I lean forward to toss my container into the trash can behind her. It's the closest I've come to her since we were sitting in the booth together. Her entire body stiffens with my proximity. Rather than pull back right away, I look her directly in the eye before focusing on her mouth.
"That's what boyfriends are for," I say as I slowly back away from her.
Normally, I wouldn't think twice about the fact that I'm deliberately flirting with a girl. I do it all the time. But Fallon is looking at me like I just committed the cardinal sin, and it makes me question if I've been misreading the vibe between us.
I pull back completely, never shying away from the look of annoyance on her face. She points a finger at me. "That," she says. "Right there. That's the shit I'm referring to."
I'm not sure I know what she's referring to, so I proceed with caution. "You think I'm pretending to flirt with you to make you feel better about yourself?"
"Aren't you?"
Does she really think that? Do people really not flirt with her? Is this because of her scars or because of her insecurities about her scars? Surely guys aren't as shallow as she's implying. If so, I'm embarrassed on behalf of all men. Because this girl should be fighting off the guys who flirt with her, not questioning their motives.
I squeeze the tension from the center of my jaw and then cover my mouth with my hand while I contemplate how to respond. Of course tonight when I think back on this moment, I'll come up with all kinds of great responses. But right now . . . I can't come up with the perfect response to save my life.
I guess I'll just go with honesty. Mostly honest, anyway. That seems to be the best way to respond to this girl, since she reads through bullshit like it's written on transparent paper.
Now I'm the one releasing a heavy sigh.
"You want to know what I thought when I saw you for the first time?"
She tilts her head. "When you saw me for the first time? You mean as in one whole hour ago?"
I ignore her cynicism and continue. "The first time you walked past me--before I interrupted your lunch date with your father--I stared at your ass the whole time you were stomping away. And I couldn't help but wonder what kind of panties you had on. That's all I thought about the entire time you were in the restroom. Were you a thong girl? Were you going commando? Because I didn't see an outline in your jeans that hinted you were wearing normal panties.
"Before you returned from the bathroom, I started to get this panicked feeling in my stomach, because I wasn't sure if I wanted to see your face. I had been listening in on your conversation and already knew I was drawn to your personality. But what about your face? People say not to judge a book by its cover, but what if you somehow read the inside of the book without seeing the cover first? And what if you really liked what was inside that book? Of course when you go to close the book and are about to see the cover for the first time, you hope it's something you'll find attractive. Because who wants an incredibly written book sitting on their bookshelf if they have to stare at a shitty cover?"
She quickly glances down at her lap, but I continue talking.
"When you walked out of the bathroom, the first thing I noticed was your hair. It reminded me of the first girl I ever kissed. Her name was Abitha. She had great hair and it always smelled like coconut, so it made me wonder if your hair smelled like coconut. And then it made me wonder if you kissed like Abitha, because even though she was my first kiss, it's still one of the only ones I can remember every detail of. Anyway, so I immediately noticed your eyes after admiring your hair. You were still several feet away, but you were looking straight at me, almost as if you couldn't understand why I was staring.
"But then I grew really uneasy and shifted in my seat, because as you so clearly pointed out already, I hadn't even looked in the mirror yet. I didn't know what you were seeing now that you were looking back at me, and if you even liked what you were seeing. My palms started sweating because this was the first impression you were getting of me and I didn't know if it was good enough.
"You were almost to my booth at this point and that's when my eyes fell to your cheek. To your neck. I saw the scars for the first time, and just as I noticed them, you darted your eyes to the floor and let your hair cover most of your face. And you know what I thought in that moment, Fallon?"
Her eyes flick up to meet mine and I can tell she doesn't really want me to say it. She thinks she knows exactly what I thought in that moment, but she has no idea.
"I was so relieved," I tell her. "Because I could tell with that one simple movement that you were really insecure. And I realized--since you obviously had no idea how fucking beautiful you were--that I just might actually have a chance with you. And so I smiled. Because I was hoping if I played my cards right--I might get to find out exactly what kind of panties you were wearing under those jeans."
It's as if the world chooses this moment to go silent. No cars pass by. No birds chirp. The sidewalk around us is completely empty. It's the longest ten seconds of my life, waiting for her to respond. So long, ten seconds is enough time for me to want to take it all back. It's enough time for me to wish I would have just kept my mouth shut, rather than lay it all out there like that.
Fallon clears her throat and looks away from me. She pushes off the bench and stands up.
I don't move. I just watch her, curious if she's chosen this moment to finally fake-dump me.
She inhales a deep breath and then releases it just as her eyes fall back to mine. "I still have a lot of stuff to pack tonight," she says. "Offering to help is the polite thing for a boyfriend to do, you know."
"Do you need help packing?" I blurt out.
She nonchalantly lifts a shoulder. "Okay."
