Chapter 6 Bennett
Bennett
Surprisingly, sharing a living space with Clover feels normal when I’m not thinking too hard about it.
Prior to the summer before junior year, I don’t remember a time when Clover and her mom, Beth, didn’t live at our primary family residence.
Graves Coffee is headquartered in Portland, but we only have a penthouse there for when one of us is in town. The cliffs of Cannon Beach are home.
But before that came into our life, I spent the earliest months of my life in hospitals under constant monitoring.
After I had a surgery to rectify my congenital heart defect and my parents were told I would lead a mostly normal life other than having a cardiologist for the rest of my life, my parents moved out to the Cannon Beach estate.
They divorced when I was eighteen months old because it turns out when they had nothing left to fight against (whether it was my grandfather’s disapproval, infertility, or my health issues), they figured out that they didn’t actually like each other.
Now, my father, Brady, is happily living on alimony checks in South Carolina with Priscilla, his second wife and a retired Dallas Cowboys cheerleader who is seven years and four days older than me. But he was never a real parent to me. Not in the way that Beth or my Grandpa Dean were.
Of the three adults in my life, though, Beth was the warmest, and it felt unfair that she was Clover’s mom. Clover, who would squirm away from hugs and flush with embarrassment when her mom whistled at her choir concerts.
My mom has never been affectionate like that with me. Beth would always say that was just her way, but that didn’t stop my mom from doting on Clover. Maybe I’m not the son she expected. Or maybe she just tried so hard to have me only to nearly lose me that it feels safer to keep me at a distance.
When I’ve woken up the last few mornings, it seems that my body has found some way to touch Clover regardless of how many pillows are between us when we fall asleep. I wonder if I am just subconsciously that fucking desperate to feel some kind of connection.
I’m pathetic.
Which is why I am avoiding going back to the dorm for a while in favor of drinking at the town house by myself while Tex and Julian are god knows where.
I scroll through a dozen calendar invites from Whitney, my mom’s latest assistant—they never stick around for more than six months.
There are charity dinners, meetings in Portland she wants me to sit in on, and a few scheduled phone calls labeled mother/son check-in.
At least when Beth was still running the show, she never let me know that quality time with my mother was a window that had to be carved out of her calendar.
As kids, Clover and I spent time together in a de facto sense.
We were a year apart. Our mothers’ lives were more intertwined than most marriages.
Clover attended the same schools I did. She was given as many Christmas and birthday presents as I was.
When my mom and I went on vacations, Clover and Beth did too.
It wasn’t until I was fifteen that I realized that, for as much as Beth and Clover were treated like family, they were still just the help.
Still a little groggy and possibly tipsy from last night, I’m just beginning to wake up as Clover backs into our dorm and closes the door gently.
She jumps the moment she sees that I am awake and very much trying to ignore the way wet droplets from her hair roll down her shoulders and then over the tops of her breasts only to be absorbed by the seam of her towel.
I would like to be a towel. That would be a good life.
“Oh!” she says with a gasp. “I thought you would still be asleep. Sorry, I just forgot my clothes—”
I throw a pillow over my face and with muffled speech say, “I’m not looking, I swear.” Because I’ve already seen enough to be hard.
“Oh. Okay. Uh. I’ll be quick.”
My breath is hot against the pillow as the seconds tick by and I force myself to think of anything but how naked her body is under that towel.
“Okay,” she says. “You’re fine.”
I remove the pillow and my heart stutters in my chest. Should I tell my cardiologist about this? Would Dr. Gladstone advise me to move out for the sake of my health?
When I open my eyes, I am not fine. Not at all.
Clover Rowan Walsh stands with her back to me in a pair of pale pink underwear as she pulls a soft, matching lace bra over her head.
She scrubs her hair with the towel and then tosses it behind her on the bed.
The image of her yellow lace underwear dropping to the floor on the first day of classes is at the forefront of my mind.
Does she really match every day? Does she expect other people to see what she’s wearing under her clothes?
My chest heats with rage at the thought of sharing this sight with anyone else.
My lips smack together as I search for words to explain to her that she is not actually dressed because it turns out I am very much qualified to be an expert witness on the topic.
“You don’t have to look if my body makes you uncomfortable, but I just figure it didn’t matter, since according to your logic we spent at least a quarter of our lives in swimsuits together.”
