Chapter 20
THEN: Freshman Year, October
Paloma
Bennett is late.
It feels like a lie, because Bennett Reiner is never late—but it’s five minutes past our meeting time and I’m still alone in the private study room.
The door creaks open and I set my phone down on the table, smiling as Bennett enters, all broadness and height with a baseball cap settled low over his eyes. He’s decked in a Waterfell hockey T-shirt today, with his backpack slung over one shoulder and a container of some sort cradled in his arms.
“Hey—”
“I brought you something,” he cuts me off, pushing the blue Tupperware into my hands before scratching at the back of his neck and readjusting the hat he’s wearing. His cheeks turn scarlet, but I grin broadly up at him.
“What is it? Can I open it now?”
“Yeah.” He nods. “And, um, hey, Paloma.”
“Hey, Bennett.”
I pop the lid, the immediate smell of sugar making my mouth water.
“Cookies?” I ask, eyes wide. “Did you make them?”
“They’re chocolate chip. But, um, yes. I was late because it took a little longer but—you should eat one now. While they’re fresh.”
I can feel that he’s holding back from commanding me to eat a fresh, warm chocolate chip cookie. Not hesitating, I slip one from the container and bite into it, warm and soft, perfectly sweet with flakes of salt nipping at my tastebuds.
“God, Bennett,” I murmur, eyes nearly crossing as the chocolate melts against my tongue. “It’s incredible.”
He’s blushing, but he’s smiling—bright and wide and wonderful. He’s intensely handsome, the width of his features suited to the sheer size of him. He looks like a young Tom Welling, tall and broad with piercing blue eyes and a boyish cut of brown curls.
Lips usually pursed or frowning are pulled over brilliant, straight white teeth. There’s a chip in the right canine; I can see it more this close. My own smile comes easily.
“Thank you for this. You didn’t have to—”
“What you said, about swimming?” He cuts me off. “How it makes you calmer—that’s cooking for me.”
“Yeah? Well, you can cook for me anytime.” I laugh with a quick shake of my head, pulling away and sliding back into my chair. “I’m kind of bad about remembering to feed myself.”
And . . . frugal. Scholarship money is great, but the small included meal plan is potentially problematic. So I save when I can.
It’s not hard. I’m used to making it work and going without. My mom was inconsistent in her care of me early enough that I learned to grocery shop and fend for myself before I got my first period. I learned to take care of myself as best I could.
Something I’ve said seems to bother Bennett, but he clenches a fist around his backpack strap and lets it go, maneuvering into the chair opposite mine and pulling out his laptop and notebooks.
I grab another one of the cookies and bite into it, a moan escaping my throat at the taste.
Bennett coughs, blushing red as he turns back to the screen of his laptop.
“These are amazing, Bennett.”
“Thanks,” he mutters, before pulling a black pen from his bag.
The poetry project is pretty open-ended—choose one poem each and trade, do an analysis, and then write a reimagined poem in any style. Dr. Britton told us to think outside the box and really get creative with it.
Today we focus on choosing the poems.
Before we can start, Bennett hands me a pack of ballpoint pens. I frown, staring at them on the table between us, then at the pen in my hand, and finally up at his eyes.
Anxiety is clearly written across his face. Bennett readjusts his hat before staring down at the pens.
Last session, I’d written across his work in my blue ink pen, not thinking much about it. But he’d been anxious the rest of the time and I saw him throw away the entire sheet during our break, starting over with his own black pen.
“I use these. So, I got you some. It’s—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head and swallowing loudly. “It’s embarrassing, I’m sorry. But I just . . .”
I don’t say I understand because I don’t. But if this helps him, it’s fine with me.
“It’s not embarrassing, Bennett. It’s fine.” I take the pens and break open the pack, tossing my usual dark blue one back into the front pocket of my backpack. I take one and draw a swirl over the end of my notebook.
“These things are fancy,” I tease, trying to lessen the grimace still on his face. “Thanks for buying them for me.”
He nods but doesn’t comment, only resets his notebook by his laptop. I let it go.
Bennett works silently, as do I, but we both sneak glances at each other. I sit on my hands to keep from reaching for him.
An hour into the session, he suddenly straightens in his chair, grappling for his phone to check the time before softly cursing—a word I haven’t heard from him yet. After throwing his things into his bag, he stands and looks at me a little panicked.
