November 9, Colleen Hoover

“Spoiler alert. They lived happily ever after.” And then I kiss her. And it’s a twelve.

One of his hands finds its way through the expensive implanted follicles of hair that line his forehead. “Why are you doing this?” He’s becoming increasingly annoyed with my attitude by the second.

I don’t even know what to say to that. The man has absolutely zero remorse. I both hate and envy it. In a way, I wish I were more like him and less like my mother. He’s oblivious to his many flaws, whereas mine are the focal point of my life. My flaws are what wake me up in the morning and what keep me awake every night.

I run my fingers over the areas of skin that now resemble puckered leather. Scars that constantly remind me that the fire was real and not just a nightmare I can force myself awake from with a pinch on the arm.

I’m always absentmindedly running my fingers up and down my neck or arm, reading the braille on my skin, until I realize what I’m doing and stop.

I do what I can to avoid people most of the time, and not because I’m afraid they’ll stare at my scars. I avoid them because they don’t stare. The second people notice me, they look away just as fast, because they’re afraid to appear rude or judgmental. Just once it would be nice if someone looked me in the eyes and held my stare. It’s been so long since that’s happened. I hate to admit that I miss the attention I used to get, but I do.

Such an unkempt appearance should be a turnoff, but that’s what I find so odd. Despite him looking like he doesn’t have one iota of self-absorption, he’s one of the most attractive guys I’ve ever seen. I think.

The only sense of relief I feel at this point is from knowing I’ll be on the opposite coast from him come this time tomorrow. Even if I am trading sunshine for snow.

“Touché. But in my defense, this makes your fifth proposal since I was ten.”

“Listen, Ben.” He says his name with a mouthful of distaste. “Fallon doesn’t need you filling her head with nonsense simply because you’re excited about the prospect of having a booty-call on the East Coast.” Oh, my God. Did my father just refer to me as this guy’s booty call? My mouth is agape as he continues.

I close my eyes. Whoever said the truth hurts was being an optimist. The truth is an excruciatingly painful son of a bitch.

I should have been gone. I should have left half an hour ago. Coulda, shoulda, woulda.

“So tell me something,” she says, leaning forward. “Why’d you think I needed you to come to my rescue with that fake boyfriend crap?” And there it is. She’s upset with me. I kind of thought she might be. “I didn’t think you needed rescuing. I just sometimes find it difficult to control my indignation in the presence of absurdity.” She raises an eyebrow. “You’re definitely a writer, because who the hell talks like that?” 

She smiles. “A little too good. It’s weirding me out, to be honest. Is this the moment you break the ultimate boyfriend illusion and tell me you knocked up my cousin while we were on a break?” I can’t help but laugh again. Definitely deadpan wit. “I didn’t knock her up. She was already seven months pregnant when I slept with her.”

I do find humor in the fact that she thinks there’s this all-magical age when a woman finally has all her shit figured out. But I will admit that one of my favorite quotes is actually one she made up. “You’ll never be able to find yourself if you’re lost in someone else.” So despite the fact that Benton James Kessler could have walked right off the pages of one of the many romance novels I keep stocked on my bedroom shelf—the guy doesn’t have a chance in hell with me for at least five more years.

Ben gives them a quick wave and then removes his arm from around my shoulders, sliding his fingers through mine. “Nice to meet you both.” He points down the hall. “I’m gonna follow Fallon to her room now so I can see what kind of panties she has on.” Amber’s mouth falls open and Glenn laughs. I push Ben’s arm, shocked he took the joke that far. “No, you’re following me to my room to help me pack.” He pushes out his bottom lip in a pout. I roll my eyes and lead him down the hall to my room.

He walks toward the door to my bedroom, but faces me again before he exits. “I want you to wear your hair up tonight.” “Don’t push your luck.” He laughs. “Why the hell does luck exist if I’m not supposed to push it?”

I wish I wouldn’t have walked into that restaurant today. People can’t miss what they’ve never been introduced to.