As the resident authority on nudity, I would like the record to show that there is a substantial difference between what she wears under her little skirts and dresses and the swimsuits she used to tromp around in when we would chase after each other with water guns past Grandpa Dean’s beehives and through the fields of clover he planted one year for her birthday.
“Besides, let’s not forget how you just saunter around in boxer briefs,” she says.
“That’s my sleepwear,” I clarify.
She tugs a loose but short dress on over her head and spins around to find me looking right at her. Her lips twitch, almost as if they are torn between a smile and a frown.
A knock at the door interrupts the thick silence, and she goes to answer while I put on a white undershirt, the closest thing in reach, and a pair of sweats, strategically positioning the situation below the belt.
“Hi,” Clover chirps, her voice lifting in a soft question.
I pop my head around the door and see two women—older than parents but not as old as grandparents—standing there in matching Wexley sweatshirts. They look like they like to go on cruises. (I’ve only been on private yachts, but I have a feeling that matching shirts play nicely on cruises.)
“Is it already parents’ weekend?” I mutter. Thank god—and perhaps the matching sweatshirts—that blood is no longer rushing to my cock.
The shorter woman laughs in response, but the taller one just looks at me curiously.
“They’re here, Greta,” says the shorter one, who is holding a Tupperware container.
Clover puts on a polite smile. “I’m so sorry, but do we know each other?”
Greta, who seems to radiate calm, says, “Well, Sandra here thinks she knows everyone, but no, we don’t know one another.”
“Not yet!” Sandra stands there for a moment with an expectant expression on her face.
I can see Clover’s brain working on overdrive as she tries to puzzle together what exactly is happening. “Oh,” she finally says. “Did you want to come in?”
“Love to,” Sandra sings as she sweeps right past us both, but then stops short, only for Greta to run into her back.
I jog over to the bed and do my best to pull the mismatched collection of sheets and blankets into something that could pass for a made bed.
Clover glances around for seating options. Her desk chair is piled high with clothes and my stuff is already unpacked, but disorganized. She holds her hand out to the bed. “Uh, you’re welcome to sit if you—”
“Oh, no, no,” Sandra says. “We’re just popping in and out to introduce ourselves to the other married couple on the floor.”
“Oh. Ohhhh,” I say. “Right. I remember hearing we weren’t the only ones.”
Greta rocks forward on her toes. “The first Married Mixer is next week, and we’re really hoping to see you both there. We thought we should come introduce ourselves first.”
Married Mixer? What the hell is that? I spare a glance at Clover, but she waves her hand away slightly.
“We’re both retired first responders.” Sandra points to herself and then hitches a thumb over at Greta. “EMT. Firefighter.”
“Did you two meet on the job?” Clover asks.
Sandra grins. “This one was on the scene when she tripped over a twig and broke her ankle.”
“Funny how you fail to mention that I was running into a burning building,” Greta tells her. “I was young and reckless, so I tried getting back to work immediately and this little fireball strapped me to a stretcher and threatened to make me talk about my feelings if I didn’t stay put.”
“And now we’re here,” Sandra continues. “Two old ladies back in school to pursue degrees in—”
“Marriage counseling,” Greta supplies.
Oh god. They must be able to see right through us.
Sandra foists her Tupperware on me. “Skillet brownies,” she says. “We made them in the common’s kitchen on the fourth floor. Word to the wise: That stove could use a good cleaning and the burners tend to run a little hot.”
“I thought the dorm kitchens were an urban legend,” I tell her.
Clover rolls her eyes and cruelly takes the brownies from me as my stomach rumbles.
“Will we see you both next week?” Sandra asks as Greta begins to steer her toward the door.
Beside me, Clover silently stutters, and I manage to say some kind of version of sounds good.
The moment I close the door behind them, Clover plops down on the bed and peels the lid back on the brownies.
She lies back with the container balanced on her chest while she bites into one thoughtfully and then purrs in response.
“Oh shit, these are so good.” She groans.
“I’m going to be late for financial accounting. ”
“Did we just commit to a double date?” I ask as I bite into one myself, unable to control the pornographic moan it elicits.
“Nah,” she says. “I’m sure no one will notice if we skip out.”