Chapter 55
THEN: Junior Year, November
Bennett
“You have to try.”
There’s an irritation to my dad’s voice that isn’t usually there. He fiddles with his silverware anxiously before swirling his Americano around in the glass mug and swigging it down in one go.
“It’s not because of—”
“It is, and you know it,” he snaps, but I let it roll off me.
I have a date tonight. And just the thought of it is enough to have me spiraling into a panic only Adam Reiner seems able to pull me from—despite the tension that’s only festered lately, heavier now as I’m back at Waterfell for junior year.
“It’s one date, Ben. Why don’t you ask Rhys to bring a girl and make it a double date?”
I’d thought about it, several times, but hadn’t worked up the nerve. Rhys didn’t know about her, my first girlfriend—and letting him in on why I needed a buffer on this damn date with a girl from my class would only lead to more questions than I could answer.
“I might,” I say, but my dad is distracted again. Normally, this would irritate me, but he seems . . . upset.
He looks over my shoulder again just as a figure moves into my periphery.
It’s Anna Koteskiy, pulling her strawberry blond hair from beneath the neck of the deep blue overcoat she’s just shrugged on. My dad runs his eyes over her like he’s checking her over, as if she’s just escaped certain death.
“Bennett, Adam,” she greets us both. “Surprised to see you here.”
“Are you all right?”
My dad’s voice is soft but adamant. I quietly sink back, sipping my water.
“Fine,” she says, smiling at me again before turning slightly narrowed eyes to him. “I take it Max let you know what I was doing today.”
“Possibly,” he mutters. “I take it you’re okay, then?”
“No need for you to beat anyone up this time.” She smiles, but there’s a softness as she rests her hand on my dad’s shoulder, close to his neck.
A long moment of silence draws out while they seem to have an entire conversation with each other, lost in memories of their youth.
“I’m okay,” she offers quietly.
My dad closes his eyes and huffs a quick heavy breath. “Good.”
“Good to see you both,” she says, before the click of her heels on the marble flooring signal her departure.
My dad’s eyes follow her, a desperation in the way he watches her. It’s not the first time I’ve clocked it—but it’s the most blatant I’ve seen it. As I get older, I can spot the aching familiarity all too well.
My dad looks . . . tired, I realize. Like he’s lived a thousand lives and never had one where he was truly happy. There’s an ache in my heart again as I watch him more closely.
Mirrors. Doomed to love from afar.
· · ·
“He’s not usually late,” I stammer, fidgeting a little in the booth.
It was the only seating option they had, but it puts Hannah too close to me, especially for the first date.
The restaurant is crowded and loud, cacophonous noise echoing off the high ceilings. I check my watch again—fifteen minutes late. Goddamn it, Rhys.
I grab my phone to text him, beyond the point of being relatively polite, before a soft, low voice speaks.
“I hate being late.” The words seem to carry over the other noise, the soft, low voice igniting goose bumps across my exposed forearms.
Throat dry, I manage the courage to look up—
—only to have the wind knocked out of me by the sight of my best friend ushering Paloma Blake into our booth.
My Paloma Blake.
Her hair is beautiful, the real color I always suspected lurked beneath the faded brown—a bright, vibrant blond in bouncy curls.
But I barely recognize the rest of her. A full face of makeup, accentuating her deep brown eyes and pouty dark pink lips, which are the same dusty rose as her tank top, which puts all her golden glowing skin on display.
She’s tanner, especially for the winter, and I can’t stop my eyes from dropping to the tight material pushing up her chest.
God, she’s beautiful. She’s also a goddamn walking wet dream. I don’t know why I’m surprised Rhys found her—of course he did. She is . . . everything. Good and kind and brilliant.
They’re two of the best people I’ve ever met.
Admitting they might deserve each other was my nightmare years before, when I thought she’d be only mine, forever. Now, it feels like I’m being stabbed under this table.
I smile at them both, trying to shove back the gnawing pain in my chest.
“Bennett?” Rhys asks, and I realize they’ve been talking. “You know Paloma, right?”
Know her? Sure. If by know her, he means that she is half of my soul. The tumultuous sea to my constant shore.
“Bennett is my best friend.” Rhys smiles, all glittering and golden, arm sliding gently around Paloma’s shoulders. The move is casual, gentle and effortless. Like he doesn’t have to plan it ahead, practice the movement of his arm so that it’s seamless.
Touching is easy for him. It makes me sick with envy.
“Best friend,” Paloma repeats, voice the same semi-sarcastic sound even when she doesn’t mean it. “You never mentioned him. Ever.”
Except, she isn’t reprimanding Rhys—she’s talking to me.
Her eyes are locked on mine, almost pleading, and I can’t look away. My stomach hurts, the semi-assuredness of she didn’t know warring with the more sinister sentiment of would it really matter if she did? She deserves someone better. Someone like Rhys.
“Sorry.” Rhys smirks. “He’s too handsome. And he can cook—didn’t want him to charm you away before I got a chance to.”
