Chapter 27
THEN: Freshman Year, October
Paloma
The intoxication of being wrapped in Bennett Reiner’s arms post-nightmare is enough for me to miss what he says the first time.
“What?” My voice is scratchy with sleep more than screams this time.
“I have an idea.” He smiles, despite having to repeat himself, but it seems to be more for reassurance than from authentic happiness. “I want to take you somewhere. Did you bring a swimsuit?”
I nod, trying to quell the sudden desperation that fills me. I always have a swimsuit, packed away in my backpack just in case. Bennett grabs a towel and lets me change in the bathroom.
Looking in the mirror after pulling on the tight burnt-orange material, I bite down on my lip and tie my hair back into a braid.
Normally I don’t spend much time looking at myself, preferring to ignore the features that look too much like my mother’s, despite my attempts at changing them.
Dying my hair was important, but it’s impossible to erase her in the wide bend of my hip or the height of my rounded cheekbones.
Impossible to separate my doe-wide brown eyes and pursed deep peach lips.
Impossible to rid myself of the ample curve of my breasts, though I’ve tried for years to tamp them down.
Looking like that? What did you expect, Polly?
Feeling a little sick, I hunch down, like that might hide the obviously abundant features I’ve learned to despise about myself. I dress a certain way to shield myself from that, when I can.
I was twelve and terrified when I realized there was a reason my classmates weren’t the only ones whispering about me behind my back. I’d overheard the comments from adults, condescending or pitying. Or horrifically inappropriate. So, I’d learned to hide.
It feels stupid to be so scared of showing my body in my athletic swimsuit. I trust Bennett as much as I can, more than I do most anyone else, but this still feels intimidating.
Taking a few deep breaths, I slip my oversized T-shirt back on and exit the bathroom.
I reach for his hand, and even though he didn’t offer to hold mine, he grasps it back just as tightly.
· · ·
The pool is definitely closed. But Bennett slips us in easily, confident in the face of my slight uncertainty.
“Are you . . . getting in with me?”
Shaking his head, he sets the towel on one of the bench seats.
“No, but I’m gonna sit right here with you. I just figured it might help you relax. Maybe help you sleep better.”
I know that it will, so I nod and spin away from him, ripping off the shirt and sitting over the side before slipping into the lukewarm pool.
Surfacing just as quickly, I watch him and wade through the water for a moment. He removes his sandals, finding a spot to sit in the middle of the pool and slipping his feet in. His hands grip the pool ledge, the sleeves of his Waterfell hoodie rolled up slightly.
I swim and he watches me.
My nightmares have always been bad—my dreams haven’t been much better. They’re too visceral, haunting me long after I wake up. But this feels different. There’s a peace to knowing he was watching over me, which I usually wouldn’t feel, let alone admit to.
And more than that, he doesn’t seem put off by the entire ordeal.
The water is refreshing over my heated skin. And even obscured through the watery distortion, he’s so beautiful. My heart thrusts in my chest, like it’s reaching for him.
I follow the call, a sailor to a siren, swimming through the placid pool to breach for air by his legs. He’s watching me, as he always does, the steady set of his blue eyes comforting, tracking every movement of my arms as I press by his hands and push my body up, up, up toward him.
Droplets fall like rain from my wet body across his shorts and hoodie. A rattling breath puffs from my lips before I press them to his, arms straining. He dips his chin so he can meet my kiss, lips soft and trembling in time with my racing heart.
He never releases his grip on the pool ledge.
I don’t dare press further, only releasing him when my arms give out and I sink back into the water beneath him.
Bennett’s eyes stay closed for a moment, head tipped, as if he’s savoring the taste—of chlorine and peach lip balm and me. When he opens them, blue crashing down on me like a wave, there’s something new.
Do you see me? Just me, as I am?
No one has before.
An image stirs of him surrounding me, holding me to his chest as he woke me from my nightmare. His hands combing my hair back over and over, little fretting touches.
Maybe he would be okay. Maybe he would be good to me. Maybe he’s safe.
“I’m ready to get out now.”
“Okay,” he says. His fingers dance across his lips for a moment longer and he hesitates before standing and slipping his sandals back on, unrolling the towel at his side while I hoist myself up and out.
He wraps me in it, holding me closer than he might’ve before. It’s possessive and comforting. I want to stay here.
My eyes close and I nuzzle into him a little before he lets me go.
I reach for his hand. He takes it. We walk quietly back to the elevators. Gooseflesh ripples across my skin, but I’m not cold—I’m . . . everything else. Happy, scared, excited, so full up that I’m bubbling like a bottle of champagne in anticipation.
Only to plummet into pure anxiety when we arrive back inside my darkened hotel room. Expectations and fear from the past mingle with interest and eagerness for this moment. Does he want to mixes heavily with Will he make me?
“Don’t be an idiot,” my mother slurs, eyes teary. “Men only want one thing from us.”
“I’m not like you,” I snap.
She laughs. “You could be my goddamn twin.”
Bennett releases my hand. I fidget in the doorway while he slides off his shoes and sets them by the door.
“I’m gonna shower,” I blurt, tripping over my own feet to get into the bathroom and shut the door.
Washing my hair calms me, as does the heat of the water. I take my time before dressing in soft pajama pants and another oversized shirt.
I exit shyly, eyeing where he sits on the bed with his back to the headboard. He’s blushing already, fidgeting with his hands in a way that suddenly calms my lingering anxiety.
“Can I brush your hair?” he asks.
It’s not the question I’m expecting, so I nod before I can think about it too deeply.
When I do, tears rush to my eyes. I turn back to the bathroom and dig through my toiletries bag for my well-loved boar bristle brush. The sweetness of the sentiment . . . no one, not even my mother on a good day, has made that kind of offer.
I manage to pull it all in and hold back my desperation to be cared for in that way, eyes still glistening as I duck my head and walk toward him.
He plays Bon Iver’s “Beach Baby” on his phone and waits for me. I crawl across the hotel bedding and sit tucked between his partially spread legs, handing him my brush.
“No one’s ever—” I cut myself off. The confession feels too raw. “It’s— I’m not tender-headed. So, you don’t have to be careful.”
“I’m gonna be gentle, P.”
The words make me shiver; his voice is deep, his presence a solid wall behind me. He brushes through my hair slowly, careful not to pull. He hums low and soft to the music. The combination of it all has my eyes fluttering closed, and I slump into his warm arms just a bit.
I can handle anxious, timid Bennett. I can handle him when it’s me catering to him. But this Bennett—he’s overwhelming. Gentle and careful and dominant. Taking care of me.
It quiets the noise in my head, which feels good. But it makes me feel small and vulnerable, too—something that’s harder for me.
I lose track of time, only knowing that he switches from the brush to his fingers, massaging my scalp and braiding my hair loosely.
“Will you stay with me?” I mutter, eyes closed.
A firm press of lips to the top of my head. And then, a quick huff of breath, like he didn’t mean to do it.
“Always.”
I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep and wake up with his hand in mine.