November 9(30)

Ben laughs.

“And if you and I were having sex and you told me you owned me, I would literally crawl out from under you, put on my clothes, walk out of your house, and go puke in your front yard. So just because I like reading about those kinds of guys, doesn’t mean I need my real-life guys to act like that.”

He grins. “Can I keep you?”

Too bad he’s only kidding. “I’m all yours for the next five hours.”

He pushes me flat on my back. “Tell me about this boy you kissed.” His use of the word boy somehow seems like an insult to the guy. I like it. Jealous Ben is cute. “I need to know all the details about your kiss so I can add a subplot to the book.”

“A subplot?” I ask. “Does that mean you have an actual plot already?”

His expression doesn’t waver. “So how did you meet him?”

“Rehearsals.”

“Did you go on a date with him?”

“Two.”

“Why only two? What happened?”

I want to say “sigh” again out loud. I really don’t want to talk about him. “Nothing came of it. Do we really have to talk about it?”

“Yep. It was part of the agreement.”

I groan. “Fine. His name is Cody. He’s twenty-one. We were auditioning for the same play and we had a nice conversation. He asked for my number and I gave it to him.”

“You gave him your phone number?” Ben asks, dejected. “Why won’t you give me your phone number?”

“Because I actually like you. Anyway, we went out that weekend and kissed a few times. He was nice. Funny . . .”

Ben makes a face. “Funnier than me?”

“Your humor is incomparable, Ben. Stop interrupting me. So I agreed to go out with him a second time. We went back to his place to watch a movie. We started making out and . . . I just . . . I couldn’t do it.”

“Couldn’t do it? Like it it? Or just make out with him?”

I don’t know what’s more strange. Talking to Ben about making out with another guy or the fact that I’m so comfortable talking to Ben about making out with another guy.

Well, up to this point, anyway. Now I just want to shut up.

“I couldn’t do either. It was . . .” I close my eyes, not wanting to tell him the real reason why I couldn’t do it. But it’s Ben. He’s easy to talk to.

“It was different. He made me feel . . . I don’t know. Flawed.”

I can see the roll in Ben’s throat when he swallows. “Explain,” he says, his voice clipped. I like that he seems a little upset, like he doesn’t actually want to hear about me making out with someone else. I especially like how he seems a little protective of me.

I think Ben has more alpha in him than he gives himself credit for.

I blow out a heavy breath, preparing for the honesty I shouldn’t really want to share, but for some reason want to share.

“Last year when you touched me, you made me feel . . . pretty. Like I didn’t have any scars. Or . . . not like that, I said that wrong. You made me feel like the scars were part of what made me pretty. And I’ve never once felt like that, nor did I think I’d ever feel like that. So when I was with Cody, I noticed everything. How he only touched the right side of my face. How he only kissed the right side of my neck. How, when we were making out, he insisted the lights be off.”

Ben makes a face like he’s in pain again, but this time he’s very convincing. “Go on,” he says, forcing the words out of his mouth.

“He tried to take off my bra at one point and I just couldn’t do it. I didn’t want him to see it. He was really nice about it and didn’t ask me to keep going. And if I’m being honest, that bothered me a little. I kind of wanted him to console me and act like he still wanted me, but he seemed a little relieved that I stopped it.”

Ben rolls onto his back and rubs his hands up and down his face. After a moment, he resumes his position, looking down on me. “Please don’t ever speak to that f*cking douchebag again.”

A surprising wave of heat rolls over me with those words. His thumb brushes my jaw and his expression is full of sincerity. “What didn’t you want him to see?”

The confusion on my face prompts him to be more detailed. “You said, ‘I didn’t want him to see it.’ But if your shirt was already off and he already saw your scars, what is it you’re referring to?”

I swallow. I want to pull a pillow over my face and hide. I can’t believe he caught that.

In fact, I think I will pull a pillow over my face.

“Stop,” he says, when I try to grab for the pillow. He tucks it back under my head and leans in closer. “It’s me, Fallon. Don’t be embarrassed. Tell me what you were referring to.”

I inhale a deep breath, hoping more air in my lungs will somehow give me more courage to answer him. And then I release the breath as slow as possible so I can drag out having to answer him.

I cover my eyes with my arm and say it as fast as I can. “My left breast.”

I wait for him to ask more questions, or make me move my arm, but he doesn’t. I can’t believe I just told him that. I’ve never told anyone that, not even Amber. During the fire, not only was most of the left half of my body burned, but as if that wasn’t punishment enough, I was injured when they tried to pull me out the top-story window. Luckily I don’t remember anything between falling asleep that night and waking up in the hospital, but the scars are a daily reminder. And my left breast bore the brunt of most of it. And I’m not stupid. I know to guys, breasts are supposed to be beautiful and symmetrical, and mine aren’t.