November 9

I also notice a missed text from my mother that came in two hours ago.

I’m bringing you breakfast tomorrow. I’ll let myself in when I get there, so no need to set an alarm.

Crap.

I really don’t want company when I wake up. Not from Amber, not from my mom, not from anyone. At least I know my dad won’t remember the anniversary. That’s a plus side to our sporadic relationship.

I click the button on the side of my cell phone to lock it, and then I wrap my arms back around my knees. I’m sitting on my couch, dressed in pajamas that I don’t plan to take off until November 10th. I’m not leaving this house for the next twenty-four hours. I’m not speaking to a single person. Well, except to my mom when she brings me breakfast, but after that, I’m taking the day off from the world.

I decided after what I went through last year with Ben, that this date is cursed. From now on, no matter how old or married I am, I will never leave my home on November 9th.

I’ve also reserved it as the only day I’ll allow myself to think about the fire. To think about Ben. To think about all the things I wasted on him. Because no one is worth that much heartache. No excuse is good enough to justify what he did to me.

Which is why, when I left his apartment last year, I drove straight to the police station and filed a restraining order against him.

It’s been exactly one year and I haven’t heard from him since the night I drove away.

I never told anyone what happened. Not my father, not Amber, not my mother. Not because I didn’t want him to get in trouble, because I do believe he deserves to pay for what he did to me.

But because I was embarrassed.

I trusted this man. I loved him. I believed whole-heartedly that the connection between us was rare and real and that we were one of a lucky few who found love like ours.

Finding out that he was lying throughout our entire relationship is something I’m still trying to process. Every day I wake up and force myself to push thoughts of him out of my head. I went on with my life as if Benton James Kessler had never entered it. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Most of the time it doesn’t.

I thought about seeing a therapist. I thought about telling my mom about him and his responsibility for the fire. I even thought about talking to my dad about him. But it’s hard to bring him up when most of the time I’m trying to pretend he never existed.

I keep telling myself it will get easier. That I’ll meet someone someday who will be able to blind me to thoughts of Ben, but so far I won’t even bring myself to trust someone enough to flirt with them.

It’s one thing to experience trust issues with men due to infidelity. But Ben lied to me on such a large scale that I have no idea what was true, what was a lie and what was fabricated for his book. The only thing I know to be accurate is that he was somehow responsible for the fire that almost took my life. And I don’t care if it was intentional or an accident, that isn’t the part that infuriates me the most.

I’m the most devastated when I think about all the times he made my scars feel beautiful, while never once admitting that he was actually the one who put them there.

No excuse will ever justify those lies. So there isn’t even a point in hearing them.

In fact, there isn’t even a point in allowing myself to think about it any more than I already have. I should just go to bed. Maybe by some miracle, I’ll sleep through most of tomorrow.

I reach over and turn off the lamp next to my couch. As I’m making my way toward the bedroom, there’s a knock on my front door.

Amber.

She’s done well not to bring up today’s date until yesterday. She pretended she wanted to have a sleepover out of the blue a few hours ago, but I declined. I know she just doesn’t want me to be alone tonight, but it’s a lot easier to mope when there’s no one to judge you.

I unlock my apartment door and open it.

No one is here.

Chills run up my arms. Amber wouldn’t do something like this. She wouldn’t find humor in pranking a girl who lives alone this late at night.

I immediately step back inside the apartment to slam the door shut, but right before I go to close it, I glance down at the ground and see a cardboard box. It isn’t wrapped, but there’s an envelope on it with my name sprawled across the top.

I glance around, but there’s no one near my door. There is a car pulling away, though, and I wish it wasn’t so dark so I could see if I recognized the vehicle.

I glance back down at the package and then quickly scoop it up and rush inside, locking the door behind me.

It looks like one of the cardboard gift boxes that department stores use to package shirts, but the contents are much heavier than a shirt. I set it on the kitchen counter and peel the envelope off the top of it.

It isn’t sealed. The flap is just tucked into the back of the envelope, so I pull the piece of paper out and unfold it.

Fallon,

I’ve spent most of my life preparing to write something as important as this letter. But for the first time, I don’t feel like the English language has developed enough letters in the alphabet to adequately express the words I want to say to you.

When you left last year, you left with my soul in your hands and my heart in your teeth, and I knew I would never get either of them back. You can keep them, I don’t really need them anymore.

I’m not writing this letter in hopes that you will forgive me. You deserve better. You always have. Nothing I can say would ever make my feet worthy enough to walk on the same ground you walk upon. Nothing I can do would ever make my heart worthy enough to share a love with yours.