If you take one thing from this manuscript, let it be this one simple paragraph. Absorb these words. I want them to stain your soul, because these words are the most important. I’m terrified that my lies have resulted in a loss of the confidence you gained during the times we were together. Because while I did withhold a huge truth from you, the one thing I couldn’t have been more honest about was your beauty. And yes, you have scars. But anyone who sees your scars before they see you doesn’t deserve you. I hope you remember that and believe that. A body is simply a package for the true gifts inside. And you are full of gifts. Selflessness, kindness, compassion. All the things that matter.
Youth and beauty fade. Human decency doesn’t.
I know I said in my previous letter that I didn’t write this for your forgiveness. While that’s the truth, I’m not going to pretend that I’m not praying on my knees for your forgiveness, hoping for a miracle. I’m not going to act like I won’t be sitting at the restaurant for hours upon end, hoping you walk through those doors. Because that’s exactly where I’ll be. And if you don’t show up today, I’ll be there next year. And the next. Every November 9th I’ll wait for you, hoping one day you’ll be able to find enough forgiveness to love me again. But if that doesn’t happen and you never show, I’ll still be grateful to you until the day that I die.
You saved me the day we met, Fallon. I know I was only eighteen, but my life would have turned out so different had we not spent that time together. The first night we had to say goodbye, I drove straight home and started writing this book. It became my new life goal. My new passion. I took college more seriously. I took life more seriously. And because of you and the impact you had on my life, the last two years I spent with Kyle were great ones. When he died, he was proud of me. And that means more to me than you will ever know.
So whether or not you can find it in your heart to love me again, I needed to thank you for saving me. And if there is any part of you capable of forgiving me, you know where I’ll be. Tonight, next year, the next, for eternity.
The choice is yours. You can continue reading this manuscript, and hopefully it will help you find closure. Or you can stop reading now and come forgive me.
Ben
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
Ben
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.