November 9: A Novel(71)

I glance back down at the package and then quickly scoop it up and rush inside, locking the door behind me.

It looks like one of the cardboard gift boxes that department stores use to package shirts, but the contents are much heavier than a shirt. I set it on the kitchen counter and peel the envelope off the top of it.

It isn’t sealed. The flap is just tucked into the back of the envelope, so I pull the piece of paper out and unfold it.

Fallon,

I’ve spent most of my life preparing to write something as important as this letter. But for the first time, I don’t feel like the English language has developed enough letters in the alphabet to adequately express the words I want to say to you.

When you left last year, you left with my soul in your hands and my heart in your teeth, and I knew I would never get either of them back. You can keep them, I don’t really need them anymore.

I’m not writing this letter in hopes that you will forgive me. You deserve better. You always have. Nothing I can say would ever make my feet worthy enough to walk on the same ground you walk upon. Nothing I can do would ever make my heart worthy enough to share a love with yours.

I’m not asking you to seek me out. I’m just asking that you read the words on the pages in this box in hopes that it can allow you, and maybe even me, to walk away from this with as little damage as possible.

You may not believe me, but all I want is for you to be happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. And I’ll do anything to make that happen for you, even if it means helping you to forget me.

The words you’re about to read have never been read by anyone but you, nor will they ever be read by anyone but you. This is the only copy. You can do whatever you want with it when you’re finished. And I know you owe me nothing, but I’m not asking you to read this manuscript for me. I want you to read it for yourself. Because when you love someone, you owe it to them to help them be the best version of themselves that they can be. And as much as it crushes me to admit this, the best version of you doesn’t include me.

Ben





I lay the pages carefully on the table next to the box.

I bring a hand to my cheek, checking for tears, because I can’t believe there aren’t any. I thought surely if I’d heard from him again, I would be an emotional wreck.

But I’m not. My hands aren’t shaking. My heart isn’t aching.

I bring my fingers to my throat to see if I even have a pulse. Because surely I haven’t spent so much of this past year building up an emotional wall so high, that even words like the ones he just wrote can’t penetrate it.

But I’m scared that’s exactly what’s happened. Not only will Ben never break these walls back down, but I’m afraid he’s forced me to build them so thick and high that I’ll be hiding behind them forever.

He’s right about one thing, though. I owe him nothing.

I walk to my bedroom and crawl into bed, leaving every single page unread on the kitchen counter.

? ? ?

It’s 11:15.

I’m squinting, so that means there’s sun. Which means it’s 11:15 a.m.

I bring my hand to my face and I cover my eyes. I wait a few seconds and then I pick up my cell phone.

It’s November 9th.

Shit.

I mean, it’s no surprise I didn’t sleep for twenty-four hours straight, so I don’t know why I’m upset. Especially considering the eleven hours of sleep I did get. I’m not sure I’ve slept this much since I was a teenager. And I especially haven’t slept this much on today’s anniversary. I normally don’t sleep at all.

I stand in the middle of my bedroom and debate how to proceed with today. Behind door number one lies my bathroom, my toothbrush, and my shower.

Behind door number two lies a couch, a television, and a refrigerator.

I choose door number two.

When I open it, I suddenly wish I had chosen door number one.

My mother is sitting on my couch.

Shit. I forgot she was bringing me breakfast. Now she’ll think I do nothing but sleep every day, all day.

“Hey,” I say to her as I walk out of my bedroom. She glances up, and I’m immediately confused by her expression.

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.