That makes me feel better, anyway. I shudder to think my mother was just a regular woman who sometimes made bad relationship choices, and not the all-knowing heroine I’ve probably made her out to be in my memory.
The waiter interrupts their conversation to deliver their lunch. I roll my eyes when he pretends to just now notice that Donovan O’Neil is sitting there. I hear him ask Fallon if she’ll take a picture of the two of them. I stiffen in my seat, wondering if she’ll stand up and come into my view. I’m not so sure I’m ready to see what she looks like.
But it doesn’t matter if I’m ready or not, because she just told them to take a selfie and that she’s heading to the bathroom. She begins to walk past me, and the second she comes into view, my breath hitches.
She’s walking in the opposite direction, so I don’t see her face. What I do see is hair. Lots of it, long and thick and straight, chestnut brown, just like the shoes she has on, and it falls all the way down her back.
And her jeans. They fit her so perfectly, it looks like they were custom made, molding to every curve, from her hips, all the way down to her ankles. They move with her so well, I find myself wondering what kind of panties she has on under them. Because I can’t see a panty line. She could be wearing a thong, but she could also be going . . . what the hell, Ben? How in the hell did your brain move in this direction?
My pulse speeds up because I know I need to leave. I need to get up and walk away and accept that she seems to be okay. Her father may be an asshole, but she’s able to hold her own pretty well, so my being this close to either of them isn’t good for anyone.
But dammit if the waiter isn’t eating up the fact that Donovan O’Neil is giving him the time of day. I don’t even care about my food, if he would just bring me the check I could pay it and get the hell out of here.
I start to bounce my knee up and down in nervousness. She’s been in there a really long time. I know she’s going to walk out any second, and I don’t know if I should look at her or look away or smile or run or fuck what do I do? She’s walking out.
She’s looking down and I still can’t see her face, but her body is even more perfect from the front than it was from the back.
When she glances up at me, my stomach drops. My heart feels like it melts, right in the confines of its chamber. For the first time in two years, I’m seeing exactly what I did to her.
From the top of her left cheek, near her eye, all the way down to her neck, there are scars. Scars that are there because of me. Some more faded than others, but they’re very prominent with the way the skin is pinkish in hue, brighter, and much more fragile looking than the parts of her that were unharmed. But it’s not even the scars that stand out the most. It’s her green eyes that are staring back at me now. The lack of confidence behind them speaks volumes of just how much damage I’ve caused to her life.
She lifts a hand and pulls a piece of hair in her mouth, covering some of the scars. At the same time, she darts her eyes to the floor, allowing her hair to fall over her cheek and hide more of the scars. I keep watching her, because it hurts not to. I think about what that night must have been like for her. How scared she must have been. How much agony she must have gone through in the months afterward.
I clench my hands in fists, because I’ve never felt more of a need to make things right. I want to drop to my knees right here in front of her and tell her how sorry I am for causing her so much pain. For ruining her career. For making her think it’s necessary to have to hide her face with her hair when she’s this fucking beautiful.
She has no idea. She has no idea she’s lifting her eyes and looking into the eyes of the guy who ruined her life. She has no idea that I would give anything to press my lips to that cheek—to kiss the scars I gave her, to tell her how incredibly sorry I am.
She has no idea that I’m on the verge of tears just seeing her face, because it’s equal parts exquisite and excruciating. I’m afraid if I don’t smile at her right now, I’ll cry for her.
And then this thing happens when she passes me, where everything inside my chest constricts. Because I’m worried that what just passed between us—that one tiny smile—is all that will ever pass between us. And I don’t know why that worries me, because before today, I wasn’t even sure I ever wanted to see her.
But now that I’ve seen her, I don’t know that I want to stop. And the fact that her father is behind me right now, beating her down, telling her she’s not pretty enough to act anymore, makes me want to climb over this booth and strangle him. Or at least climb into the booth next to her and defend her.
This is the exact moment the waiter decides to bring me my food. I try to eat. Really, I do, but I’m still reeling from hearing the way her father speaks to her. I slowly down French fries as I listen to her father grow more and more insincere. At first, I’m relieved when I hear she has plans to move away.
Good for you, I think.
Knowing she’s brave enough to move across the country and pursue acting again fills me with more respect for her than I’ve ever had for anyone. But hearing her father continuously try to tell her she’s not good enough fills me with more disrespect than I’ve ever had for anyone.
I hear her father clear his throat. “You know that’s not what I meant. I’m not saying you’ve reduced yourself to audiobooks. What I’m saying is that you can find a better career to fall back on now that you can’t act anymore. There isn’t enough money in narration. Or Broadway, for that matter.”
I don’t hear what she says next, because all I see is red. I can’t believe this man—a father who is supposed to defend and support his daughter in the wake of a challenge—is saying these things to her. Maybe he’s practicing tough love, but the girl has been through enough.
The conversation ceases for a moment. Long enough for her father to request a refill. Long enough for the waiter to bring me my own refill, and long enough for me to get up and go to the bathroom, try to calm myself down and then return to my seat without strangling the man behind me.
“You make me want to swear off men forever,” she says.
Hell, her father makes me want her to swear off men forever. If men are really as shallow as this one, all women should swear off men forever.
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” her father says. “I’ve only known you to go on one date, and that was over two years ago.”
And that’s when all reason goes out the window.
Does he not have any idea what today is? Does he not have one single fucking clue what his daughter has been through emotionally in the past two years? I’m sure she spent a good year recovering, and I can tell just by the few seconds I looked in her eyes that she doesn’t have a single ounce of confidence in her. And here he is commenting on the fact that she hasn’t dated since her accident?
My hands are shaking, I’m so pissed. I think I might even be angrier than the night I caught his car on fire.
“Well, Dad,” she says, her voice strained. “I don’t really get the same attention from guys that I used to get.”
I’m sliding out of the booth, unable to stop myself. But I’ll be damned if I allow this girl to spend one more second without someone defending her in a proper way.