Chapter 71
NOW
Paloma
We drive back to Bennett’s dad’s home. Bennett sits up front with his dad, while Alessia sits with me in the backseat. She holds my hand, like a mother might.
After I finished my story, telling it quickly, mostly in order, I felt . . . drained. Talking about it wasn’t difficult for me, but it didn’t stop the exhaustion in the aftermath.
“Have you noticed the way you talk about these things?” Dr. Sutton said once, after I’d explained my mother briefly—what growing up was like for me. “It’s like they happened to someone else.”
Maybe it was easier that way. Maybe it was safer.
And maybe I knew it wouldn’t be like that with Bennett.
With him I’m always vulnerable, my heart too soft and open because of the trust he’s spent nearly four years building.
Which is why I’d avoided him after we left the interrogation room, hands tight to my sides, sticking close to Alessia and as far away from the hovering goalie as possible.
The clear hurt written across his face never faltered, even as his dad settled a hand on his shoulder to direct him out. Bennett had jerked away from him, angry and confused and frustrated in a way that was almost palpable.
No one speaks for the entire drive.
When we arrive in Beacon Hill, Adam opens the door and helps Alessia out, who turns around to help me. Bennett’s hand hovers by my waist when I almost fall trying to climb out—but he doesn’t touch me.
Which makes me feel worse.
Alessia pulls me away from the concerned Reiner men, her palm on my shoulder as she ushers me into the house.
“Go upstairs, and take all the time you need,” she commands lightly. “Do you want Bennett to come up and see you in a little while?”
I hesitate, wishing this wasn’t my decision. Slipping my chin up over my shoulder, I look back at Bennett. He’s standing quietly, hands in pockets, eyes on me—red and waterlogged. But there are evident traces of fury across the planes of his handsome face.
I nod.
As I step away, I can barely make out the click of Alessia’s tall heels, and her voice.
“Paloma’s going to shower and sleep in your room. But I think you should give her some space, just for a bit.”
My steps grow quicker after that.
· · ·
It feels like days go by between my shower, changing clothes, and sitting on Bennett’s bed, but it’s only been an hour. Seven is at my side, his paw on my thigh like he wants me to lay down so he can press his weight on top of me. He can feel my anxiety.
I feel stupid, sitting in Bennett’s clothes, my usual wooden paddle brush in my hand, tangled hair creating a wet spot on the back of my shirt. But I can’t do it.
A knock finally sounds at the door. I feel a hiccup caught in my chest as I wait for Bennett to enter.
“P?”
“Come in,” I squeak out, eyes welling almost immediately at the disheveled sight of him.
He stands at the foot of his own bed like a stranger, eyes downcast like he can’t look at me. My hand squeezes on the handle of the brush. I feel stupid, ridiculous.
“I’m sorry if I shouldn’t be here,” I whisper. “And I know I need to explain—”
“You don’t,” he cuts me off, voice gruff. “Not if . . . not if you don’t want to. I don’t want to ever take something from you that you didn’t want to give.”
My heart aches. “Bennett, I want to explain. To you. Because you deserve to know, but also because I want to tell you. So you can have all of me.”
His eyes are blistering and sincere as he stares down at me. “Okay,” he says. Bennett takes a step forward, then pauses and, voice filled with the same vulnerability I feel, asks, “Do you want me to brush your hair?”
“Please?” I ask, scooting forward on the bed.
Bennett comes around my side, settling the bulk of his body at my back. He takes the brush from my hand and starts on the ends of my tangled hair, never pulling, ever gentle.
And the almost hypnotic feeling that comes from the task allows me to speak.
This time, as I tell the story he’s heard in pieces, I tell it as myself.
“Have you noticed the way you talk about these things? It’s like they happened to someone else.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I say, hugging myself around the middle as I settle back in the chair. “It’s not that—I just . . . It’s fine. It happened and now it’s over.”
“Paloma,” she says, voice soft. “It happened to you. And I think you need to remember that—”
It’s hard, sometimes, to remember that the little girl with pigtails in the back of my mind, who forces me to hold on to the velveteen rabbit stuffed animal and keep a constant grip on my backpack like someone will take it, is me.
