Chapter 19
THEN: Freshman Year, October
Paloma
Because I am sometimes a complete moron and, more likely, because I lose track of time when I’m in the water—I’m running late.
Bennett is already there, as I knew he would be, but he stands when he sees me. My stomach swoops.
He’s in beautiful olive-green trousers and a white button-down, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His mahogany curls are soft and set carefully along the angles of his face. A sleek watch adorns his wrist, an expensive one, gold gleaming against his lightly tanned skin.
I look down at myself, a little nauseous. A well-worn gray T-shirt and thrifted overalls. My hair is still damp, tied into a loose braid that smells strongly of my roommate’s expensive conditioner I used this morning.
Embarrassment floods my system, and I’m tempted to apologize for being so underdressed before saying anything else.
But Bennett is smiling, ocean-blue eyes almost crinkling as he waves for my attention. As if my eyes have gone anywhere other than to him.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out anyway, hands to my reddened cheeks. “Should I change?”
His brow wrinkles sharply as he looks me over, seemingly for the first time.
“Why?” There is genuine confusion in his voice. “You look very beautiful.”
“Oh.” I laugh, blushing further as I slide into the booth. He waits for me to sit before he follows in across from me. “Thank you.”
Bennett shrugs. “You always look beautiful.”
He says it like it is the least interesting thing about me. My heart squeezes.
“Thanks—”
“Why is your hair wet?” he blurts.
I blush while Bennett pales.
Bennett Reiner is carefully controlled. I’ve seen him in enough environments to know he’s meticulous about when he speaks and what he says.
But with me, he seems to do this a lot: divulging his thoughts and feelings the moment he has them, not carefully controlled.
It’s refreshing, and a little selfishly, it makes me feel like I’m different to him. Somehow more than everyone else.
He shakes his head at his own question, grimacing as if he didn’t mean to ask and would do just about anything to take it back. His hands flex in a quick pattern as he tries to apologize. “Sorry—”
“No, it’s okay. I, um.” I pull at my braid, lip trapped between my teeth. “I swam this morning, so I showered really quick before, and my hair didn’t dry in time. So, it’s kind of a mess.”
“You swim? Like, for the team here?” His brow furrows and he tilts his head, almost distressed at possibly missing this detail about me.
“Oh, no. I just like it. It makes me feel good and alleviates stress. So, I just . . . do it for fun, I guess. It’s calming.”
At this, he nods understandingly.
“Do you swim?” I ask.
“Recreationally, in a pool, yes. But not like . . .” He fiddles with his curls, his other hand tapping along his leg. “I don’t know the technical ways.”
“I could teach you, if you ever wanted to learn. Might be good conditioning.”
His brow wrinkles slightly, but he clears his throat and tries another question. “Um, how long have you been swimming?”
“Since I was a kid. I—I fell into a pool and decided I should probably learn so I didn’t drown.
” I laugh, grinning toward him, shoving a few light brown strands of hair back.
“But, yeah. I just never stopped. And then it became this peaceful thing for me, something that made me feel completely calm and safe. Weird, considering I almost drowned the first time.”
Another laugh slips from my mouth, but Bennett just listens, his face set in deep concentration.
A quiet pause stretches between us, not uncomfortable but long enough that Bennett seems to be growing more anxious.
“Thank you for inviting me. I—” My gaze darts up to the empty counter where a girl with brown hair twirls the ends of her ponytail while slumped with boredom or sleepiness. “Should we order?”
“Right—coffee,” Bennett says, almost to himself. Like a reminder. “I can order, if you tell me what you’d like.”
I don’t drink coffee; never tried more than a few sips of bitter black cups in a kitchen I’d rather erase from my mind. My mom didn’t have a coffeepot to wake her up, instead reaching for an orange pill bottle or fifth of whiskey.
“Mom?” A flash of bright blond hair, messy and tangled. A little girl with a brush in her hand, half-hiding behind a stained sofa to ask her mom to help her.
My stomach churns as I shove the unwanted memories away.
“What do you usually get?”
“Iced black coffee, three tablespoons of almond milk,” he recites, like reading off an instruction manual. His hand rubs the back of his neck as he looks at me. “But you shouldn’t get that. I mean, I’m worried you won’t like it. It’s not sweet, if you like that.”
I do like sweet drinks. Normally I’d just order a Dr Pepper and move on, but I want this moment to be something new. Something different; better.
“You should pick for me. Surprise me.” I grin broadly, encouragingly.
Bennett looks apprehensive, biting down on his bottom lip for a moment as his eyes dart over his shoulder and scroll the handwritten menu. “Yeah, okay.”
