November 9(68)

Or do I run?

How can I run from someone I’ve slowly given myself to over the course of four years?

Or is it six?

Has he known me since I was sixteen?

Did he know me the day we met in the restaurant?

Was he there because of me?

So much blood, all of it, every drop is rushing through my head, even my ears begin to ache from the pressure. Fear grips my body like I’m a cliff and it’s dangling from my ledge. It grips every part of me.

I need to get out of here. I grab my phone and quietly call for a cab.

They say there’s one down the street and it will arrive in a few minutes.

I’m consumed by so much fear. Fear of these pages in my hands. Fear of deception. Fear of the man asleep in the next room who I just promised all of my tomorrows to.

I scoot the chair back to get my stuff together, but before I stand, I hear his bedroom door open. On high alert, I swing my head over my shoulder. He’s paused in his doorway, wiping sleep from his eyes.

If I could freeze this moment, I would take full advantage so that I could study him. I would run my fingers over his lips to see if they really were as soft as the words that come from them. I would pick up his hands and brush my thumbs over his palms to see if they really felt capable of caressing the scars they were responsible for. I would wrap my arms around him and stand on my tiptoes to whisper in his ear, “Why didn’t you tell me that the foundation you taught me to stand on is made from quicksand?”

I see his gaze flicker to the pages of his manuscript that are gripped tightly in my hand. In a matter of seconds, every thought he has flashes across his face.

He’s wondering how I found it.

He’s wondering how much I’ve read.

Ben the Writer.

I want to laugh, because Benton James Kessler isn’t a writer. He’s an actor. A master of deception who just completed a four-year-long performance.

For the first time, I don’t see him as the Ben I fell in love with. The Ben who singlehandedly changed my life.

Right now, I see him only as a stranger.

Someone I know absolutely nothing about.

“What are you doing, Fallon?”

His voice makes me flinch. It sounds exactly the same as the voice that said, “I love you,” just an hour ago.

Only now, his voice fills me with panic. Terror consumes me as a rush of unease takes over.

I have no idea who he is.

I have no idea what his motive has been these past few years.

I have no idea what he’s capable of.

He begins to advance toward me, so I do the only thing I can think to do. I run to the other side of the table, hoping to put a safe distance between myself and this man.

Hurt washes over his face when he sees my reaction, but I have no idea if it’s genuine or rehearsed. I have no idea if I should believe everything I just read . . . or if he made it all up for the sake of having a plotline.

I’ve cried for lots of reasons in my life. Mostly from sadness, sometimes out of frustration or anger. But this is the first time a tear has ever escaped because of fear.

Ben watches the tear roll down my cheek and he holds up a reassuring hand. “Fallon.” His eyes are wide, and they hold almost as much fear as mine. But I have no idea anymore if what I see on his face is real. “Fallon, please. Let me explain.”

He seems so concerned. So genuine. Maybe it’s fiction. Maybe he turned our story into fiction. Surely he didn’t do this to me. I point at the manuscript, hoping he doesn’t notice the trembling of my hand. “Is that true, Ben?”

He glances to the manuscript, but then he looks back up at me, as if he can’t stomach seeing the pages on the table. Shake your head, Ben. Deny it. Please.

He does nothing.

His lack of denial hits me hard and I gasp.

“Let me explain. Please. Just . . .” He begins to move toward me, so I stumble backward until I meet the wall.

I need out of here. I need to get away from him.

He moves right instead of left, which puts him further away from the front door than me. I can make it. If I move fast enough, I can make it to the door before him.

But why is he allowing that to happen? Why would he allow me the chance to run?

“I want to leave,” I tell him. “Please.”

He nods, but he’s still holding a hand up in the air, palm facing me. His nod tells me one thing, but his hand is asking me to stay put. I know he wants to give me an explanation . . . but unless he’s going to tell me that what I just read isn’t true, then I don’t want to stay and listen to anything else he has to say.

I just need him to tell me it’s not true.

“Ben,” I whisper, my hands pressed flat against the wall behind me. “Please tell me what I read isn’t true. Please tell me I’m not your f*cking plot twist.”

My words pull out the one expression I was hoping I wouldn’t see. Regret.

I taste the bile again.

I clench my stomach.

“Oh, God.”

I want out. I need out of here before I’m too sick and weak to leave. The next few seconds are a hazy blur as I mutter, “Oh, God,” again and rush toward the couch. I need my purse. My shoes. I want out, I want out, I want out. I reach the door and slide the dead bolt to the left, but his hand cups mine and his chest meets my back, pressing me against the door.