I laugh, almost too loud, but my eyes feel like they’re burning. Rhys turns his grin toward me, a grateful look in his eye, as if I’m playing the perfect wingman like I never have before.
Can’t you feel my heart, Rhys? You’re pulling it from my chest.
“I’m Hannah,” my date introduces herself. “Nice to meet you both.”
“You too,” Rhys says. Paloma and I still haven’t broken eye contact. “How did you two meet?”
I can feel Hannah smiling at me, but I don’t speak, the words catching on my tongue, so she tells it.
“We’re both pre-law. We had Mass Media Law together last semester and we were project partners.
” Paloma huffs a breath. I look away from her.
“And then we’re in another class this semester, so .
. .” Hannah shrugs. “I’d been waiting for him to ask me out, but eventually I just took the initiative myself. ”
Paloma blinks and rips her gaze from mine, smiling more like a predator than prey now.
“Way to go,” she offers, before reaching for one of the empty glasses and the large jar of water. She’s barely touched it before Rhys bats her hand away and pours it for her. “Almost meant to be, huh?”
“What about you?” Hannah asks, biting lightly on her lip. She’s beautiful, dressed tonight in a floral dress and cardigan, auburn hair swept up into a ribbon-bound ponytail. “What’s your major?”
“I’m undecided.” Paloma takes a distracted gulp of water.
“Let’s make a deal, then,” she whispers, words soft against my heated, sticky skin. “I fill out my declaration as sports management. You fill yours out for poetry.”
I smile and shake my head. “That’s not a major.”
“Okay, then creative writing. Or literature. And then you can take all the poetry classes and have it as your minor.” Her laugh is intoxicating, as is the feel of her when she collapses back on my chest, the burst of post-sex energy she usually displays finally giving out.
“I’ll make it mine, too, so we can take the classes together. ”
“Yeah?” I ask, heart thumping beneath her ear. I brush a hand through her hair gently.
“Yeah. I don’t want you swapping poems with anyone else.”
Another huff of a laugh, before I pull my head up off the pillow to kiss her head and pull her closer. “Never. Those are only for you.”
We stare across the table at each other again, two halves of an unfulfilled promise.
A hand tapping my shoulder has me jumping in my seat like a live wire, knee slamming into the hard wooden oak.
“Sorry.” Hannah laughs, nervously eyeing Rhys and Paloma before ducking her head closer to my ear. “I just needed to get out, for the restroom.”
“No, I’m sorry,” I say, exiting the booth so she can scoot out. I rub at my knee for a moment while standing up, matching my date’s smile as best I can, before sliding back in.
Brow furrowed, Rhys settles his forearms on the table and leans toward me. “You good? Is it from last night?”
“What happened last night?” Paloma blurts, cheeks blushing a little when she realizes how loud she’s asked.
Her eyes roam my face, then look down at the table like she can somehow see through it and my pants to the bruise on my knee.
“Bennett’s our goalie,” Rhys explains unnecessarily. “Some asshole from Yale hit him last night while he was in a bad position—”
“Butterfly,” I say, knowing Paloma too well not to explain. “But I’m fine. Just tweaked it.”
She’s upset, clearly, and something in that makes me feel better. But it’s like putting a Band-Aid on a fatal wound.
Rhys settles back against the wood of the bench seat before he tilts his head down to kiss her cheek gently. Every touch they share is familiar, like this isn’t a first date for them. And maybe it’s not.
I know my best friend isn’t the sleep around type of guy. I know Rhys Koteskiy is the three-date-rule golden boy that girls don’t just thirst over but romanticize—and accurately. He’s always been easily romantic and loving to the few girls he’s dated.
So, as much as it feels like a fist to the gut, there is a comfort in the fact that I know how Rhys treats Paloma. That he walks her to her dorm and always gets her car door for her. That he foots the bill for any date. That he would never pressure her for something she didn’t want to give.
Bittersweet. I finally understand the word.
I don’t go home with Hannah—I don’t go home at all. I find a bar, drink too heavily, and try to drown out the sight of Rhys’s hands on Paloma’s skin. The sight of my father looking toward Anna Koteskiy.
Is this some kind of Reiner curse?
Burying my sadness and anger, I go home with someone I don’t know. The alcohol makes my head swim enough that it doesn’t bother me. I try to focus on my hands in her hair, the tight control I exude over her body—the way I want so desperately.
But her face bleeds into soft doe-brown eyes and brighter, voluptuous hair. Until it’s Paloma beneath my grip, letting me hold her tightly.
Shame eats at me until I stop prematurely, apologizing and kissing the woman’s forehead. I don’t know her name and she doesn’t know mine, but she lets me shower and offers to call me a car home.
I choose to walk, hoping I won’t make it all the way.
Nearly sure that the pain and anxiety will devour me first.
there are no poems anymore—no words
only the memories tangled like strands of hair that I can’t get out
of my shower, my pillowcase—
only relentless memory woven into every facet of life; the endless pain;
the loss of her
I try to breathe. And only salt water and juniper are in my lungs
I don’t want to write anymore
—“untitled” by bennett reiner