Chapter 31
THEN: Freshman Year, October
Paloma
There’s another poem in my food, taped again to the inside of the Tupperware lid.
He’s done this before, dropped food for me with a hidden letter—always a poem or song. But this one feels different. Not only because it’s one I’ve read several times—Mary Oliver’s “Wild Geese”—but because he’s annotated it, marking it up with rhyme scheme and metaphors, as we usually do in class.
Beneath the last stanza is his carefully handwritten note.
This one reminded me of you.
Don’t ask me to explain.
-Bennett
The note is simple as it always is, nothing too heavy or heartfelt, but it stabs me right in the chest anyway.
Before our next meeting, I carefully wash out the container and add my own note to the interior, fashioned in the exact same way. I can’t keep back the sly smile as I hand it back to him, thankful he doesn’t open it before we part ways.
Normally at the end of our time together, he’ll wait for me to exit the study room first before following behind. But this time, I step forward, pushing nearly into his space and biting my lip, backpack strap tight in my right hand.
“So, you never asked me on a second date.” I don’t give him time to say anything before nervously prodding with, “Was the first one bad?”
Bennett’s eyes go wide. “No. No, I was going to, but I didn’t . . .” He trails off, letting out an irritated breath. “I couldn’t figure out the best way.”
It isn’t a lie. I can imagine him sitting in his room, hand through Seven’s fur as he thinks about the best way to ask me to go out with him again. The thought stirs up something giddy within me.
“Okay, well, I’m asking you out, then.”
“Yeah?” He smiles, small with no teeth showing. I match him.
“Yeah. For coffee again, same place?”
He hesitates, mind working furiously behind ocean eyes. “No. We should . . . it should be better than just coffee.”
I reach for his hand, and he takes both of mine in his grip. It feels odd and stiff, like a reluctant couple at the altar.
“Bennett, coffee is good. And comfortable. And it’s close to where I swim.” His face is still twisted up, brows furrowed. “I like going there with you. Can we do it again?”
“If you’re sure.”
I nod. “I’m sure.”
“Okay.” He squeezes my hands where they’re still held in his. “But next time, we are going somewhere better.”
“All right,” I concede.
· · ·
We meet at the same time in the same coffee shop, all the way down to the same booth.
I swam again, but took the time to dry my hair and wear something slightly better than our last date.
Bennett, yet again, is dressed far nicer than me.
I drink him in, broad shoulders covered with a flannel, sun-kissed brunette curls, ocean blue eyes and pursed lips. He’s so handsome my chest aches.
“Good morning,” I say as he stands from the booth and scans over my pretty thrifted cardigan and scrunchie-bound updo. Taking the initiative, I lean in to kiss his cheek, but he turns just in time to catch my mouth.
Breath huffs out of me, and my cheeks blaze at the warm feel of his lips.
“Good morning, P.”
His voice is low and scratchy, still sleepy and unused. It makes my body tingle, enough that I pull away from him and try to regain my wobbly footing and hazy vision.
Bennett is more intoxicating than I’d imagine any drug or drink might be. And because it’s so unintentional, it’s somehow headier.
I feel a bit like blustering out “Are you my boyfriend?” but anxiety grabs hold of my tongue.
I’ve never done this before. My only experience with romantic relationships is .
. . not normal. And I watched my mom cling to every drug-addicted man who showed her an ounce of attention or affection. Or money. Drugs.
The blissed out, lovestruck version of my mother was more palatable, so selfishly, I didn’t mind.
Until they turned their attentions to me.
I shake my head, clearing the dangerous thoughts.
There’s a girl working—the same brunette with the scowl—but it seems like she’s also babysitting two kids in a booth nearest the front, coloring sheets scattered across the table.
We wait until she returns to the counter to order our drinks and food—which I let Bennett handle entirely, just standing at his side, his hand in mine, smiling.
It’s like one of my Prince Charming fantasies, but real. How I’d imagined having a boyfriend might be like.
We haven’t said the boyfriend or girlfriend words.
It’s only our second date—and yet, I feel like if I asked, he’d say yes.
In my head, it’s simple. He’d hold my hand and ask before he kissed me.
Open my door and walk me home—without asking to come in or sleep with me.