“I need to walk Seven,” he says. “My dog.”
I nod. “I remember.”
He turns on his heel and leaves before I can say anything. But I’ve already started to pack so it doesn’t take me long to run and catch up with his lengthy strides.
“Bennett?” I call, not stopping him but walking side by side. “Can I come?”
His brow furrows as his hands fidget. He slows his pace just slightly. “You want to walk my dog with me?”
“Yeah,” I say brightly with a shrug. “Could be fun.”
Bennett’s mild concern melts into a gentle smile.
We leave the library and walk to the other side of campus, where the large, expensive “dorm” rooms sit. I shouldn’t be so shocked when Bennett stops in front of one of the attached townhomes.
“Seven is . . . a quiet dog.” It’s all he says, but his fingers are twitching, drawing shapes on his thigh; a nervous habit I’ve seen from him before.
“If it’s going to make him anxious”—or you—“I can come back a different day.”
“No. Today is perfect. Just wait here,” he says, walking away before turning back to me. “I can . . . hold on to your backpack? While we walk?”
I grip the bag a little tighter. “No, that’s okay. I’ll just keep it with me.”
“You sure? I can—”
“I don’t want you to,” I snap. “I just . . . I like to have it with me.”
There’s a light flush of embarrassment covering my skin, but he doesn’t see it, turning from me abruptly enough that I feel a bit bad for snapping at him. It’s a long moment before the door reopens to reveal Bennett and a large black dog walking slowly beside him.
“This is Seven,” Bennett says, voice calm. His dog, a handsome black Lab with big brown eyes, comes to a stop right by him, cocking his head slightly as he gazes up at me with too-intelligent eyes. “Ready?”
“I’m ready.”
Seven approaches me before Bennett, butting his nose up against my open palm.
“Can I pet him?”
Bennett nods, watching us both closely as I bend down and run my fingers through his rich black fur. Soulful, almost sad eyes look up at me. It’s strange how much he reminds me of Bennett, like that old adage of owners and pets starting to look alike.
We walk down the sidewalk and off campus, toward the strip of stores and Brew Haven.
“So, what made you want a dog?”
“Oh—um, I didn’t, actually. My dad surprised me with him.” There’s a long pause as Bennett seems to wrestle with his thoughts. “He’s a therapy dog. For my—um.” He clears his throat. “For me.”
He’s silent for a long moment, eyes glancing like he’s waiting for me to do or say something.
“For you?” I try to help him.
“Mmhmm.”
I stay quiet, attempting to give him the moment.
But he never manages to elaborate, instead continuing on, stepping fast enough I have to take longer strides to keep up. I reach out for him, brushing his arm with my hand, but he jerks like he’s been slapped and maneuvers slightly away.
Seven slumps against Bennett’s now immobile legs.
“I’m sorry,” I say, raising my hands. A breath puffs out of him.
I start to walk again and he follows, hoping the movement will help his clearly building anxiety. “You don’t like touch, right? So maybe I should avoid touching you? I don’t know why I—”
“No. I don’t—” He huffs out an almost annoyed sound. “I like when you touch me.” A blush forms on his face at his open, vulnerable words said a little too loud.
I turn my head away so he doesn’t see my smile.
“I just prefer to know when it’s happening. And I don’t like light touches.” He pauses again, physically and mentally it seems. I wait for him, and Seven bumps me with his nose. He steps around me, nudging my thigh so I scoot closer to Bennett.
“Like this?” I ask, reaching toward his hand but letting my own hang until he grasps it in a warm, firm grip.
Bennett stares at our intertwined hands for a long moment before letting the lightest of grins grow slowly across his face.
A sense of pride, toward him and this conversation, spreads, along with a need to be as vulnerable, to open my own chest and hand-feed him my insecurities that I carry with me like tokens.
But I don’t feel the bravery that Bennett seems to have. Instead, the fear is paralyzing, so I don’t.
From Bennett Reiner to Paloma Blake
The sea can do craziness, it can do smooth,
it can lie down like silk breathing
or toss havoc shoreward; it can give
gifts or withhold all;
—excerpt from “the poet compares human nature to the ocean from which we came” by mary oliver
P,
Contrary to your beliefs, Mary Oliver is my favorite poet.
So, are you the ocean? And if so—
please don’t withhold yourself from me.
Yours, Bennett