Chapter 73
NOW
Paloma
Seven is in bed with me and Bennett is gone when I wake up. My head feels heavy enough that I roll over like I might just sleep for longer—before deciding that might be my worst idea.
The first time I met Alessia Baudelaire she let me stay at her apartment. I was too scared to go home or anywhere else—so she took care of it. Took care of me. And I remember feeling so sick the next morning, not wanting to leave or get out of bed. Terrified of what would happen next.
“Take the time you need,” she told me in that same firm but soft voice. “But then you have to get up. That’s what we do. We get up. We keep going. Women can survive anything. We’re the stronger ones—remember that when someone tries to make you feel small or weak.”
Get up. Get up.
I push up and grab for the water by the bed, realizing there are wrappers next to it. Goldfish and a protein bar, half eaten. I know I’m the one who ate them—but Bennett must’ve been in a rush if he left them here. He never leaves trash out.
That captures my attention.
I slide off his bed and stumble into the bathroom to brush my teeth, wash my face, and braid my hair back.
Adam is downstairs in the kitchen, still dressed as he was last night, leaning halfway over the counter as he whispers quietly to Alessia—who is wearing a sweatshirt and soft flannel pants I’m nearly positive belong to Adam Reiner.
I wonder if he gave them to her, since she didn’t want to leave me here.
The tension between them at the police station seems to have dissolved.
“Good morning, Paloma,” Adam greets first, but steps backward, giving me unneeded space.
“Good morning,” I reply, quiet, eyes still searching. “Um . . . where’s Bennett?”
The question seems to jolt Adam. He grabs for his phone and checks it before blowing out a heavy breath. “He went for an early morning run, I think. That’s good—he needs a little movement and quiet time, yeah?”
Yeah. Except Bennett doesn’t really run.
“Do you want something to eat? Coffee?” Adam asks me.
“Coffee,” I say. I don’t take him up on food, thinking only of Bennett. Cooking calms him and maybe feeding me will make him feel better. Maybe it will help us both.
Adam starts on my coffee from the expensive stainless-steel machine, while I step up next to Alessia at the counter.
“What happens now?” I finally ask, chewing on my lip.
“Everything is up to you,” Adam says. The words are meant to make me more comfortable, but they have the opposite effect. “But I think most important is setting up someone for you to talk to.”
“Oh, um—”
“Paloma already has a therapist she sees,” Alessia butts in as Adam hands me a steaming, frothy latte. “And, as long as this guy isn’t lying about how good of a lawyer he is, I think we’re all set. I wish I’d gotten a hit in, though.”
The memory of Bennett’s fist hitting Ethan square in the nose makes me grin into my mug. It’s a scene I’ll be playing over again many times in my mind for sure.
Adam tries to hide a brief, amused smile toward Alessia, but I clock it.
“I’m okay,” I say, taking a quick sip that burns my tongue. “But . . . I meant more that I’m not in trouble? And Sadie is okay? I just don’t want to cause something—”
“Everything is taken care of on that end,” Adam soothes me, sending me a quick wink.
“I may not be the best father, but I’m not lying—I am a good lawyer.
” He says it with a slight chuckle. It makes my chest squeeze slightly because .
. . I don’t think he’s a bad father. I don’t think that Bennett thinks that either.
But trying to console him without Bennett here feels wrong.
“We can wait on everything else until you’re ready and know how you want to handle it,” Alessia adds. “And you have time.”
I nod. I want to ask more questions: What happened to Ethan? What happens now? Will I have to talk to more people about this whole thing?
But before I can say anything else, the door opens and Seven leaves his place on my feet. I follow him, moving swiftly to the front door where Bennett now stands.
Only clad in an athletic shirt and shorts, he’s pink from the icy wind and cold weather. Sweat soaks his clothes and his hair. His eyes are red rimmed.
My shoulders relax, though not fully because I can feel the tension hanging in the air, careful and almost electric.
“Are you all right?” I ask, calling his attention to me.
Bennett nods, pressing a hand through his droopy honeyed brown curls. “Yeah.”
“You’ve got to be freezing.”
“I’m fine,” he says, stepping out of his shoes and standing still—not moving toward me. “Good morning, Paloma.”
My heart warms at the familiar, belated greeting. “Good morning, Bennett.”
It’s almost like he’s unsure where he wants to move, if he wants to at all. He’s frozen in the hallway, muscles tense, eyes pointed at my feet.
“Are you all right?” he finally asks, the lines of his face tight, lips pressed together.
“I’m okay,” I whisper. “Hungry, though.”
It works like a charm, Bennett nodding and stepping past me into the kitchen. Seven is still sitting at the front door, unsure where to go. He looks at me, then down the hall, back and forth until finally he comes to my side and nudges me with his nose.
Brilliant dog.
We trek behind Bennett, both of our brown eyes filled with worry over the boy we love so much.
I nearly run into Bennett’s back as he stalls out in the doorway, before stepping close to his side and grabbing him around the elbow. He clears his throat, staring awkwardly around the kitchen as Alessia and Adam stand straight from their relaxed postures.
