Chapter 43
THEN: Freshman Year, November
Bennett
“And how is everything with Paloma?”
I sit a little taller on the comfy cloth sofa across from Dr. Anya for a rescheduled session.
I’d had to move it around for a rare weekday game.
Usually, sessions like this make me more anxious, less open to sharing, so I consider them nearly counterproductive.
But today there is a whisper of excitement threading through time and space because I know what is coming after.
“It’s good. We’re going away this weekend.”
“The whole weekend?” Her eyebrow raise is the only betrayal of her shock.
I’m breaking my routine and going somewhere not as familiar, doing something new with someone who also hasn’t done this before—in more ways than one.
“Yeah—leaving tonight and back Sunday. I have an off weekend from hockey since we played Thursday this week.”
“That’s exciting. Are you two doing well then?”
“Yes.”
“You told me last time that you opened up to her about your OCD, right?” I nod again, tapping my fingers hard against my kneecap. “Did you tell her anything else about yourself?”
Most people know I’m OCD, or at least they spot the compulsions and don’t ask.
Some even make jokes—about the way I wash my uniform or how I warm up—without knowing that it’s serious for me.
That my brain feels like it’s attacking me with anxieties that seem ridiculous said out loud.
But I can’t shake the thought that something still might happen, so I have to do these things. I don’t necessarily want to.
Sometimes, I actively don’t want to.
But I don’t really go around introducing myself as “Bennett Reiner, autistic guy with OCD,” so most people don’t really know that part of me. I’m just Bennett Reiner, silent hockey goalie who doesn’t like people.
It’s not true, but it works for me. It’s fine.
But I want Paloma to know, to understand me in the way she seems so desperate to.
“Yes. We talked about my thing with touching,” I say, fidgeting further in my seat. “And I told her. About me, not just the OCD stuff.”
Dr. Anya nods, tapping her pen once, twice, and then setting her notebook down.
“She’s important to you.”
“Very,” I say, not hesitating.
“Tell me more about her.”
“I like to touch her hair,” I say impulsively, a blush creeping up my cheeks after. “Is that . . . is that wrong?”
Her brow furrows slightly. “Do you have to touch it? Do you get anxious if you can’t?”
I shake my head. “No. I just like . . . I like the way it feels. I like touching it and washing it and . . .”
“Then that’s okay,” she says, a light smile over her face. “If anything, that’s kind of beautiful, Bennett.”
I fidget again.
“How are things between you progressing intimately?”
I’ve spoken about this sort of thing with Dr. Anya before. Several times. Opened up to her years earlier when I thought something was wrong with me for not being interested in physical intimacy. And then again about the things I did want with physical intimacy.
This weekend is important to Paloma, to me, and I want to make sure I’m doing this the right way the first time.
“They’re . . . fine,” I say carefully, reaching up to scratch at the back of my neck, wishing I’d let my dad cut my hair. It’s getting too long—
“Can you elaborate on that?”
“We’ve . . . done things. It can be overwhelming, but I like that. It’s a good feeling.”
She nods again. “That’s okay. Have you shared with her what you enjoy? With intimacy?”
That’s a hard no—it’s one thing dealing with my first experiences with sex and pleasure. It’s another to bring up my proclivities, the need for control that bleeds into intimacy. Especially with Paloma . . .
I shrug, blood rushing hot in my cheeks. “I just want to make sure I’m doing things the right way.”
There’s a long pause, though I’m sure it feels longer to me than it truly is.
“Sex is complicated, for everyone—that part has nothing to do with your diagnoses, Bennett. Sex is probably just as scary and exciting a prospect for Paloma as it is for you. I think you need to remember that. Because there might be some awkward or stressful parts to being in this type of relationship with her. But that’s okay. ”
Her smile is reassuring as she leans back and watches me for a moment.
“It’s just like everything else. It gets better with practice.”
“Yeah?”
Dr. Anya nods before straightening up, my cue that our time is over since I’m not allowed to have a watch or stress over time while in my sessions.
“Yeah. I think you should just focus on communication. Ask her lots of questions. Don’t be afraid to communicate, especially when it feels overwhelming. Trust her and yourself.”
· · ·
“The cleaners were just there last week, so everything should be good. And I called them to stock the fridge with the list you gave me,” my dad’s voice comes over my speaker as I pull into Paloma’s dorm parking lot. “And if you—”
“I got it,” I cut him off. “I promise, I’m good.”
My dad sighs heavily over the phone. “All right, all right. I’m hovering. I get it. Just please check in and let me know you made it and when you’re heading home, okay?”
“All right,” I agree. “Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
We hang up just before someone taps on my window: Paloma, in her overalls with a colorful sweater slung over one shoulder and her hair in a loose bun at the back of her head. She’s smiling brightly at me, face bare and eyes glinting almost caramel in the sunlight.