Fallon
My mother is my hero. My role model. The woman I aspire to be. She did put up with my father for seven years. Any woman who could make it that long deserves a medal of honor.
When I was offered the lead role of Gumshoe at the age of fourteen, she hesitated to let me take it. She hated the way my dad's career had forced him into the limelight. She absolutely hated the man it turned him into. She said before he became a household name, he was wonderful and charming. But once fame started getting to his head, she couldn't stand to be around him. She said 1993 was the year that led to the demise of their marriage, the rise to his fame, and the birth of their first and last child: Me.
So of course she did everything in her power not to let the same thing happen to me when I started acting. Imagine transitioning into the cusp of womanhood while being an up-and-coming actress in Los Angeles. It's pretty damn easy to lose sight of yourself. I saw it happen to a lot of my friends.
But my mother didn't allow it to happen to me. As soon as the director called wrap on set each day, I went home to a list of chores and a firm set of rules. I'm not saying my mother was strict. She just didn't show me any type of special treatment, no matter how popular I was becoming.
She also didn't allow me to date before I turned sixteen. So in the first few months after my sixteenth birthday, I went on three dates with three different guys. And it was fun. Two of them were coworkers I may or may not have already made out with once or twice in a dressing room on set. One of them was the brother of a friend of mine. And no matter who I went out with or how much fun I did or didn't have, my mother would have the same conversation with me every time I came home from a date, about the importance of not falling in love until I'm at an age where I genuinely know myself. She still has the same conversation with me, and I don't even date.
My mother went on a self-help book binge after she divorced my father. She read every book she could find on parenting, marriage, finding yourself as a woman. Through all of these books, she concluded that girls change more between the ages of sixteen and twenty-three than at any other time in their lives. And it's important to her that I don't spend any of these years in love with some guy, because if I do, she fears I'll never learn how to fall in love with myself.
S
he met my father when she was sixteen and left him when she was twenty-three, so I'm thinking her age range restrictions have a little to do with personal experience. But considering I'm only eighteen and have no plans to settle down anytime soon, I figure it's easy to follow her advice and allow her to take the credit. It's the least I could do.
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."
My mother isn't famous. She doesn't have an incredible career. She isn't even married to the love of her life. But there's one thing she's always been . . .
Right.
And that's why, until I find reason otherwise, I'll listen to every word she says, however absurd it might seem. I've never once known her to give me bad advice, 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.
But that's not to say I didn't want to crawl on his lap and straddle him right there on that park bench while I shoved my tongue down his throat. Because it was really hard to hold myself back after he admitted he thought I was beautiful.
No, wait.
Fucking beautiful were the exact words he used.
And while he does seem a little too good to be true, and he's probably full of flaws and annoying little habits, I'm still just greedy enough to want to spend the rest of the day with him. Because who knows? Even though I'm moving to New York, I might still straddle him tonight and stick my tongue down his throat.
When I woke up this morning, I thought today was going to be one of the toughest days I've had in two years. Who knew the anniversary of the worst day of my life might possibly end on a good note?
"Twelve, thirty-five, pound," I say to Ben, giving him the gate code to my apartment. He rolls down his window and punches in the code. I took a cab to meet my father at the restaurant this morning, so Ben offered to drive me back home.
I point out an empty parking spot, so he turns in that direction and pulls in next to my roommate's car. We both climb out and meet at the front of his car.
"I feel like I should caution you before we walk inside," I say.
He glances at the apartment building and then looks back at me with unease. "You don't live with a real-life boyfriend, do you?"
I laugh. "No, not even close. My roommate's name is Amber, and she's probably going to bombard you with a million questions, considering I've never stepped foot through my front door with a guy before." I don't know why it doesn't bother me at all to admit that to him.
He casually drapes his arm around my shoulders and begins walking toward the building with me. "If you're asking me to pretend we're just friends, that's not gonna happen. I'm not downplaying our relationship for your roommate's sake."
I laugh and lead him to the front door of my apartment. I catch myself lifting my hand to knock but turn the doorknob instead. This is still my home for at least ten more hours, so I shouldn't feel the need to knock.
Ben's arm leaves my shoulders in order for me to walk through the door first. I look across the living room to find Amber standing at the kitchen counter with her boyfriend. She and Glenn have been dating for over a year now, and neither of them have come out and said it, but I'm pretty sure he's moving in the second I move out tonight.
She glances up, and her eyes immediately grow wide the second she notices Ben filing in behind me.
"Hey," I say cheerfully, as if there's nothing unusual about me bringing home a very good-looking guy whom I've never once mentioned before.
We make our way across the living room and Amber's eyes never leave Ben the entire time. "Hi," she finally says, still staring at him. "Who are you?" She looks at me and points to Ben. "Who is he?"