I don’t think a single part of me could possibly smile when she’s touching me like this, because there’s absolutely nothing good about the fact that I’m not going to feel this way again after tonight. It’s fucking cruel.

“My mother says the majority of people have their lives figured out by the age of twenty-three, so I want to make sure I know who I am and what I want out of life before I allow myself to fall in love. Because it’s easy to fall in love, Ben. The hard part comes when you want out.”

“Falling in love may not be a conscious decision, but removing yourself from the situation before it happens is.

Guys see boobs coupled with a great sense of humor and think they’ve found the holy fucking grail.

I’m finished packing. He doesn’t have to leave right this minute. Does he? He really doesn’t. Sex releases endorphins and endorphins keep people awake, so having sex with Ben might actually benefit me before my flight.

“Well, the airport is absolutely not in the direction of my house, but . . . I’ll pretend it is if you want me to drive you.” Dammit, he’s adorable. His words make me feel all warm and fuzzy, and . . . I’m not a damn teddy bear. I need to suck it up.

It’s a bittersweet feeling. I’ve only visited New York a handful of times and I’m not even sure if it’s something I’ll like. But this apartment is too comfortable, and comfort can sometimes be a crutch when it comes to figuring out your life. Goals are achieved through discomfort and hard work. They aren’t achieved when you hide out in a place where you’re nice and cozy.

“There’s a quote that reminds me of you, from Dylan Thomas. My favorite poet.” “What is it?” A slow smile warms its way across his mouth. He dips his head and whispers the quote against my lips. “‘I have longed to move away but am afraid; Some life, yet unspent, might explode.’”

I’m scared people will take one look at me and laugh.” “What’s wrong with that?” “With being laughed at?” I ask. “For one, it’s humiliating. And it’s a confidence killer.” He looks at me pointedly. “I hope they laugh at you, Fallon. If people are laughing at you, it means you’re putting yourself out there to be laughed at. Not enough people have the courage to even take that step.”

“Meeting up once a year on the same date sounds like a really good basis for a romance novel. If you fictionalized our story, I’d add it to the top of my TBR.”

November 9th has been an anniversary I’ve dreaded since the night of the fire, and this is the first time the thought of that date leaves me with a positive feeling.

“But what if one of us falls in love with someone else?” he asks. “Won’t that ruin the book if we don’t end up together in the end?” “Whether or not the couple ends up together at the end of a book doesn’t determine whether that book has a happy ending or not. As long as the two people end up happy, it doesn’t really matter if they end up happy together.”

And I want bigger boobs. And less flab.”

Rather than pull into a parking garage like I was hoping he would, he pulls into the drop-off lane. I feel pathetic that I’m disappointed he didn’t offer to walk me inside, because he drove me all the way to the airport. I can’t be greedy.

I have to force myself to make a life before the one I’m not living swallows me whole.

Five people is enough time to talk myself out of moving to New York, so I close my eyes and think about everything in New York that I’m excited about. Hot dog stands. Broadway. Times Square. Hell’s Kitchen. The Statue of Liberty. The Museum of Modern Art. Central Park.

Her tears and my soul, they live parallel lives. Run, ache, burn. Repeat. Her tears and my soul, they live parallel lives. —BENTON JAMES KESSLER

I realize now that my mother wasn’t trying to embarrass me. She was just proud of me. But I still never show anyone the things I write. It’s almost like saying every thought out loud. Some things just aren’t for public consumption. And I don’t know how to explain that to Fallon. She assumes, based on our agreement last year, that I’m writing a novel that she’ll one day read. And as much as she claims it’s fiction, every sentence I’ve written in the past year is more truthful than anything I’d ever admit out loud. I’m hoping after today I can start rewriting it in order to give her something to read, but the last year of writing down my fucked-up life has been kind of therapeutic.

I grip the door handle and pull it the rest of the way open. I try to play it cool, to not come off nervous. Or worse, excited. I’ve studied enough romance novels to know girls like it when the guys are somewhat aloof. I read somewhere those kinds of guys are called alpha males. Be a jackass, Kessler. Just a little bit. You can do it.