I unlock the truck door before she can pull on the handle impatiently, laughing as she stumbles her way into the cabin of the truck.
“Hey, Bennett,” she says, half-climbing over the console and kissing my mouth before I can prepare for it. My heart pulses like it’s reaching from my chest for her.
I rub at my chest before shaking my head and looking away from her. “Hey, Paloma.”
“Where’s Seven?”
“With my dad for the weekend.”
Her eyes scan over me a little more intensely. “Are you sure? He can come with us.”
“I’ll be fine.” But her worry over me and my dog makes another rope of obsession loop out from me and over her.
Her backpack is on the floor at her feet, but I grab it and carefully place it in the backseat before turning the music up and handing her my phone.
“I made a playlist for the drive,” I offer, pulling away from the curb slowly. “Some of your poems are on there.”
She’s quiet, fiddling with my music app for a long while as Bon Iver plays through the stereo. When she finally hands my phone back, I see she’s changed the name of the playlist from a number to “B + P.”
My chest thunders, that same ache I’ve grown used to pressing hard against my heart. This time the smile she gives me as I glance over at her is softer, something more exposed and vulnerable. Like she’s unsure.
I take her hand in mine.
She doesn’t let go of it for the whole drive.
· · ·
The house isn’t as terrifyingly massive as some of the other Reiner properties, but it’s my favorite. It’s the one place my father laid claim to, even if we didn’t visit here much other than a week or two in the summer.
It’s winter now, too cold for much of the actual beach, but the little quiet town is close to Chatham and other popular Cape Cod destinations. Overall, the house is cozy, private, and perfect for this. Perfect for her.
I tell her to wait for me so I can get her bag and open her door. She doesn’t fuss when I take her sweater and slide it carefully over her head, straightening it and fixing her hair slowly, gently. She spends most of the time staring over my shoulder at the house.
It’s a family home, originally built for my dad’s youngest brother. An elegant sign over the entrance and a carved wooden one on the door state the year it was built and the name, Speyside. My grandfather named it after his youngest son’s favorite place in Scotland.
I think it makes my dad sad that it’s named after the place where his brother got his favorite whiskey, knowing it was the alcoholism that nearly killed him so young. Knowing it was the alcohol that brewed near-hatred between the sons and their father, before my uncle left it all behind.
But still, my dad has never taken the signs down.
It’s New England classic, shingle-style architecture with an older feel in contrast to the well-insulated, beautifully updated interiors.
The kitchen itself is far better than even my dad’s home, as if he’d had me in mind when he renovated it.
Three bedrooms, all beautiful and simple, and cozier than either my father’s Boston home or my mother’s extravagant mansion.
As I quietly tell Paloma where everything is, she looks wide-eyed across the large, pristine rooms.
“Paloma?”
“Hmm?”
Her eyes are fixed out the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the darkened beach. It’s not far, but we’re up on an elevated hillside. I flip the switch by the door, illuminating a pathway down to the water.
“I’m going to cook us some dinner,” I whisper, stepping boldly up behind her, releasing her bun with my fingers and petting through the strands until they lay softly against her back. “Why don’t you go sit by the ocean?”
“Really? I can?”
“Of course.” I grab one of the thicker quilts out of a wicker basket by the sofa and step back over to her. “It’s cold out, take a blanket with you.”
“Okay,” she agrees in an almost half-trance state as she stares at the stretch of dark ocean. I give her the directions to start the firepit as the sun sets in the distance.
It doesn’t take long for me to heat up the warm ramen I’d already cooked this morning, the pork belly soft and warm, the noodles thick and from my favorite Asian market.
I pour everything into thermoses from a high cabinet and shrug my flannel jacket back on as I head out into the bitter cold winds, which are only growing fiercer as the sky darkens.
“Hey, love,” I say, pulling Paloma’s attention from the nearby lapping waves. “Cold?”
She shakes her head. “All good.”
I hand her the thermos, fingers feeling her palm to make sure she isn’t frozen and lying about it.
I turn the fire up a little higher, sitting next to her on the bench seat she’s chosen.
In the quiet, I observe her. The soft dip of her chin, the lithe upward curl of her nose. The perfect symmetry of her face, cheeks flushed with the proximity of the fire. She stirs the spoon around in her cup, taking a few noodle-forward bites, before looking over at me sheepishly.
“I’m not hungry.”
I laugh, nervousness swirling. “Me either.”
I am. But not for food. For her—all of her. I want to savor every inch of her skin and indulge in her until I’m overfull. Until the obsessive thoughts start to ebb away.
My fingers dust across her thigh.
“Can I run you a hot shower? It’s cold.”
She smiles. “Only if you’ll shower with me.”
I nod, standing a little abruptly and reaching to carry her. Her excited giggle rips through me like a burst of adrenaline. “Hold on to me.”