Chapter 36
THEN: Freshman Year, November
Bennett
I sleep at Paloma’s for the weekend, faking sick for the Halloween party Freddy and Rhys invite me to and sneaking out with Seven.
It’s much harder to sneak him into her dorm, but the sight of my dog curled up on her bed with her as I bring in the food I’ve heated up in her poor excuse for a kitchen is worth it.
Seven always sits between us, or has some part of his body on her leg or arm—always putting his weight on her like he does for me when I’m anxious. But Paloma is smiling and happy, so I assume it’s because he likes her and not because there’s something there I’m not seeing.
It doesn’t stop another thread of worry and anxiety over her from taking root.
“This is so good.” She practically moans the words through bites of the chili I made the day before. I fed Rhys and Freddy but lied and said I hadn’t made enough for them to gorge themselves as usual. I was saving the rest for her.
“I’m glad you like it,” I say. She treats every dinner I feed her as if it’s a five-course meal at a Michelin star restaurant. Seeing her eat and enjoy my cooking fills me with warmth—and serves to chase away the concern that plagues me every time I open her barren fridge.
“I’m gonna leave the rest of the container, too.” I put my bowl onto the desk she uses as a bedside table. “It should be good ’til Tuesday, so if you don’t mind the same meal for a few days—”
“I don’t mind. If I don’t end up scarfing it all down by tomorrow.”
My stomach churns. “I can bring more—”
“I’m kidding,” she says, voice softer as she slowly places a firm hand on my thigh. “This would feed three of me for days.”
There’s a stretch of silence as Paloma finishes her bowl and sets it atop mine, before she looks up at me from beneath her lashes.
“You’re always feeding me.”
“I like feeding you.” It’s a better answer than I obsess over you being hungry. I think you were, at some point. I worry you still are. Sometimes I can’t sleep from worrying about it.
Instead, I smile at her, reaching my hand out to touch her hair gently, looping it around my finger and back behind her ear. It’s soft and silky, and my obsession with the strands only grows.
“Is this your natural hair color?”
Her cheeks darken, eyes darting away. I feel a little heat rush up my spine.
“Is that a bad question to ask? I’m sorry—”
“No, no. It’s fine,” she says, even if I’m almost certain it’s not fine. “It’s . . . close. I’m blond, this is just kinda darker.”
I nod. She seems surprised that there aren’t any follow-up questions.
“Do you like it?” she asks.
The question itself is surprising, because Paloma is intensely beautiful. At first, when I started to notice, it overwhelmed me.
I’d never really been attracted to anyone before. I could recognize objectively beautiful people based on typical standards and locker room talk.
I also understand that girls do find me somewhat attractive, because of my height or the fact that I’m on the hockey team. But I don’t have the same build as the other guys on the team and never have. I’ve always been broader and softer than them. It didn’t bother me.
But seeing the way that others often watch her, knowing how attractive and mesmerizing Paloma is to most everyone . . . it makes something like anxiety and fear churn in my gut, a sickening mixture. I can’t distinguish the jealousy from the protectiveness.
I know if she spent any real time with the team instead of doing their laundry in separate rooms and hauling supplies to storage areas, this would be different. Because Paloma is exactly the girl that, physically, most of the guys would be panting over.
I want to keep her as just mine. At least a little bit longer.
“I . . . I love it,” I say, feeling bolder. “I love your hair, Paloma.”
Can I wash it? Can I brush it? Can I braid it and care for it and never let anyone else touch it?
I don’t say any of the obsessive thoughts about her running through my head. I haven’t even been able to admit them to my therapist.
Paloma smiles and pushes up on my thighs to kiss my mouth gently.
She lets me play with her hair all night as she slowly falls asleep on my chest.
· · ·
The pool is relatively busy today—everyone active on a Saturday morning—but I spot Paloma easily. She’s already finished swimming, towel wrapped around her body like a column, squeezing her hair out as I approach.
“Hey.” She grins, eyes dancing with delight at the sight of me. The effect is a little heady. “What are you doing here?”
I clear my throat and tuck my hands behind my back.
“I wanted to ask you on a date. Tonight.” I dart a glance down at my shoes. “Not coffee.”
“Dinner?” she asks, patiently waiting as it takes me a moment to swallow and nod. “That would be great. What time do you want me to be ready?”
“I’ll—at six thirty. That should give us time to get to the restaurant by seven.”
She’s still smiling, peachy lips flushed like they’ve recently been bitten. Like they sometimes look when I kiss her harder, the way I secretly like best.
“That’s perfect, Bennett.”