Bennett sits quietly, even after he finishes brushing every strand of hair, careful and tender. A solid presence against my back, firm. Unyielding—like he’s always been.
I tell him everything—how Ethan found me, how he manipulated me for years.
How he took my virginity at fourteen and then spent the next two years convincing me I’d asked for something I knew I didn’t want.
I explain the mind games, the times he picked me up in a police cruiser from my friends’ places, keeping me isolated and terrified of leaving or telling anyone.
It takes a long time—long enough that it’s three in the morning by the time I finish, voice hoarse.
I’m sure there will be more stories, pieces of trauma that come out at different times throughout my life—Dr. Sutton had warned me as much, and even she hadn’t gotten to talk about this with me just yet.
And there are still things I’m not ready to say, as if saying them aloud makes them more real than they already are. Or gives them more power to hurt me again.
But I’ve said enough.
Lastly, I explain the full story of what happened on New Year’s Eve our freshman year, when I saw Ethan again. Part of me wants to downplay it, to make Bennett feel better—but lying and covering up for three years hasn’t helped anyone. So, I don’t.
“I’m . . . It was bad. I should’ve told you. But I was scared.”
Bennett’s arms, loose at his sides with his massive hands resting on the curve of my waist, suddenly lift and disappear. The lack of his weighted touch fills me with a rush of anxiety.
“P,” he says, the singular letter nearly a gasp. “I’m—god. I’m so sorry. I didn’t—If I’d known, I would’ve never—”
“I know,” I say, quieting him, turning to kneel between his spread legs. “I don’t blame you. I just needed you to know everything. I needed you to understand why I pushed you away that night. I’m sorry I hurt you. It hurt me, too.”
A strange smile etches across my face, but it’s real and warm.
I feel a little lighter now as I look at Bennett—the stubble across his cheeks, his disheveled curls, the depths of blue ocean water in his eyes.
He’s older now, but I can see him at eighteen, eyes just as bright with wonder as I lean in to kiss his mouth slowly.
“I think for a long time I just wanted to know that someone cared if I was alive,” I say. “And I was scared because I felt alone. I was worried if you knew—about Ethan, about my past—I’d lose the one person in this world who cared about me.”
“You’re never going to be alone again, okay?
” He presses a kiss to my temple. “I care about you. My dad, Alessia, Lily, Sadie, Toren, Rhys, Freddy, Ro, Holden, Coach Harris, Seven—they all care about you. You’re important to so many people.
” He keeps his hands on my face, pulling me forward to look into his beseeching gaze.
It’s desperation in his voice when he begs, “Tell me you understand.”
I nod.
Bennett shakes his head, the scruff of his five-o’clock shadow scraping over my forehead. “Say it, Paloma. Tell me that you’re important.” His voice is all dominating seriousness.
“I’m important.”
“Tell me that you are loved.” He says it adamantly, with a ferociousness I can’t say I’ve seen in him before.
“I’m loved.”
“Tell me that you know how much I care about you.” He gasps a breath, eyes welling.
“That I couldn’t do this life without knowing you’re alive and safe and okay.
That you are the greatest love I’ve ever known and ever will know.
That your kindness, gentleness, love—it saved me before you even knew me. Tell me you know.”
“I do,” I breathe, pulling him closer, holding him tighter. He grips me the same, until I cannot tell where I end and he begins.
Time passes slowly. Bennett gathers me somehow closer, his hands in my hair starting to quiet my mind—the exhaustion I’d already felt leaving the police station renewed tenfold. My eyes feel as heavy as my body in his arms.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers into my skin, leaving passionate, forceful kisses behind—as if trying to mark me. “I’m sorry. I failed you. I won’t let it happen again.”
He’s saying something wrong—something important—but my eyes are weary now that I’ve found a moment of peace.
I mutter something about feeling so tired, so sleepy, to him. He quiets his own words, petting my hair and slowly maneuvering us to lay flat. I’m asleep before I can hear whatever he says next.