So much for playing aloof. I literally lasted zero seconds when it came to the alpha-male alter ego I’ve been practicing.

I forgot how hot it is in California. He really needs to turn on a fan.

I don’t know what’s more strange. Talking to Ben about making out with another guy or the fact that I’m so comfortable talking to Ben about making out with another guy.

“What’s your favorite color?” “Malachite green.” I make a face. “That’s a very specific green, but okay.” “It’s what color your eyes are. Also happens to be my favorite mineral.”

It makes me wonder if my father is right. I might be dreaming too big. And despite Ben having given me a lot of my confidence back, it doesn’t make an industry built on looks any less shallow.

Maybe I don’t know the first thing about falling in love, because I’ve been telling myself I’m not falling for him yet. That it’s too soon. But it’s not. What’s happening inside my heart right now is way too consequential to deny. I think I’ve been misjudging the whole concept of insta-love. Now if I can just figure out how we can finish these next few years with a happy ending.

I was walking past an art studio a couple of weeks ago and noticed a flyer for an event called “The life and death of Dylan Thomas. But mostly the death.” He’s brought up Dylan Thomas’s name a couple of times, so I know he likes his work. And the fact that the event takes place in that studio today of all days isn’t nearly as fascinating as what else I learned from the flyer. Dylan Thomas died in New York City in 1953. On November 9th. What are the odds?I had to Google that information just to make sure it was right. It is. And I have no idea if Ben even knows that about Dylan Thomas. I’m kind of hoping he doesn’t so I can see the look on his face when I tell him.

“It’s a little bit like Sleepless in Seattle,” Tate says. I immediately shake my head. “It’s nothing like that. They only agreed to meet up once.” “True. It’s like One Day, then. That movie with Anne Hathaway?” Again, I dismiss her comparison. “That just focuses on one particular day every year, but the two people still interact throughout the year like normal. Fallon and I have no contact.” I don’t know why I’m being so defensive. I think writers just naturally become defensive when their ideas are compared to other ideas, even if it’s done innocently. But mine and Fallon’s story is one-of-a-kind, and I feel somewhat protective of it. Very protective of it, actually.

I close and lock the door behind me. She’s facing the bed as she reaches up and pulls her hair into a knot, securing it with a rubber band she’s had around her wrist all day. I take a moment to admire the perfection of the curve between her neck and shoulder. I step forward and slip my arms around her waist so that I can press my lips against that very spot. I shower her in soft kisses from her shoulder to her ear and back down again. I kiss away the chills I’m responsible for. She makes a quiet sound, somewhere between a sigh and a moan. “I’ll let you shower,” I tell her without releasing her. “Towels are under the sink.”

The hem of his shirt falls several inches above my knees. It’s just long enough to where he can’t tell that I’m not wearing underwear right now. It’s also just short enough to where he’s probably praying I’m not wearing underwear right now. His eyes drop to my legs again and he begins to speak slowly, as if he’s reciting poetry. “The only sea I saw, Was the seesaw sea, With you riding on it. Lie down, lie easy. Let me shipwreck in your thighs.” His eyes drag up my body until they meet mine. “Dylan Thomas,” he says. I release a slow breath. “Wow,” I say. “Poetry porn. Who knew?”

I’m not sure if sex is supposed to make you feel like you’ve just lost a part of yourself to the person inside you, but that’s exactly what it felt like. It felt as if the second we joined together, a tiny piece of our souls got confused and a piece of his fell into me and a piece of mine fell into him. It was by far the single most intense moment I’ve ever shared with another person.

It’s only three more years. If we’re meant to be together, three years is nothing.” I laugh, but my laugh is short and humorless. “Meant to be together? Are you listening to yourself? This isn’t one of your fairy tales, Fallon. This is real life, and in the real world you have to bust your ass for the happy ever after!”

