November 9: A Novel

Part 7 – Last November 9th

If lies were written, I would erase them

But they are spoken; etched within

With convalesced truth, I scream out my atonement

Let me repent against your skin.

—BENTON JAMES KESSLER

There were 83,456 words in the manuscript I dropped off at her front door last night. There are roughly 23,000 words in the first five chapters, before she would have gotten to the note. She could have easily read 23,000 words in three hours. If she started the manuscript right after I dropped it off, she would have finished the first section by 3 a.m.

But it’s almost midnight. It’s been almost twenty-four hours since I saw her pick up the manuscript and close her door. Which means she’s had twenty-one hours to spare and she’s still not here.

Which means, obviously, she isn’t coming.

Most of me believed she wouldn’t show up today, but a small part of me still held out hope. I can’t say that her choice has broken my heart, because that would mean my heart was still whole to be broken.

I’ve been heartbroken for a solid year, so her not showing up feels just as crippling as the last 365 days have felt.

I’m surprised the restaurant has let me wait it out here in this booth for so long. I’ve been here since the crack of dawn this morning in hopes that she stayed up and read the manuscript last night. Now that it’s almost midnight, that’s a good eighteen hours I’ve spent occupying this booth. That’s gonna be one big tip.

At 11:55 p.m., I leave the tip. I don’t want to be here when the clock strikes November 10th. I’d rather wait out the last five minutes in my car.

When I open the door to leave the restaurant, the waitress shoots me a pitiful look. I’m sure she’s never seen anyone wait so long after being stood up, but at least it’ll give her a good story to tell.

It’s 11:56 p.m. when I reach the parking lot.

It’s 11:56 p.m. when I see her open her door and step out of her car.

It’s still 11:56 p.m. when I clasp my hands behind my head and suck in a rush of cool November air just to see if my lungs are working.

She’s standing by her car, the wind blowing strands of hair across her face as she looks at me from across the parking lot. I feel like if I take a step toward her, the earth would crumble beneath my feet from the weight of my heart. We both stand still for several long seconds.

She glances down at the phone in her hands, and then she looks back up at me. “It’s 11:57, Ben. We only have three minutes to do this.”

I stare at her, wondering what she means by that. Is she leaving in three minutes? Is she only giving me three minutes to plead my case with her? Questions are bouncing around in my head when I see the corner of her mouth lift into a smile.

She’s smiling.

As soon as I realize she’s smiling, I’m running. I make it across the parking lot in a matter of seconds. I wrap my arms around her and pull her against me and when I feel her arms go around me, I do the most non-alpha thing I can possibly do.

I cry like a fucking baby.

My arms are squeezing her tight, my hands are wrapped around the back of her head, my face is pressed into her hair. And I hold her for so long, I have no idea if it’s still November 9th anymore or if it’s the 10th now. But the date doesn’t matter, because I’m going to love her through every single one of them.

She loosens her grip and pulls away from my shoulder to look up at me. We’re both smiling now, and I can’t believe this girl found it in her heart to forgive me. But she did, I can see it all over her face. I can see it in her eyes, in her smile, in the way she holds herself. And I can feel it in the way her thumbs brush over my cheeks, wiping my tears away.

“Do fictional boyfriends cry as much as I do?” I ask her.

She laughs. “Only the really great ones.”

I drop my forehead to hers and I squeeze my eyes shut. I want to soak this moment up for as long as I can. Just because she’s here and just because she has forgiven me doesn’t mean she’s here to love me forever. And I have to be prepared to accept that.

“Ben, I have something I want to say.”

I pull back and look down at her. Now there are tears in her eyes, so I don’t feel so pathetic. She reaches up and puts her hands on my face, gently stroking my cheek. “I didn’t come here to forgive you.”

I can feel the hardening of my jaw, but I try to relax. I knew this was a possibility. And I have to respect her decision, no matter how hard it will be for me.

“You were sixteen,” she says. “You had been through one of the worst things a child could ever experience. Your actions from that night weren’t because you were a bad person, Ben. It was because you were a scared teenage boy and sometimes people make mistakes. You’ve carried so much guilt for what you did, and for so long. You can’t ask for my forgiveness, because there’s nothing to forgive. If anything, I’m here for your forgiveness. Because I know your heart, Ben, and your heart is only capable of love. I should have recognized that last year when I doubted you. I should have given you the chance to explain it then. If I had just listened to you, then we could have avoided an entire year of heartache. So for that . . . I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. And I hope you can forgive me.”

She’s looking up at me with genuine hope—like she honestly believes she’s partly at fault for anything we’ve ever been through.

“You aren’t allowed to apologize to me, Fallon.”

She lets out a rush of air and nods. “Then you aren’t allowed to apologize to me.”

“Fine,” I say. “I forgive myself.”

She laughs. “And I forgive myself.”

She brings her hands up to my hair and runs her fingers through it, smiling up at me. My eyes fall to a bandage on her left wrist and she notices. “Oh. I almost forgot the most important part. It’s why I’m so late.” She begins to unwrap the bandage from around her wrist. “I got a tattoo.” She holds up her wrist, and there’s a small tattoo of an open book. On each of the two open pages lie a comedy and a tragedy mask. “Books and theater,” she says, explaining the tattoo. “My two favorite things. I just got it about two hours ago when I realized how selflessly in love with you I am.” She looks back up at me, her eyes glistening.

I blow out a quick breath, taking her wrist in my hand. I pick it up and I kiss it. “Fallon,” I say. “Come home with me. I want to make love to you and fall asleep with you. And then in the morning, I want to cook you the breakfast I promised you last year. Well-done bacon and over-easy eggs.”

She smiles, but doesn’t agree to the breakfast. “Actually, I’m having breakfast with my father tomorrow.”

Hearing her say that she’s having breakfast with her father makes me even happier than if she would have agreed to have breakfast with me. I know her father isn’t the ideal parent, but he’s still her father. And I’ve felt so much guilt over the fact that I’m responsible for a lot of the strain in their relationship.

“But I’ll still come home with you,” she says.

“Good,” I tell her. “Tonight you’re mine. I’ll just wait to cook you breakfast until the day after tomorrow. And every day after that, until next November 9th when I get down on one knee and give you the most book-worthy marriage proposal in history.”

She slaps me in the chest. “That was a huge spoiler, Ben! Did you not learn about spoiler alerts during your reading binge?”

I grin as I lower my mouth to hers. “Spoiler alert. They lived happily ever after.”

And then I kiss her.

And it’s a twelve.

• • •

Not the end.

Far from it.