November 9(83)

“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.