Chapter 45
THEN: Freshman Year, November
Bennett
It doesn’t matter that I’m only halfway to her spot on the illuminated deck; I can feel her distress.
Part of me wanted to rush down the second I heard her slip out of the sliding door, but I kept my focus on the plethora of snacks I was gathering for her. Things she likes most—applesauce and Goldfish, snacks I bought and brought with me because she’d grown up without the snacks most children love.
She deserves some space to be alone and calm by the sea before I try to comfort her.
And I know being near the water soothes Paloma. It’s why I wanted to bring her here.
Paloma is completely still, silent, almost like she doesn’t notice me there—which in and of itself is a bit nauseating. I don’t like that she’s so out of it, out here by herself. The worry that’s been slowly building ratchets up to an almost insurmountable level.
“Hey, P,” I whisper, sitting close as the fire crackles behind us. “You, okay?”
Her hair is unbound, tangled from the wind that seems to have stilled, like some metaphorical rage of her emotions has now settled, too. I pretend it was me that soothed her. My hands.
I can still feel the silk of her skin against my palms, the warmth of her body pressed to mine. My fists clench to not reach for her again.
“Please, Bennett—”
“You feel so perfect. So perfect.”
My stomach swoops like the rush of a freefall just remembering it. My world has altered fundamentally. It feels wrong that I’m not holding her now, that I’m not making her come again and again until she’s soft and sleeping in my arms.
Instead, we’re here. In the cold, with just the sound of the water to soothe her, the way I wish I could. The way I’ll obsess over for years to come, until I can fix it. Make everything better for her. Never let her be hurt again.
“I was ten.” My stomach rolls with the knowledge. It’s hard to understand it, to imagine her as a child, unprotected and scared.
Tell me the rest, I silently beg. C’mon, P. Trust me to hold this for you. To never leave you alone in this pain. Be mine. Trust me enough to fall in love with me the way I am falling in love with you.
“I’m so sorry.” She swallows loudly. “I think I’m scared.”
At her confession, she scoots away from me just slightly and my stomach hollows out.
Say something.
I try, mouth opening and closing—but nothing comes out. My palms feel sweaty despite the icy cold. I fidget with my sleeve where it suddenly seems to be cutting into my palm.
“Of me?”
It’s not what I meant to say. It doesn’t even make sense, but the slight anxiety roiling through me feels strange.
“No. Never,” she says. Her voice sounds a little empty; her eyes are wide and watery as she glances at me before looking back out across the sea. “I just . . . I wanted this weekend to be good for you and I think I ruined it.”
“God, P—no. No, you could never ruin this. But this isn’t just—” I cut myself off, head shaking. “You’re perfect. I adore you. Why can’t you understand that?”
I’m tripping over my words, carelessly flailing through this important conversation.
Paloma’s hand presses hard over my thigh. “I want to trust you. I want to tell you. And—” Her voice starts to shake and she looks down at her hand on me, as if she’s just realized it was there. “And I’m sorry, okay?”
Instead of consoling her or begging her to tell me, I sit quietly and allow her to speak.
She opens her mouth, but no words escape. Only silent tears. The fire crackles behind us, waves lapping at the sand just out of reach.
There’s a beseeching look in her eyes, one I’m almost certain she doesn’t realize is there. Like something inside her is begging me to find this answer so she doesn’t have to, to speak it for her. Come on, Bennett. Think.
“Somebody hurt you,” I try. “You already told me that. I think I’ve known for a while. But you’re trusting me now, and I want to help. Let me carry this for you.”
“I can’t.” She’s breathing hard. Her voice trails off, but I can feel what she wants to say, like some third entity is nearby, looming dark over her usual shining bright light. Withdrawing in on herself, she curves her shoulders, making herself smaller.
Paloma bites her lip, eyebrows furrowed. As if she doesn’t know the answer to my implied question—or won’t tell me.
“Paloma?”
She finally nods and fury bursts in my chest, mixing with pain, threatening to swallow me. It’s overwhelming, my vision fuzzing out at the corners.
My fists clench with the need to pull her into my chest, terrified to touch her and not to in equal measure.