“I’ll like whatever you pick. I promise.”
Gregory Alan Isakov’s “Big Black Car” plays quietly over the speakers of the coffee shop.
Bennett hulks over the counter, even as he curves in his shoulders and speaks quietly to the barista.
They talk back and forth for a moment, though he never makes eye contact, before he returns with a numbered placard for the table.
“I got you food, too. Since you swam this morning, I figure you’re probably hungry.”
My stomach flutters.
Don’t get too comfortable, Polly. It’ll only hurt.
“I’m starving,” I blurt, as if the loudness of my voice will drown out everything else.
It isn’t long before the mysterious dish and beverage are sat in front of me—something that looks a bit fancier than the breakfast sandwich I was expecting.
Bennett’s plain coffee seems small in his large hand as he takes a long sip before eyeing me warily. It’s only then I realize that I’m just staring oddly at the plate in front of me.
“It’s—um, one of their best dishes. Eggs over medium, avocado, crumbled bacon, tomatoes, and feta over a hash brown patty.
And that’s a balsamic reduction drizzled over it.
I think that’s what makes the entire dish, really, so I got you extra.
And the drink is pumpkin spice—sweet, but they make their syrups in house, so I think you’ll like it. But . . . if you hate it—”
“It looks and smells delicious. I think I’ll love it.” I slice into the food, stuffing a too-big bite into my mouth and give him a quick thumbs-up.
It’s an immediate burst of flavors on my tongue, decadent and salty and sweet all at once.
I moan a little as I go for another bite, covering my mouth and bouncing excitedly in place as I relive the indulgent tasting experience for a second time.
Then, grabbing the mug, I take a drink of the coffee, letting the nutmeg and cinnamon dance across my tongue.
“Do you like it?” he asks, urgency lacing the words.
I nod heartily, which grants me a gleaming smile.
Bennett’s smiles are rare, beautiful things.
I can count on one hand the number I’ve borne witness to.
His lips tilt higher on the right side as his mouth closes in a softer smile.
But his cheeks are still round and thick, dark eyebrows settled so that between them are oceans—so blue and deep I want to swim in them. His happiness is intoxicating.
This—me eating, enjoying the food he selected—it means something important to him.
Food. I log the thought away in my mental “Bennett’s Interests” folder, next to poetry and hockey.
“So,” I start, polishing off my meal in record time. “What got you interested in poetry?”
At this, he grimaces and messes with his hair before blowing out a breath. “I—are you sure you want to talk about poetry?”
“I mean, unless you don’t?”
It’s clear this—whatever it is—is really bothering him, hands back to fidgeting, shoulders shifting beneath the white material of his shirt.
“Poetry is our class together. Hockey is your job,” he says. My brow furrows, trying to dissect his meaning as he speaks. “We’re on a date. I’m supposed to ask you questions about yourself.”
Something like relief floods through my body, and I take a moment to set my silverware on my now scraped empty plate. If I didn’t think it would make him uncomfortable, I’d probably lick it clean. But this moment feels enormous, important, so I take my time before speaking.
“I’ve never been on a date before,” I confess, tucking a few loose hairs back behind my ear. “So, maybe I don’t know how it’s supposed to go, but I think knowing why you like poetry is getting to know you. And I’d like to know.”
The smile appears again, but broader, showing his teeth.
“This is my first date, too.”
Again, the air hangs still while we beam at each other.
“I brought you something,” he says suddenly, reaching into his pocket for a pressed envelope. “You can look at it later.”
Taking his clear command, I tuck it into the pocket of my overalls with a light pat. “All right.”
We never touch, but I can feel him. The soft guitar of coffeehouse music is the soundtrack to what finding something better, something good and safe, feels like.
That night, I open the envelope in the safety of my own room and read “Sonnet 227” under the soft light of glowing stars on my ceiling and the lamp by my bed. I almost laugh at the fact that it’s literally a poem by Petrarch and not just in the form.
But the laugh gets caught in my throat as I read line by line, heart hammering and skin flushing. In my mind, I can hear Bennett’s smooth dulcet tones whispering the words over my skin.
Happy air, remain here with your
living rays: and you, clear running stream,
why can’t I exchange my path for yours?
The poem wraps around me like a blanket, soothing me gently as I fall asleep with the paper still clasped tightly to my chest.
From Paloma Blake to Bennett Reiner
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten
—excerpt from “sonnet xlii” by edna st. vincent millay
Bennett,
A well-structured sonnet for you—you’re welcome.
Though not so love struck as Petrarch.
I’ve never liked this one much either.
—P