It feels like it is—until that night at 6:45, when I’m stuck in my car, too anxious to drive anywhere. Panicked and hungry, I check the time again, only to grow somehow more paralyzed now that I’m past my time to pick her up and off my scheduled plan.
“You can cancel,” I whisper harshly to myself, batting my hand on the steering wheel. “She won’t be mad.”
It’s the easy solution. Try again when I don’t feel so terrified.
Only . . . I don’t want to cancel. I want to be with Paloma desperately.
My phone rings, the noise blaring in the silence of my car. Stomach somersaulting, I let it ring almost until the end, answering just before it goes to voicemail.
“Hey, Bennett?” Her voice is calm and sweet.
I can’t speak, throat dry. I’m not even sure at this point how long I’ve been sitting here.
“It’s Paloma,” she continues. I can hear the slight hurt, the anxiety I’m feeling mirrored in the sound of her voice dropping slowly at my continued silence.
“H-hey,” I manage to wrangle out. “I’m s-sorry—”
“Are you okay?” she asks, voice losing all hesitation.
Tears sting at the corner of my eyes and I feel stupid and achingly ridiculous.
“No.”
“Where are you?” There’s shuffling and then the slamming of a door. “At your house?”
“Yes,” I say. “In my car.”
Every word I manage sounds half-strangled.
“Okay—stay there.”
The call beeps, but I don’t drop the phone away from my ear—as though if I listen harder, I’ll be able to hear her breathing. The soft swish of her hair against the speaker. Anything to bring me back.
Focus. Remember your list.
1.Go to her dorm, to the door, and knock.
2.Tell her she looks beautiful.
3.Hold her hand and open her car door.
My hand hits the steering wheel again, a strange sort of grief welling up in me that I couldn’t get to the first step because one thing in my routine went wrong and now nothing for this night will be okay.
I need to call her back. I need to cancel and tell her we can do it next weekend and it will be better then—
A knock sounds at my window, making me jump and drop my phone to the floor.
It’s already dark outside, but the multiple streetlights illuminate Paloma against my car window. Her hair looks darker without the light, long and wavy. Her makeup is done—it might be the first time I’ve seen her with any—and she’s dazzling.
So much so that I almost knock her over trying to open the door, forgetful of the state of my clothes and my eyes still wet with tears.
“Hey,” I breathe, angling my body toward her without getting out of the car completely.
She’s dressed in a long white skirt with a floral pattern and a navy cardigan, with little heeled boots peeking out from the ends of the skirt.
“You look beautiful,” I say, words muddled. Her brow only furrows, making my stomach sink. Why can’t I get this right?
I try to picture what she sees—my clothes rumpled and sweat-soaked, my eyes bloodshot and still teary, and my skin pale.
Not exactly the image I want her to have of me.
My eyes squeeze tight at the desperation to make it all stop, to go back in time and just be normal enough for this one goddamn night.
“Bennett . . .” My name sounds like a plea. “What happened? How—how long have you been out here?”
“Not long.” I shake my head. “What time is it?”
Her eyes are wide pools of sad mahogany.
“It’s almost eight.”
My head spins, hands shoving through my once-styled curls until I’m sure they’re a rat’s nest atop my head.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out, shaking my head back and forth. “I shouldn’t have—”
“Hey,” she whispers, suddenly close. Her scent works into my nose and mouth, stifling the apologies waiting on my tongue. Her arms slip up and over my shoulders as she presses herself into my body hard, stepping up to the cab between my legs.
“Can I—”
She doesn’t get the question out before I’m hauling her to me, holding her as tightly as I need. My body is still trembling. I war over explaining myself or just letting her comfort me, which only causes more distress.
She coos into my ear, hands bracing me instead of attempting any soft touches—because she knows me now. Paloma has taken the time to understand what I need, what soothes me.
“What happened?” she asks, her voice muffled with her face pressed into the collar of my flannel.
“I don’t know,” I lie, only to immediately ramble on with, “It’s—my plan was perfect. I just had an issue with Seven. He . . . it rained today, and he tracked mud in, and I didn’t realize it until after. So, once I finished cleaning, I was off my schedule and rushing and everything just . . .”
“Spiraled?”
I nod.
“Okay.” She pulls away from me and I feel the loss of her immediately. “Let’s come up with a new plan.”
My brow furrows, head already shaking. “It’s— We can still go—”
“Maybe something a little smaller?”
“I don’t want you to be disappointed.” The words ache, raw and vulnerable.
Paloma’s eyes soften, hand reaching out for mine. “I would never be disappointed. Please trust me, Bennett. I just want to spend time with you.”