But I still think about that girl every single day. She lost her career because of me. A good career. One lots of people only dream about. And my actions from that night are going to follow her for the rest of her life.
Sometimes I wonder how she’s doing now. There have been several times I’ve wanted to research her—maybe even see her up close—just to see how badly she was injured in the fire. I don’t know why. Maybe I think it’ll help me move on in some way if I see that she’s living a good life. But the one thing that prevents me from looking her up is the fact that she may not be. Her life could be so much worse than I expected, and I’m afraid of how I’ll take it if that’s the case.
Just as I’m about to crank my car, another car pulls into the parking lot beside me. The driver’s side door opens and before he even steps out, I can feel the dryness creep into my throat.
What is he doing here?
I can tell it’s him by the back of his neck, his height, the way he carries himself. Donovan O’Neil has a very recognizable presence about him, and considering I saw him plastered all over the TV the night of the fire, I’ll never get his face out of my head.
I look around me, wondering if I should crank my car and back away before he notices me. But he’s not even aware of his surroundings. In his right hand, he’s holding a bundle of hydrangeas. He’s heading toward her gravesite.
He’s here to see my mother.
I’m suddenly brought back to the night I was sitting in this same car, watching him from across his street. This feels like that, only now I’m watching out of curiosity rather than hatred. He doesn’t stay at her gravesite long. He replaces the wilted flowers with the new ones. He stares at her headstone for a moment, and then he walks back to his car.
He’s familiar with this routine, like he does it all the time. And for a moment, I feel guilty for thinking he never cared about her. Because it’s obvious he did, if he’s still visiting her gravesite two years later.
He looks at his watch on his way back to his car, and then he picks up his pace. He’s late for something. And I wonder if, by some miracle, that something has to do with his daughter. I tell myself to stop when I reach for the ignition. I say, “Don’t do this, Ben,” out loud, hoping I listen to myself.
But curiosity wins today, because I’m following his car out of the cemetery and I have absolutely no idea why I’m doing it.
* * *
I park a few cars down from his at the restaurant he pulled into. I watch him as he goes inside the restaurant. I see someone stand up to hug him—a girl—and I clench my jaw so tight it hurts.
That has to be her.
My palms begin to sweat. I don’t know if I actually want to see her. But I know there’s no way I’m leaving here with her so close without at least going inside and walking past their table. I have to know. I need to know what I’ve done to her.
I grab my laptop before walking inside so I can have something to focus on while I’m sitting alone. Or at least pretend I’m focusing on it. When I walk inside, I can’t see her face to even know for sure if she’s Fallon. Her back is to me. I try not to stare because I don’t want her father seeing me paying them any attention.
“Table or booth?” The waitress asks.
I nod at the booth behind theirs. “Can I get that one?”
She smiles and grabs a menu. “Just one today?”
I nod and she leads me to the booth. My heart is pounding so fast, I can’t even find the courage to glance at her when I walk by. I take a seat so that I’m facing the opposite direction. I’ll work up the courage in a few minutes. There’s nothing wrong with me being here. I don’t know why it feels like I’m breaking the law when all I’m doing is sitting down for a meal.
My hands are threaded together on the table in front of me. I try to come up with a multitude of reasons to turn around and glance over my shoulder, but I’m afraid when I do I may not be able to stop staring. I have no idea what kind of damage I’ve done to her, and I’m scared if I look in her eyes, I’ll see that she’s sad.
But I’m scared if I don’t look in her eyes, I’ll miss the fact that she could be happy.
“I’m only half an hour late, Fallon. Cut me some slack,” her father says.
He said her name. That’s definitely her. In the next few minutes, I could be coming face-to-face with the girl whose life I almost took.
Luckily, a waiter comes up and takes my order, distracting me from myself. I’m not at all hungry, but I order something anyway, because what kind of guy comes into a restaurant and doesn’t order any food? I don’t want to draw attention to myself.
The waiter tries to strike up a conversation with me about the fact that the guy behind us looks just like Donovan O’Neil, the actor who played Max Epcott. I pretend I don’t know who that is and he’s wildly unimpressed. I just want him to go away. Finally, he does. I lean back in the booth so I can hear more of their conversation.
“So, yeah. I’m a little shocked, but it’s happening,” her father says.
I wait for her to respond. I missed whatever he just said to her, thanks to nosey McWaiter, but her silence proves it wasn’t something she wanted to hear.
“Fallon? Are you going to say anything?”
“What am I supposed to say?” She doesn’t sound happy. “Do you want me to congratulate you?”
I feel her father fall against the back of his booth. “Well, I thought you’d be happy for me,” he says.
“Happy for you?”
Okay. Whatever he told her has pissed her off. She’s got spunk, I’ve got to give her that.
“I didn’t know I had it in me to become a father again.”
I don’t know how I feel about that. For a second, I’m reminded that this man used to be in love with my mother, and this could have possibly been a situation he got himself into with her, had the cancer not taken her first.
I mean . . . I know the cancer didn’t take her. The gun did. But either way, the cancer was at fault.
“Releasing sperm into the vagina of a twenty-four-year-old does not a father make,” Fallon says.
I laugh quietly. I don’t know why, but just hearing the way she talks to him eases some of my guilt. Maybe because I’d always pictured her to be this meek, quiet girl, wallowing in self-pity. But she sounds like a firecracker.
But still . . . this is insane. I shouldn’t be here. Kyle would kill me if he found out what I was doing.
“You don’t think I have the right to call myself a father? What does that make me to you, then?”
I shouldn’t be listening in on their private conversation. I spend the next few moments trying to focus on the laptop I brought with me, but I’m just scrolling through screens, pretending to work, all the while listening to what an inconsiderate prick her father is.
I can hear her sigh from where I’m seated. “You’re impossible. Now I understand why Mom left you.”
“Your mother left me because I slept with her best friend. My personality had nothing to do with it.”
How could my mother have ever loved this man?
Now that I think about it, I’m not so sure she did. He seemed to be the one sending all the letters and texts. I never saw anything she sent him, so maybe this was a short-lived, one-sided relationship that he can’t get over.