He’d take care of me without asking for something in return.
He’d play with my hair and scratch my back. And he’d be just mine.
I think he already is.
Sitting back down, Bennett reaches for my hand across the table, thumb pressing circles into my skin. I smile so hard I think my lips might split from the force.
“I liked the poem you sent yesterday,” he says. “Or, I guess, song.”
“Did you just read it? Or listen to it as well?”
I’d taped a printout of the lyrics to “Roslyn” by Bon Iver and St. Vincent.
Mostly because I love the song, and the lyrics are so interpretable.
But also because Bon Iver’s music has been my sleep playlist ever since the night in the hotel room.
It’s easier for sleep to find me with the lull of music and the memory of Bennett’s warm, safe arms around me.
“Both. I treated it solely as a poem first, reading your annotations—”
“Checking my work?” I snark, but grin through the tease of my words. “How did I do, professor?”
Bennett blushes and ducks his chin, shaking his head at my antics. “You’re brilliant, Paloma, I didn’t need to check your work to know that.”
He says it so simply, as if speaking of the weather or reciting hockey stats. Does he know it feels like a kiss to my skin?
“It works nicely as a poem, but there’s an added level of emotional complexity with the music. A haunting, eerie element unfelt without it. Even the repetition is entirely different with the sound element. Which, I think, means you categorize a lot of music as poetry.”
My eyes flutter closed as I nod, agreeing with his sentiment. Thrilled that he treated my choice for our game with the intensity of a John Keats ode.
“Which—” he continues, smile growing as he almost tugs on my hand in his excitement. “—means you like poetry.”
A laugh bubbles from my lips before I can help it, but I swallow down the sound with a blinding smile and shake my head.
“Maybe.”
Bennett tilts his head and softly presses a kiss to my hand before releasing it. “I can work with a maybe.”
“I really like you.”
It spews from my mouth, embarrassment immediately clinging to my expression, warmth spreading over my cheeks and down my neck. The entire phrase is so juvenile and insufficient for how I’ve started to feel for him.
Something worse yawns in my stomach, clawing at every insecurity.
Pathetic. What’s next? Begging him to like you? You’re good at that, Polly.
My stomach churns, the heat on my cheeks and neck turning clammy so fast I feel sick.
“I—you do?” Bennett stumbles through the words, which only heightens my anxiety.
“I like you,” I whisper. “A lot.”
“Yeah?” Ethan smirks as he tugs the sheet from my body just slightly. “You like me? C’mon, Polly, I’m not your middle school crush.”
My cheeks color, shame casting my eyes down as he pulls himself up and out of the bed.
“I think you more than like me, considering what you just did for me.” He laughs and pulls on my hair a little roughly before leaning over to tug his jeans back on.
I swallow down the confusion, still reaching out to nuzzle against him when he beckons for me before he leaves.
Desperate for the touch. For the affection, even if it’s mocking.
“Paloma?”
I shake my head, pulling back and knocking my head into the wooden wall of the booth.
Bennett eyes me, fear and concern overshadowing the awkward anxiety that plagued his features mere moments ago.
“Sorry—got lost in my head for a second.” I laugh, shaking my head and some of my lingering demons off. I try to bring up another poem, something else to talk about, trying to divert his attention from my weird display.
He doesn’t speak for most of the rest of our date, lingering worry dancing over his face. It isn’t long before our coffees are drained and my mostly one-sided anxious rambling stalls into tense silence.
Bennett walks me to my dorm like he always does now, but this time he pauses in front of the steps.
“Paloma? I’m not the best with talking about . . . this. But . . . I—” Again he trips over the word, face agitated.
I shake my head. “It was stupid. I don’t know why I said it.” I bite on my lip as my anxiety churns. “Can we just forget it?”
He frowns, shaking his head in a stiff denial.
“Please,” pours from my lips before I can stop it.
“Paloma, what—”
Get out of here. I have to get out of here.
I stumble back a step. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Bennett.”
It’s easier today to leave him on the steps in front of my dorm. I don’t kiss his cheek, averting my eyes at his confused expression over the break in our routine, too focused on the swell of shame making my body feel hot and filthy.
I shower. Even as the water runs cold, I can’t get the sensation of feeling dirty off my skin.