November 9: A Novel

He closes his bedroom door behind us and pulls me in for a long hug.

I’ve second-guessed my decision to show up today since the minute I bought my ticket. I almost turned around a hundred different times. I didn’t think he’d want to see me with everything going on in his life right now. I thought maybe he would be angry that he told me he’d see me next year, but I showed up unannounced anyway.

I never anticipated seeing the relief wash over his face when he opened the door. I never anticipated him kissing me like he missed me just as much as I’ve missed him. I never thought he’d just stand here and hug me for as long as he’s been hugging me. He hasn’t spoken a single word to me yet, but his actions have said a million thank yous.

I close my eyes and keep my head pressed against his chest. He has one hand wrapped around the back of my head and the other hand secured around my back. I could stand here all night. If this is all we did—if he never even speaks a single word—it’s worth the trip.

I wonder if he feels the same way? If thoughts of me consume him all day long like thoughts of him consume me? If everything he does and everywhere he goes, he wishes he were sharing it with me?

He kisses the top of my head and then plants his hands on my cheeks, tilting my face up to his. “I can’t believe you’re here,” he says. I can see a smile at war with the devastation in his expression. I don’t speak, because I still don’t know what to say. I just run my hand down the side of his face and brush my thumb over his lips.

I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s even more appealing this year than last. He’s all man now. Gone are the pieces of boy I could still catch a glimpse of the last time I saw him.

“How are you holding up?” I’m still stroking his face and he’s still stroking mine, but he doesn’t answer me. Instead, he connects his lips with mine and walks me backward, away from the door. He gently lowers me onto the bed, adjusting me so that I’m lying on his pillow. He breaks our kiss and slides over me. He doesn’t lie adjacent to me. Instead, he presses his head against my chest and listens to my heartbeat as he secures his arms tightly around me. I bring my hand up and begin to stroke his hair in long, slow movements.

We lie quietly for so long, I begin to wonder if he’s fallen asleep. But after a few minutes, his grip around me grows desperate. He tilts his face until it’s completely buried in my shirt, and his shoulders begin to shake as he starts to cry.

It feels like my heart explodes into millions of tiny tears, and I want to wrap myself around him while he mourns. But his cry is so quiet, I can tell he doesn’t want me to acknowledge it. He just needs me to let him cry, so that’s exactly what I do.

• • •

Five minutes pass before he pulls himself together, but half an hour passes before he finally pulls away from me. He lifts off my chest and lies down next to me on his pillow. I roll over to face him. His eyes are still red, but he’s no longer crying. He reaches to my face and brushes away a strand of hair, looking at me appreciatively.

“How did it happen?” I ask.

The sadness immediately reenters his eyes but he doesn’t hesitate with his answer.

“He was on his way home from work when his car ran off the road,” he says. “A slip of attention. Three seconds and he hit a damn tree. He and Jordyn were supposed to leave on vacation that night and I’m pretty sure he was texting her when it happened, based on what the police told me. I’m hoping she hasn’t figured that out yet, though. I hope she never does.” I quietly begin tracing my fingers over his hand. “She’s pregnant,” he adds.

My fingers pause their movement and I gasp.

“I know,” he says. “It’s shit luck. They’re supposed to be celebrating their anniversary this weekend.”

I hadn’t thought of that, but as soon as he brings it up, I think about Jordyn last year and the frenzy she was in as she prepared for her impending wedding with Kyle. And now, just one year later, she’s having to prepare for his impending funeral. “That’s so sad. How far along is she?”

“She’s due in February.”

I try to put myself in her shoes. I’m almost positive she’s twenty-four now. I can’t imagine being that young and losing a husband months before the birth of my first child. It’s incomprehensible.

“When do you go back to New York?” he asks.

“First thing tomorrow morning. I can stay at my mother’s tonight, though, if I need to. I have to be up really early.”

He brings his mouth to mine. “You aren’t sleeping anywhere but in this bed.”

A loud knock prevents his lips from reaching me and his attention moves to the door. It swings open and Ian walks in, looks at me and then does a double take.

He points at me, but is looking at Ben. “There’s a chick in your bed.”

We both sit up. When we do, Ian cocks his head, narrowing his eyes in my direction. “Wait. I’ve met you before. Fallon, right?”

I won’t lie; it feels good that his brother remembers me. Not that my face is one a person easily forgets. But he didn’t have to remember my name and he did, so that can only mean that girls aren’t in Ben’s bed very often.

“It was nice of you to come,” Ian says. “You hungry? Came up to let Ben know that dinner’s on the table.”

Ben groans as he scoots off the bed. “Let me guess. Casserole?”

Ian shakes his head. “Tate was craving pizza, so we ordered delivery.”

“Thank God.” Ben pulls me up. “Let’s go eat.”