Chapter 35
NOW
Paloma
Sitting at the countertop feels almost surreal, but not any more than watching Bennett Reiner cook for me once more.
He maneuvers in the kitchen like an art form.
Once I’d asked him if he wanted to be a chef, but he said no. That the environment of most kitchens would be unbearable for his anxiety, but that cooking was a way to say you loved someone without words.
“Words are hard for me,” he’d said, sliding a plate of fancy tartines to me. “It’s easier to show how I feel, I guess.”
I love you. That’s what he’d been trying to say.
“So, are you ready to tell me what happened the night Sadie brought you here? Why you stayed here? Why you haven’t called .
. .” His cheeks flush as he plates the pancakes with fruit and sets them in front of me.
“If you told me last night, I don’t remember it.
” I wait until he’s returned to the counter, looking away from my face before I speak.
“I . . . I got kicked out of the dorms.”
The soothing, rhythmic sound of his knife against the wood cutting board halts and he stares up at me, blue eyes shining.
“Did something happen?” he asks, followed quickly by a quieter, “Why didn’t you call me?”
I hate that his first thought is that I would only come to him because I was in trouble or hurt. But I made it this way between us. He spent six months learning me, opening up to me, begging me to trust him in the way he was trusting me, loving me . . . and I threw it all away.
And now, I feel wrong still. Being here. Unworthy of his unwavering care.
I can see it even now, that he loves me. He’s never hidden that from me. But it still feels far away, like I’ll never really reach it again.
“Nothing happened,” I assure him. “My old roommate was . . . terrible.” I blow out a breath. “But I called Sadie, actually,” I say, pushing a strawberry around in the syrup. “I just . . . it was a lot.”
He nods, but I can see the near wince he tries to hide. The frustrated furrow in his brow. He begins chopping again, only it’s more stuttered and inconsistent.
“Bennett?” He looks toward me. “I know you care for me and . . . and I know that you would have come for me, if I’d asked. If I’d called. But I needed to do this without you.”
He stops suddenly and drops his hands onto the countertop, head dipping below his broad shoulders.
“Don’t do this, P,” he begs, barely a whisper. His shoulders shudder. “I want to be there for you. I . . . I need to—”
“I know,” I cut him off, closing my eyes quickly because the sound of his pain, however faint, makes my entire body feel like lead. “Bennett, I’m not asking you . . . I’m not saying that you aren’t there for me. You are. You always are.”
“Then why haven’t you called me?” he says, spinning toward me. Hurt bleeds from him.
I take in a slow breath, steeling my voice. “Because the past three years I have used you. And I know—I know it doesn’t upset you, but it should.”
“Paloma, I—” He pauses, clenching his fists at his sides. I can hear what he isn’t saying. I love you. I love you.
He doesn’t need to say it; I know it as clearly as my own heartbeat. He’d never let me doubt that, never taken those words away from me. Not the way I did from him.
“I know,” I say. “But there is something I want from you.”
He relaxes just slightly, crossing his arms. He nods, intent for me to continue.
“I don’t know how to ask this, and I don’t want an answer now, really. But . . . I’d like it if we could start over. As friends.”
I can see that I’ve shocked him, his expression wide and unusually vibrant. “Friends?” The word sounds odd on his tongue. A disbelieving look crosses his face, his eyes hooding like he’s remembering last weekend and the hotel room.
No. I’d really like to take you back into the shower with me and beg you to wash my hair so I can apologize and tell you why I’ve hurt you, and myself, to save you from something I was sure was worse. From something that terrified me at eighteen, but I think I could face head on now.
I want to say, I’m sorry for not being stronger for you.
I love you. I’ve never stopped.
But instead, I nod. “Yes. Friends. I’m . . . turning over a new leaf.” I can feel Alessia Baudelaire’s eye roll from here and internally, I roll my eyes at myself over the cliché. “I want things to be different. Especially between us.”
Bennett only nods back at me with a gentle, appeasing smile. Like he’s wary, but proud of me.
“All right, Paloma. Friends.”