Adam Reiner knows his son, loves him dearly, and it barely takes a second before he calls, “We were just heading to the living room to discuss a few things. We’ll get out of your hair.”
Bennett doesn’t say anything but allows his dad to cup the back of his neck, sliding his hand to his shoulder in a tight, firm squeeze. Their eyes meet for a moment—a clash of deep ocean blues—before the eldest of them moves away, letting Alessia follow.
“Do you want me to help?”
He shakes his head, grabbing a towel and placing it over his shoulder while turning on the oven to heat.
“You can go sit with them while I do this,” he says, gesturing vaguely around the room. He still won’t really look at me.
“All right,” I say, letting him have this time, the same way he’s given me so much.
I don’t pay much attention to whatever it is they’re talking about, choosing to stand nearest the kitchen doors so that I can hear him if he calls for me, though I’m sure that he won’t.
Alessia and Adam talk quietly. She hasn’t told me much about her own story, just that she can relate, that there are similarities in our pasts. I can see her guard is up just slightly; she has a sharp tongue and witty retort to everything heart-on-his-sleeve Adam Reiner has to say.
I don’t join them in their conversation, too distracted by the racing thoughts of concern over Bennett, standing steps away. Something feels off—Seven is in the kitchen, near Bennett, hovering like he can sense it, too.
A part of me is tempted to ask Adam about it, to see if Bennett’s dad has picked up on anything or knows what I can do to make this better, easier for him.
Suddenly, there’s a shattering, cacophonous sound, and a low curse followed by a loud clang. I take off to the kitchen without a glance back, hoping no one follows for now.
“Bennett?” I call, turning into the room.
My stomach drops.
Porcelain shards are scattered everywhere, a pan of biscuits is strewn across the floor, and Bennett is on his knees by the still-open oven, the top of his hands and arms bright red and darkening by the second.
“Oh my god,” I breathe, stepping toward him and sinking to my knees by his side.
He grimaces, stretching one pinkened hand out.
“Don’t—you’ll cut yourself, P.” His voice is scratchy and raw. I ignore him and scoot closer, trying to avoid shards where I can but more concerned with him.
Bennett Reiner has never broken a dish and never, ever burned food.
“Hey, those burns look like they hurt. Let’s—come with me and let’s get cleaned up, yeah?”
He doesn’t argue with me. But when he does manage to stand, he hoists me up onto the kitchen counter to run his hands carefully over my bare legs and feet to check them. I grab his chin as he tries to check them a third time, shaking my head lightly.
“I’m okay. You already looked,” I say, voice firm. “Now come with me upstairs.”
Bennett nods, letting me down and following me upstairs.
Once we’re in the bathroom, door closed, I turn on the shower. Bennett waits stationary, stiff by the door.
I nod for him to come closer, which he obliges silently, becoming a shadow at my back. I run cool water at the sink, testing with my fingers until it’s just the right temperature, then reach for his arm and set it beneath the running water.
Slowly, methodically, I attempt to soothe his reddened skin on each arm, before wrapping them in soft hand towels with cool water. They’re not bad burns—probably from grabbing for the pan without mittens and dropping it across his arms in pain.
After a long moment, I reach for the cold compresses, checking his skin. He watches me intently.
“Get undressed for me.”
He follows the command easily before allowing me to direct him into the shower. I leave the door open as I undress, too, pulling my hair loose from the braid before stepping under the warm spray.
Bennett doesn’t speak as I lather up soap and wash his body slowly.
He doesn’t speak as I pull at his neck, ducking his head so I can scrub my hands through his hair, washing his scalp, gentle and careful.
His breath puffs more labored into my neck as I move my fingertips to the base of his scalp, massaging slightly.
A noise sounds low in his throat and he stumbles, catching himself with one hand on the tile wall behind me, the other wrapped tightly on the curve of my waist.
I gasp, feeling my skin heat under his attention.
“P?” he breathes, his voice a whisper cry.
“I’m here,” I whisper back, curling my hands around his shoulder and pulling him to me. “I’m okay. Everything is okay, remember?”
He shakes his head but clutches me somehow closer. The soap lingering on his body rushes over my skin, slippery and wet as we slide against each other.
For a long time, we just stand there, water pulsing against us, only half of my body wet where he’s been a wall against the spray.
“Can I wash your hair?” he pleads, his hand trailing to tuck against my hair. “Please, P.”
I nod and he turns me toward the shower so he can gently, carefully wet my curls. It’s impossible not to feel the hard length of him grow against me the more his fingers are in my hair.
“So beautiful.” The whisper of his fingers over my low spine make me shiver and arch. “I—goddamn it, Paloma, I’m sorry—”
I try to turn, but he catches my chin. “What?”
“I want to fuck you.” He shakes his head with a self-deprecating laugh. “Is that so fucked up? I can’t stop thinking about it.”
Normally, I’d point out that we are dating and naked in the shower together—that his desire for me is anything but “fucked up.” That feeling desired by him right now is more healing for me than he could ever understand.
But the look on his face is filled with anxiety and self-hatred, so I shake my head almost violently.
“No, Bennett,” I whisper, turning in his arms despite his attempts at resistance. “I want you. I want you to make me feel good.”