November 9(31)

I feel Ben’s hand meet my wrist and he pulls my arm from my face. He gently palms my cheek. “Why would it bother you for anyone to see it? Because it’s scarred?”

I nod, but then I shake my head. “This is so embarrassing, Ben.”

“Not to me,” he says. “And it sure as hell shouldn’t be for you. I’ve seen you without a shirt already, remember? As I recall, it was pretty magnificent.”

“You’ve seen me without a shirt, but you should see me without a bra. You would understand.”

Ben immediately lifts up onto his elbow. “Okay.”

I stare at him in disbelief. “That wasn’t an invitation.”

“But I want to see it.”

I shake my head. I even laugh, because there’s no way in hell I’m just going to plop my boob out of my shirt so he can gawk at its hideousness.

“I want to do the book justice, and your injuries are something I have to talk about. So you should let me see it. We’ll consider it research.”

It feels like his words just backhanded my heart. “What?” My voice is so unsteady, it sounds like I’m crying. But I’m not. Yet. “What do you mean you’ll have to talk about it in the book? You aren’t really writing about my scars, are you?”

Confusion encompasses his face. “It’s part of your story. Of course I’m writing about it.”

I lift up on my elbows and narrow my eyes in his direction. “I wanted you to fictionalize me and make me pretty, Ben. You can’t make the main character a freak show. No one wants to identify with that. Main characters should be beautiful and . . .”

Ben immediately rolls on top of me and covers my mouth with his hand. He inhales a deep breath in preparation for what seems like a fight. He releases it quickly, his jaw twitching with irritation.

“You listen to me,” he says, keeping his hand secured over my mouth so that I can’t interrupt him. “It pisses me off that you allow something so trivial to define such a huge part of you. I can’t make you pretty in this book, because that would be an insult. You’re f*cking beautiful. And you’re funny. And the only times I’m not completely enamored by you are the moments you’re feeling sorry for yourself. Because I don’t know if you’ve realized this yet, but you’re alive, Fallon. And every time you look in the mirror, you don’t have the right to hate what you see. Because you survived when a lot of people don’t get that lucky. So from now on when you think about your scars, you aren’t allowed to resent them. You’re going to embrace them, because you’re lucky to be on this earth to see them. And any guy you allow to touch your scars better thank you for that privilege.”

My chest hurts.

I can’t breathe.

He removes his hand from my mouth and when he does, I gasp for breath. My eyes rim with tears and I can’t stop myself from shaking as I try to suppress them. Ben lowers himself completely on top of me, cradling my head in his hands. He presses his lips to the side of my head and then whispers, “You deserved that, Fallon.”

And I nod, because he’s right.

He’s right.

Of course he’s right. I’m alive and I’m healthy and yes, the fire left its thumbprint on my skin, but it didn’t take the most important parts of me. It wasn’t able to reach anything beneath the surface. So why am I treating myself like it did?

I have to stop doing this to myself.

“Shh,” he whispers, thumbing the tears on my cheeks. My emotions are all over the place. I’m so pissed that he felt he has the right to even talk to me that way, but the fact that he just talked to me that way made my heart wish it had lips so it could kiss him. And I’m pissed off at myself for being so self-centered these last few years. Sure, the fire sucked. Yes, I wish it never happened. But it did and I can’t change it so I need to get over it.

I want to laugh, because everything he just said feels like a weight has been removed from my chest and I’m breathing for the first time in three years.

Everything feels different. Newer. Like the air is buzzing, reminding me that I’m lucky to be here, breathing it in.

So I do just that. I take in a deep breath and I throw my arms around him, burying my head in the crevice of his neck and shoulder.

“Thank you,” I whisper. “You *.”

I feel him laughing, so I lie back down on my pillow and allow him to wipe more tears away. He’s looking down at me like I’m a beautiful mess, and I’m not going to allow myself to question that. Because I am. I’m a beautiful f*cking mess and he’s lucky to be on top of me right now.

I slide my hands to his chest and feel his heart pounding through his shirt. It’s pounding as hard as mine is.

We lock eyes and he doesn’t ask permission when he dips his head and brushes my mouth with his. “Fallon, I’m worked up so damn tight. I’m going to kiss you now and I’m not sorry.”

And then his lips claim mine. My head is swimming, my body feels like it’s floating and I can’t move my arms. But I don’t have to, because he raises my hands above my head and interlocks our fingers, pushing them into the mattress. His tongue slides against mine and there’s so much feeling in it, it’s as if he’s kissing me the same way he looks at me. From the inside out.

He slowly plants kisses down my neck, keeping my hands secured to the bed, not allowing me to touch him back while he explores my skin. God, I’ve missed him. I’ve missed the way I feel when I’m with him. I wish I could have this every day. Once a year isn’t near enough.