Ben steps forward and reaches out his hand. "Benton Kessler," he says, shaking her hand. He reaches over and shakes Glenn's hand next. "Just call me Ben, though." His arm drapes over my shoulders again. "I'm Fallon's boyfriend."
I laugh, but I'm the only one who laughs. Glenn eyes him up and down. "Boyfriend?" he asks, moving his attention back to me. "Does he know you're moving to New York?"
I nod. "He's known since the second we met."
Amber arches an eyebrow. "Which was . . . when?"
She's confused, because she knows I tell her everything. And having a boyfriend is definitely considered a part of everything.
"Oh, man," Ben says, looking down at me. "How long has it been now, babe? One . . . two hours?"
"Two at the most."
Amber narrows her eyes in my direction. She already wants to know all the details, and she hates that she has to wait until Ben leaves before she gets them.
"We'll be in my room," I say casually.
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.
Amber and I have been best friends for over two years now. As soon as we graduated high school, we moved into this apartment together. Which means I've only lived here for six months, so it feels like I'm packing up all the things I just unpacked.
When we walk into my room, Ben closes the door behind him. His eyes wander around the room, so I allow him a few minutes to be nosy while I open my suitcase. The apartment I'm moving into in New York is fully furnished, so really, the only things I have to take with me are clothes and toiletries. Everything else is at my mom's house.
"You're a reader?" he asks.
I look over my shoulder and he's fingering the books on my shelves. "I love to read. You should hurry up and write a book, because it's already on my TBR pile."
"Your TBR pile?"
"To be read pile," I clarify.
He pulls one of the books from the shelf and reads the back of it. "I hate to tell you this, but I don't think you'll like whatever books I end up writing." He slips the book back on the shelf and grabs another one. "You seem to favor romance novels, and that's not up my alley."
I stop perusing the shirts in my closet and stare at him. "No," I say with a groan. "Please don't tell me you're one of those pretentious readers who judge people by the books they like."
He immediately shakes his head. "Not at all. I just don't know anything about writing romance. I'm eighteen. Hardly an expert when it comes to love."
I walk out of the closet and lean against the door. "You've never been in love before?"
He nods. "Of course I have, but not the kind worthy of a romance novel, so I have no business writing about it." He plops down on the bed and leans against the headboard, watching me.
"Do you think Stephen King was actually murdered by a clown in real life?" I ask him. "Did Shakespeare really down a vial of poison? Of course not, Ben. It's called fiction for a reason. You make the shit up."
He smiles at me from his position on the bed, and the sight of him sitting there makes my cheeks feel all hot and bothered. I suddenly want to beg him to roll around on my sheets so I can smell him when I fall asleep tonight. But then I remember I won't be sleeping on them tonight because I'll be on a flight to New York. I turn around and face my closet again so he doesn't see the flushed look on my face.
He laughs quietly. "You were just thinking dirty thoughts."
"Was not," I quip.
"Fallon, we've been dating for two hours now. I can read you like a book, and right now I do believe that book is full of erotica."
I laugh and
begin pulling shirts off their hangers. I don't want to bother folding them yet until I figure out how I'm going to pack them, so I just toss them in the middle of the bedroom floor.
I pull down about a quarter of the shirts in my closet before I glance back at Ben again. His hands are propped up behind his head and he's watching me pack. I didn't really expect him to help me once we got here, because he'd probably be more in the way than anything. But Ben acknowledging this, too, makes me feel good that he still seemed excited to spend more time with me.
I decided on our drive over that I wasn't going to question his motives. Of course the insecure side of me still wonders what the hell a guy like him is doing spending time with a girl like me, but every time that thought creeps into my head, I remind myself of the conversation we had on the bench. And I tell myself that everything he said seemed genuine--that he really does find me attractive somehow. And honestly, does it really matter in the grand scheme of things? I'm moving to the opposite end of the country, so it's not like whatever happens in the next few hours will impact my life one way or another. Who cares if the guy just wants to get in my pants? I'd actually prefer it if that's all he wanted. It's the first time in two years someone has made me feel desirable, so I'm not going to beat myself up over the fact that I'm enjoying it as much as I am.
I walk to my dresser and hear him dialing a number on his phone. I'm quiet as he makes the call.
"Can I get a reservation for two tonight at seven?"
The silence after that question is palpable as I wait to hear what he says next. My heart has gotten more of a workout in the past two hours than it has in the entire past two months.
"Benton Kessler. K-E-S-S-L-E-R." More silence. "Perfect. Thank you so much." More silence.
I'm digging through my top drawer, acting like I'm not praying to the Lord that he intends for me to be his plus one at that dinner. I hear him shift on the bed and stand up, so I turn around to see him walking toward me. He grins and then peeks over my shoulder at the drawer I'm rifling through.
"Is that your panty drawer?" He reaches around and grabs a pair. I pull them out of his hand and toss them toward my suitcase.
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