“Paloma—”
“I’m . . . I’m sorry,” she says again, helpless and small. She somehow sinks further into herself. “I should have just told you when you asked, but I was embarrassed—”
“Embarrassed?” The word booms out of me, angry. My voice is thick, torn between yelling and crying. I feel out of control. “Why? God—P. You didn’t choose that.”
Her eyes glance toward me. Like a cornered deer frozen but checking for danger.
“I— It’s complicated.”
“Did you want it?” Another hesitation. Another expression moving across her features like she’s unsure and looking to me for the answer.
“I don’t . . . no. I didn’t,” she says, as if the words are to herself more than to answer me.
Another piece of my heart breaks. I reach for her, taking her into my arms and bending down to kiss her forehead. I feel her flinch. It would hurt less if she had stabbed me. “That’s not complicated, Paloma.”
“Are you . . . Am I gross now?” she asks, vulnerability woven so deeply into every word.
“Never,” I say vehemently.
“Do you regret it?” A choked half-sob works from her.
I put a hand on my chest, as if I can stop the pain.
“Never. Paloma—the way I feel about you is almost overwhelming,” I attempt to explain. “I’m disappointed for you. I’m angry and hurt for you. I wish somehow, I could have known you then . . . protected you. Cared for you.”
She holds my gaze, longer eye contact than I’m usually comfortable with.
She chokes out. “I just . . . I wanted us to have this together.”
“Listen to me, P. This was just as much your first time as it was mine. Yeah?”
Tears threaten her doe brown eyes as she looks up at me. “Yeah.”
“Was it good?” I whisper before wrapping her tighter into me, holding her tightly to my chest as she maneuvers herself to straddle my thighs. “Did I . . . did I make it good for you, P?”
She nods into my neck, then peels back with a wet-eyed smile. “It was the only time sex has felt . . . good. Thank you.”
I shake my head, tucking her head back into my neck and holding her tightly again. Mostly so that she can’t see the tears threatening at the corners of my eyes.
“Don’t thank me, P. Just let me show you how it’s supposed to be.”
We stay in the cold too long. Paloma is tired but swears she can’t sleep. I feed her Goldfish and applesauce, trying to quell the oncoming fixation with feeding her by hand, then carry her inside.
It’s late, but I run another steaming shower and make good on my promise, taking her against the warm shower wall, her body wholly held in my hands, opening to me easier now. She complains softly of being sore and I apologize, ready to pull out of her—to let her rest.
But her nails sink into my back, holding me close.
“I want to feel it,” she says, voice quiet. “I want the reminder of you when I move.”
Her words make me ravenous, bucking into her harder and faster than before, chasing down her moans desperately until we come together.
I ask her what poem she feels like when we have sex. The question barely makes sense, but I know she understands me.
She shakes her head. “I don’t know,” she whispers. “Let me think about it.”
I whisper, “I like my body when it is with your body,” so she’ll know. So she’ll maybe understand.
This time when she says she can’t sleep, her eyes are already closed, her body pressed to mine beneath the covers.
I watch over her for a long time.
In the morning, she grinds on top of me to wake me up.
We make love, slow and sleepy. I make her come again under the shower spray, watching the way she unfurls from the warm water and the insistence of my fingers.
I take my time, desperate to learn her every nerve ending.
To perfect the art of pleasuring her. Of loving her.
By the evening, I recite lines of poetry in her ear when she lets me take her from behind, hand in her hair against the back of her neck, dominant but always gentle. Consuming her the way I want to so desperately. I swallow every cry of pleasure with my mouth.
The drive home the next morning is easy. We wind through the backroads with care as I drive slowly and deliberately. Adrienne Lanker plays on the radio.
I crack the windows to let Paloma feel the soft air flow. She takes turns pressing her feet beneath my thigh or laying her head on my biceps, which eventually turns to her sleeping on my arm. I’m even more careful as I purposefully drive slower not to jostle her.
I spend the ride just watching over her and feeling her skin always pressed to me in some way. It feels like a piece of her lives inside me now.
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to let her go.