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.”