“When you find love, you take it. You grab it with both hands and you do everything in your power not to let it go. You can’t just walk away from it and expect it to linger until you’re ready for it.”

• “When the world puts something that obvious in front of you, you don't just walk away.”

  (This Is Us里，Rebecca和Jack逛超市看见Pin The Tail On The Donkey的玩具盒，封面上简直就是三个小Pearson。Jack看过笑笑过打算放回货架，Rebecca就说了这句话。这个游戏变成了Pearson经典项目。）

“The one thing I want more than anything is for the whole world to laugh at you, Ben.” I can hear the tears in her voice. “And they can’t do that if I don’t do for you what you did for me the day we met. You let me go. You encouraged me to go. And I want the same for you. I want you to follow your passion instead of your heart.” The cab begins to back away, and for a split second I think maybe she’ll realize how fucked up her priorities are, because she’s my passion. The book was just an excuse.

I debate running after her—giving her a book-worthy performance. I could chase down the cab and when it comes to a stop, I could pull open her door and whisk her into my arms and tell her I’m in love with her. That I finished falling in love with her almost immediately after I started, because it was a straight plummet from the top to the bottom. A whoosh. An instant. Insta-love. But she hates insta-love. Apparently she hates semi-instant love and slow love and love at a snail’s pace and love in general and . . . “Fuck!” I curse at the empty street, because for once, I get exactly what I deserve.

I’m not one to believe things happen for a reason, so I refuse to believe it was our fate not to end up together. If I believed that, then I’d have to believe it was fate for Kyle to die at such a young age. I’d much rather believe shit just happens. Injured in a fire? Shit happens. Lost your career? Shit happens. Lost the love of your life to a widow with an infant? Shit happens. The last thing I want to believe is that my fate has already been mapped out for me and I get no say in where or who I end up with. But if that’s the case and my life will turn out the same in the end¸ no matter what choices I make, then why does it matter if I leave my apartment tonight?

And I’m in love with her. Like, really in love with her. Crippling, debilitating, paralyzing love. So please accept my sincerest apologies, because she’s coming home with me tonight. I hope. I pray.” Ben shoots me an endearing look. “Please? Otherwise this speech will make me look like a complete fool and that won’t be good when we tell our grandkids about this.” He holds out his hand for me to take, but I’m as frozen in place as poor Theodore is.

As I pass Ben and head for the parking lot, I narrow my eyes at him and point. “You have a lot of explaining to do, though. A lot. And even more groveling.” “I’m very capable of both of those things,” Ben says, following after me. “And you have to cook me breakfast,” I add. “I like well-done bacon and over-easy eggs.” “Got it,” Ben says. “Explain myself, then grovel, then Nakey-nakey, eggs, and bakey.” He puts his arm around my shoulder and redirects me to his car. He opens the passenger door for me, but before he climbs inside, he cups my face and presses his lips to mine. When he pulls back, I’m shocked by how much emotion is in his expression after the ridiculousness of the past fifteen minutes. “You won’t regret this, Fallon. I promise.” I hope not.

“To begin, at the beginning.” —Dylan Thomas

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.

“Break in the sun till the sun breaks down, And death shall have no dominion.” —Dylan Thomas   Most people don’t know what death sounds like. I do. Death sounds like the absence of footsteps down the hallway. It sounds like a morning shower not being taken. Death sounds like the lack of the voice that should be yelling my name from the kitchen, telling me to get out of bed. Death sounds like the absence of the knock on my door that usually comes moments before my alarm goes off.

I reached over and pulled the edge of her shirt aside so I could read the entire quote. Though Lovers be lost, love shall not. I stood up and walked a few steps away from her, hoping the chills would go as fast as they arrived. The quote never meant anything until now. When she first got it, I assumed it meant that just because two people stopped loving one another didn’t mean their love never existed. I couldn’t relate to it before, but now it feels like the tattoo was a premonition. Like she got it because she wanted me to see that even though she’s gone, her love isn’t. And it pisses me off that I didn’t know how to relate to words on her body until her body was nothing more than just a body.

