he notices me. But he's not even aware of his surroundings. In his right hand, he's holding a bundle of hydrangeas. He's heading toward her gravesite.

  He's here to see my mother.

  I'm suddenly brought back to the night I was sitting in this same car, watching him from across his street. This feels like that, only now I'm watching out of curiosity rather than hatred. He doesn't stay at her gravesite long. He replaces the wilted flowers with the new ones. He stares at her headstone for a moment, and then he walks back to his car.

  He's familiar with this routine, like he does it all the time. And for a moment, I feel guilty for thinking he never cared about her. Because it's obvious he did, if he's still visiting her gravesite two years later.

  He looks at his watch on his way back to his car, and then he picks up his pace. He's late for something. And I wonder if, by some miracle, that something has to do with his daughter. I tell myself to stop when I reach for the ignition. I say, "Don't do this, Ben," out loud, hoping I listen to myself.

  But curiosity wins today, because I'm following his car out of the cemetery and I have absolutely no idea why I'm doing it.

  *

  I park a few cars down from his at the restaurant he pulled into. I watch him as he goes inside the restaurant. I see someone stand up to hug him--a girl--and I clench my jaw so tight it hurts.

  That has to be her.

  My palms begin to sweat. I don't know if I actually want to see her. But I know there's no way I'm leaving here with her so close without at least going inside and walking past their table. I have to know. I need to know what I've done to her.

  I grab my laptop before walking inside so I can have something to focus on while I'm sitting alone. Or at least pretend I'm focusing on it. When I walk inside, I can't see her face to even know for sure if she's Fallon. Her back is to me. I try not to stare because I don't want her father seeing me paying them any attention.

  "Table or booth
?" The waitress asks.

  I nod at the booth behind theirs. "Can I get that one?"

  She smiles and grabs a menu. "Just one today?"

  I nod and she leads me to the booth. My heart is pounding so fast, I can't even find the courage to glance at her when I walk by. I take a seat so that I'm facing the opposite direction. I'll work up the courage in a few minutes. There's nothing wrong with me being here. I don't know why it feels like I'm breaking the law when all I'm doing is sitting down for a meal.

  My hands are threaded together on the table in front of me. I try to come up with a multitude of reasons to turn around and glance over my shoulder, but I'm afraid when I do I may not be able to stop staring. I have no idea what kind of damage I've done to her, and I'm scared if I look in her eyes, I'll see that she's sad.

  But I'm scared if I don't look in her eyes, I'll miss the fact that she could be happy.

  "I'm only half an hour late, Fallon. Cut me some slack," her father says.

  He said her name. That's definitely her. In the next few minutes, I could be coming face-to-face with the girl whose life I almost took.

  Luckily, a waiter comes up and takes my order, distracting me from myself. I'm not at all hungry, but I order something anyway, because what kind of guy comes into a restaurant and doesn't order any food? I don't want to draw attention to myself.

  The waiter tries to strike up a conversation with me about the fact that the guy behind us looks just like Donovan O'Neil, the actor who played Max Epcott. I pretend I don't know who that is and he's wildly unimpressed. I just want him to go away. Finally, he does. I lean back in the booth so I can hear more of their conversation.

  "So, yeah. I'm a little shocked, but it's happening," her father says.

  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.