Chapter 51
Bennett
“What if . . .” Paloma’s voice trails off. “What if they don’t like me?”
She’s in my passenger seat, a light freckling of snow out the window over her shoulder as I park in front of her dorm. We’ve spent nearly a week with my dad at Beacon Hill and I’m more obsessively in love with her than I thought possible for a person to be. Especially me.
Last night, with the muscles of her back under my hands while she lay across my bed in the lamplight, I convinced her to stay with me longer and go to my mom’s for New Year’s Eve dinner. Our one holiday tradition.
My relationship with my mom has always been complicated, difficult.
She opted out of therapy when I was a kid, something that displeased both my dad and my therapist. I knew that it was me that made her sad—though she might hedge that it was my autism, my sensitivities or difficulties with things she saw as simple or straightforward. Things that “shouldn’t be so hard.”
It got better when she met my stepdad. She and Ethan had exchanged emails after meeting online, which worried me, until he moved a few cities over to live with us. It wasn’t long after that they got married.
My dad hated him. Still does, which then makes me irate when it’s brought up. Having to play the go-between for my parents is a personal hell of mine.
“What?” My brow furrows, eyes darting toward her. I flick on my hazards, parking and unbuckling quickly to shift completely toward her in the seat.
She looks so small, delicate against the black leather. Knees pulled to her chest, scribbled Converse with a hole in the side rubbing squeakily against the other as she chews on her plump bottom lip. She releases it into a pout as she finally glances at me underneath long lashes.
“I don’t think they’re going to like me.”
“They’ll love you,” I try to assure her. “You met my dad and he adores you.”
She nods, but there’s no change to the clear worry drawn across her beautiful features. “I just—it’s your mom.” She huffs a breath and whispers, “I’m not great with moms.”
“No?” I ask patiently.
She shakes her head. “My mom is . . . difficult. She was . . . she had a lot of problems.”
I nod. I’ve gathered that, try to shove away the obsessive, intense questions I want to ask her.
“But—I didn’t . . . She didn’t like me.”
Heart aching at her vulnerable quiet confession, I shake my head.
“Then it’s her loss,” I say. “My mom will be kind. If anything, she’ll be too excited. She’ll definitely want to hug, since I don’t really—” I clear my throat. “I don’t hug, really.”
“You hug me,” she points out. “And your dad.”
“It’s easier with you,” I huff, drawing back from her slightly. I feel overexposed, skin burning a little, but I know I should explain more. “My mom struggles to . . . accommodate me.” I grimace. “It’s almost like it upsets her. So I try to be better, when I’m around her.”
Be better. The words feel wrong.
Dr. Anya and I have spoken about it repeatedly. How I shouldn’t have to apologize for the way that I am, especially with my mom. But my mom’s life is difficult, and she’s perpetually sad. And my dad was the one who broke her heart.
And that’s your fault. If you’d just—
I shake my head, reaching for Paloma again to settle myself. We didn’t do Christmas presents, but I did take Paloma this morning to swim as a semi-gift. The peace written on her face when she jumped into the pool was enough to sustain me for years to come.
Now, she’s dressed in sweatpants, a sweatshirt, and a jacket. I’d even slumped my own beanie over her damp hair, desperate to keep her warmer.
“It’s easier with you. Hugging, physical touch. Probably because I trust you.”
She blushes.
“Yeah?” There’s an innocence to her question that makes my heart punch in my chest. I nod. “Me too. I trust you, too.”
“Good,” I say, grabbing her hand in mine and kissing her palm as I hold it to my face firmly. “Go shower, get dressed and whatever else. I’ll pick you up in an hour?”
“Okay.”
“Love you,” I say, unbuckling her seatbelt.
“Love you,” she whispers back.
I slept there the night you said ‘I think I’m
falling in love with you,’ igniting a great unendurable
belongingness, like a match in a forest fire.
I burned so long so quiet you must have wondered
if I loved you back. I did, I did, I do.
—from “the pillowcase” by annelyse gelman
From Paloma Blake, never received by Bennett Reiner
Bennett,
I’m sorry.
P