Chapter 17
THEN: Freshman Year, September
Bennett
It’s the last week of September, which brings cooler weather and my usual anxiety surrounding the start of the hockey season, multiplied tenfold for the newness of this year.
It’s also a Tuesday, which means I’m currently stuffed into the front seat of my dad’s car, seat shoved back to accommodate my spread, shaking knees where I’ve dipped my head as I puff out breaths in a pattern.
Therapy isn’t always like this, but sometimes it is.
“You could have brought Seven.” His voice is kind, but I hear the words my dad wanted to say. You should have brought Seven. And he’s right.
“I’ll be fine,” I grit out, shaking my head again and abruptly opening the door like I’ll suddenly run with glee into the brownstone office building in front of me. Instead, as soon as the door shuts behind me, I falter again.
Go inside and tell her everything.
There’s a small squeaking sound as my dad rolls down the window, and then his voice, calm and steadying. “I’ll be back in an hour, and then we will have dinner at our usual spot.” I nod in acknowledgment but don’t turn back. “I love you, Ben.”
He drives away before I take a step, but his words lead me up the well-kept stone steps and into the waiting room.
· · ·
I’ve been seeing my therapist since I was first diagnosed as a kid. A mild-mannered but firm woman, Dr. Anya is the only one who knows my routines as deeply as I do.
“How has your week been, Bennett?”
She always starts with this question, while pulling her pen from behind her ear in a way that somehow doesn’t disrupt the tightly slicked-back bun of ringlets she always wears. Her white shirt is so crisp I can hear the fabric as it brushes against itself, bright against the deep umber of her skin.
“Fine.”
I always start with this answer, even if it isn’t how I feel.
Dr. Anya, however, is always immediately aware of my mood.
A side effect of seeing me almost every week since I was eight.
We spent the last several sessions talking about the “new shift” in my life, from boarding school to college, and she’s allowed me to avoid the topic of my best friend slowly outgrowing me. Instead, we talk about hockey.
Mostly, the team’s newest equipment manager.
“And how is the new routine there?”
This time I know she’s talking about Paloma. We’ve spoken about her before, enough that I think I’ve painted a clear picture of exactly the level of my feelings for her, which inevitably climb higher each day. My cheeks blush involuntarily.
“Fine. She does everything right, so maybe I don’t need to watch over her anymore.”
Dr. Anya purses her lips. “Does that make you uncomfortable? Having her do it alone without your guidance?”
What makes me uncomfortable isn’t relinquishing control to Paloma or trusting her—I already do. What makes me uncomfortable is the realization that not being with her would be the unwelcome change in this new routine.
“I like that time with her,” I admit softly.
A weight lifts off my chest—only one of many, but it’s a welcome relief to say it aloud.
Dr. Anya nods and taps her pen a few times. “Could you see yourself wanting more time with her? Rather than just in the arena for a few minutes?”
“She’s in my poetry class.”
“Outside of class and her work, Bennett. Would you enjoy doing something else with her?”
My brow furrows but I nod.
“Maybe you could ask her to get coffee.”
There’s an immediate discomfort that forces me to shake my head. I take it back—I don’t want to spend more time with her if that’s the only way.
“No—but maybe she’ll ask me.” The way it has always been. Rhys asked me to skate first. Freddy shoved his way headfirst into our group. Paloma asked to help with my routine. Saying yes is easier. Starting that conversation is nearly too much to even picture.
Dr. Anya readjusts herself in the seat across from me.
“I think making a friend that isn’t Rhys and isn’t on the hockey team is really important for you.
Why don’t we practice how it might go? Then you can ask her to get coffee with you after your next poetry class or at the arena. Whatever comes first.”
I want to say no. I think I’d rather talk about Rhys and my ever-present fear than this. Hell, maybe even Dr. Anya’s favorite topic—the divorce.
Except—
“I’m not really a big fan of poetry like this. It’s really . . . there’s a lot of rules.”
“It’s . . . you should try it again.”
Paloma smiles, eyes bright as she looks up at me. Her long, light brown hair is haphazardly pulled back in a messy braid, pieces falling over the smooth, dewy skin of her face. The back of my neck feels hot and damp. “Maybe I will.”
“Okay.”
· · ·
I wait a week and one day before deciding to try it.
With my dad’s encouragements as he went through it all with me again over dinner last night—mixed with the hidden disappointment of my therapist that I hadn’t asked her yet—I don’t think there is a possibility of feeling more ready.
My knee thumps in competition with my heart throughout the class, so much so that I barely hear a word our professor has said until he announces yet again, “We’re partnering up.”
Brown eyes find mine immediately, a smirk hidden in plush, pinkened lips as Paloma makes her way over to me. As if no one else exists—her first choice, even if we were originally the last two chosen.
Dr. Britton looks at us with a questioning expression, but I barely notice him or hear a word he says over the pounding of my pulse. It’s so loud I worry she can hear it.
Step One: Compliment her backpack—
“Hey,” she says.
I nod, sitting up a little straighter in my seat.
“So, listen, I—”
I’m cut off by our professor stepping up to our cluster of desks.
“Not the best listeners in the group, but somehow psychic.” At our confused expressions he sighs.
“I was pairing everyone up for the project—not that you two seem to have heard a word of it. But, that doesn’t matter, since tah-dah—” he taps his cane three times.
“I was already going to pair you two—the free-verse girl and the structured sonnets boy. Like a weird, poetry superhero duo.”
Paloma snickers, so I laugh lightly and smile at him with a nod.
“Are you hoping we fight to the death? E. E. Cummings versus Petrarch?”
Again, I’m silent while our professor broadly grins at her quick sarcastic wit.
“I’ve chosen elegies for the both of you. Or odes, should you prefer them?”
Normally, I’d enjoy the verbal sparring performance between them, but I can’t focus on anything other than the directions in my head, repeating them over and over so I don’t forget.
Step One: Compliment her backpack.
Step Two: Give her time to settle into her desk.
Step Three: Make eye contact and ask her, “Would you like to go to coffee with me?”
I peek at her beneath my lashes, tapping my pen in time with my entire body’s thumping heartbeat.
She pays attention to our professor as he moves through each piece of the assignment.
Her hands fiddle mindlessly with her hair, unbraiding and re-braiding the tangled strands. My hands flex. I want to brush them.
Focus. Step One—
The buzzing of the egg timer on Dr. Britton’s desk sends an immediate shuffling frenzy through the classroom. Everyone might be moving slowly, but it feels like they’re frantic with the way my pulse throbs and my adrenaline spikes.
Paloma stands and I mimic her quickly. She’s slow as she sticks the papers in her folder and gently places mine in my open binder, smoothing the edges until they’re crisp once more.
“You said you had something to ask me?” She eyes me, expectant but hesitant.
“No.” I shake my head and look down at my shoes. “I don’t.”
We stand there for a moment longer.
“Your backpack is cool,” I finally say, face overly warm as I dare another glance to her.
Paloma grins broadly, but her cheeks pinken. She seems mildly embarrassed. “Thanks. I, um, found it at the thrift store actually—brand new, too. Had a tag and everything.”
She turns slightly, as if to show off the ocean-blue bag with a Waterfell Wolves hangtag. I grip my own bag a little tighter and reach for the binder she’s closed for me.
“See you later, Bennett.”
Say something. Compliment her backpack. Ask her to coffee.
Say something.
My mouth closes up into a tight-lipped smile and a wave that mimics hers as she heads out of the classroom.