We were talking about love and I had asked her how you know if you’re really in love with someone. At first, she gave the quintessential answer, “You just know.”

“When I say you just know, it’s because you will. You won’t question it. You don’t wonder if what you feel is actually love, because when it is, you’ll be absolutely terrified that you’re in it. And when that happens, your priorities will change. You won’t think about yourself and your own happiness. You’ll only think about that person, and how you would do anything to see them happy. Even if it meant walking away from them and sacrificing your own happiness for theirs.” She gave me a sidelong glance. “That’s what love is, Ben. Love is sacrifice.” She tapped her finger against the tattoo on her left wrist—the tattoo that had been there since before I was born. “I got this tattoo the day I felt that kind of love for your father. And I chose it because if I had to describe love that day, I would say it felt like my two favorite things, amplified and thrown together. Like my favorite poetic line mixed into the lyrics of my favorite song.” She looked at me again, very seriously. “You’ll know, Ben. When you’re willing to give up the things that mean the most to you just to see someone else happy, that’s real love.”

“Why did you get the tattoo, though?” I asked her. “So my father would know you loved him?” She shakes her head. “I didn’t get it for your father, or even because of your father. I got it mostly for myself, because I knew with one hundred percent certainty I had learned how to love selflessly. It was the first time I wanted more happiness for the person I was with than I wanted for myself. And a mixture of my two favorite things was the only way I could think to describe the way that kind of love feels. I wanted to remember it forever, in case I never felt it again.”

After I found her, I checked to make sure she really was gone and then I called 911. I had to stay on the phone with the operator until the police arrived, so I didn’t have a chance to case her bedroom for a suicide note. The police found it and picked it up with a pair of tweezers and put it in a Ziploc bag. Once they sealed it up as evidence, I just didn’t have the balls to ask them if I could read it.

But my mother was also smart. And even though a relationship she thought had promise ended a few days ago, she just didn’t seem like the type who would take her life to prove to a man that he should have stuck with her. And she’s never loved a man enough to feel as though she couldn’t live without him. That kind of love isn’t real, anyway. If parents have been able to survive the loss of children, then men and women can easily live with the loss of a relationship.

I observe him as he toys under the hood.

But when it comes to a battle between your adrenaline and your conscience, adrenaline always wins.

She knew I would be the one to find her. She knew what this would do to me and she still did it and I’ve never loved someone I hate so much, and I’ve never hated someone I love so much.

We don’t get to choose our parents, and parents don’t get to choose their children. But we do get to choose how hard we’re willing to work in order to make the best of what we’re given.

When a person is in a lot of physical pain—say they accidentally slice off their hand—the human body produces endorphins. These endorphins act similarly to drugs such as morphine or codeine. So it’s normal not to feel very much pain right after an accident.

If my illness was something I could fight, you boys know I would have fought it with everything I have. But that’s the thing about cancer. They call it the fight, as if the stronger ones win and the weaker ones lose, but that’s not what cancer is at all. Cancer isn’t one of the players in the game. Cancer is the game.

And please don’t worry about me. My suffering is over. In the wise words of Dylan Thomas . . . After the first death, there is no other.

“Somebody’s boring me. I think it’s me.” —Dylan Thomas

I disagreed with him and the way he delivered it, he never was the best at communication. Besides, I obviously had it out for him as soon as he sat down at the booth. He went into defense mode, I was in attack mode, and things just went south from there.

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.

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

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 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.”

“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.

To my parents, my sisters, Heath and the boys. All of you. I know our lives have changed drastically over the last few years. It means the world to me that every single one of you has been open and receptive to these changes. You don’t argue when I forget to call you back, you don’t get mad when I travel too much and you don’t burn my clothes when I fail to unpack them from my suitcases for weeks at a time. Your patience and understanding is appreciated. You are my foundation, my backbone, my heart. All of you.

To X Ambassadors, one of the greatest bands of our time. Thank you for inspiring so much of this book. Thank you for creating music that feeds our souls.