Chapter 17 Bennett
Bennett
Clover switches her shift at the library so we can attend the next Married Mixer. We missed the last two because I was with my mom and then Clover was sick.
“Have you gone to one of these Midnight Yells before?” she asks as we head to the meeting point. Sandra and Greta are strolling a few feet ahead of us, huddled together against the late-night chill. They’d both joked about being out past their bedtime.
“I’ve been a few times,” I tell her. “One time when I was little, actually, I came to Midnight Yell the night before a game with my mom.”
“Did you?” she asks through a shiver. “I wonder where me and my mom were.”
“I don’t know. It might have been when your mom was dating that mechanic.”
“Oh my god,” she says. “Your mom hated him. She used to call him a Mario Brother.”
“It was the accent and the mustache,” he says. “And yeah, I think she was just always a little scared that your mom might meet someone and move out.”
“Such a Scorpio. It probably would’ve been doomed, but I used to wonder if they would just end up together one day. For some reason my mom still likes men.” She glances at me. “No offense.”
“None taken. We are scummy trolls.”
When we walk up to the student union where the group is meeting, Clover reaches for my hand, her fingers leaving the warmth of her parka pocket. “Here,” I say, and pull her hand into my fleece-lined pocket.
She moans. “So warm.”
The group has grown significantly, so Miss Linch has everyone fill out name tags before we walk over to Rook Stadium.
Clover leans her head on my arm as Sandra and Greta come up beside us.
“All right,” Greta says. “Bennett, you’re an upperclassman. Is this just a late-night pep rally?”
“Sort of,” I tell them. “The football team, cheerleading team, band, and the drill team—they all gather in front of the stadium at midnight before a home game. That part is like a pep rally, but it’s also to practice the chants that will happen in the home stands for tomorrow’s game.”
“See, we did this all backward, honey,” Sandra says to Greta like she’s won some sort of argument. “No wonder we had no clue what the heck everyone was doing during the game last month.”
Clover laughs softly and looks up at me, and my gut clenches at the reality that this will be over in less than two months and that we will never be middle-aged and bickering like Greta and Sandra.
“The best part,” I tell them, my gaze intent on Clover, “is at the end of Midnight Yell when they turn all the lights off for a few seconds. You’re supposed to kiss your date or hold up a lighter or a phone so that people without dates can shoot their shot with a stranger.”
“That’s so romantic,” Sandra says. “I swear, some days being a student here makes me feel older than dirt.” She pauses with a glance over to her wife.
“But then I’m so thankful to have moments like these with my Greta because we weren’t lucky like the two of you.
We didn’t find each other until much later on, did we? ”
Greta drops a kiss on Sandra’s forehead. “Better late than never.”
Clover lays her head back against me and the contact sends a rush of relief through me.
The outside of the stadium is already full of students with chattering teeth. The ground is soft from the endless rain today, but the clouds have cleared enough for the moonlight to reflect off the high points of Clover’s face: the tip of her nose, her cheekbones.
We stop at a hot chocolate stand, and I order a cup for each of us. She glances around as bodies begin to close in, swaying on the tips of her toes as she tries to find a gap in the crowd to see up ahead.
I tug her hand close and keep her tucked against my side as I navigate through the crowd.
“Excuse us, excuse us,” she says over and over again.
“Here we go,” I tell her as we reach a small stone half wall that breaks up the entrance to the stadium for crowd control, I assume.
“Where—”
I step in front of her, my hands on her waist, and begin to hoist her up.
“Bennett, what the fuck? You’re going to hurt yourself.”
I roll my eyes and she makes a puffy little hmph as I sit her down on the wall and step between her legs under the guise that it is noisy and we need to be close to hear each other.
“You can’t lift me like that,” she scolds me from above. “You’re going to throw your back out or something. I’m too—”
I hold my pointer finger over her lips. “Don’t do that,” I tell her. “Don’t tell me you’re too big or I’m going to hurt myself. If I couldn’t lift you up, I wouldn’t. When have you ever known me to do something I didn’t want to do?”
She wraps her fingers around my wrist and pulls my hand down, but doesn’t let go.
My heart falters, and if my cardiologist heard the rhythm in his stethoscope, he’d probably send me in for an EKG.
“Our wedding?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Try again.”
Her lips part on a protest, but the crowd swells as the cheerleading teams storm the temporary stage at the gates of the stadium.
So I turn around and lean against the wall with Clover at my back.
Her chest expels a sigh, her ribs meeting my spine, and then she drapes her arms over my shoulders, her cheek against my ear.
“Linch has eyes on us,” she whispers, but I can’t find the woman in the crowd.
“Best to play the part,” I tell her.
The next forty-five minutes are an adrenaline shot of school spirit. We cheer for football players we’ve never heard of. There are spinning flags. The marching band lets loose, dropping their normal precision and uniformity.
When it’s time to learn the yells, Clover whispers them back to herself rather than shouting along with everyone else. She stays draped over me and neither of us seems to feel as cold as we should.
It’s one of the rare moments that I actually appreciate how many different life forms live on one campus and how, miraculously, there is room for us all.
There is room for the cheerleader and the band nerd and the retired lesbian couple and the sardonic girl majoring in finance so that she can master the one thing that has always eluded her: money.
As Midnight Yell comes to an end, the starting quarterback, whose name is Brad or Brandon or Bryan or something, counts down to the blackout.
“Ten!”
Clover stays right where she is.
“Nine!”
Her breath is hot on my ear.
“Eight!”
Her heart is pounding at my back.
“Seven!”
Mine matches her pace.
“Six!”
I turn around.
“Five!”
Her watery blue eyes skip down to my lips and then back to meet my gaze.
“Four!”
My fingers skim along her jawline until I’m cradling her neck, my thumb smoothing circles over her cheekbone.
“Three!”
Her eyes flutter.
“Two!”
Her chins dips.
“One!”
We’re cloaked in darkness for a split second before cell phone lights pop up sporadically.
Unlike at the bowling alley, it’s me who leans in first. Her lips part, inviting me in, and my tongue tastes her mouth. I kiss her fully and take advantage of the moment.
A better person might keep it tame, but I don’t know any other way to kiss Clover Walsh than the way I have dreamed of kissing her for years. Maybe since I was thirteen. Or honestly, much earlier than that.
It’s so, so loud, but I think she moans into my mouth, and I have to press my groin into the wall to check myself before I’m walking around campus with a boner over a simple kiss.
My other arm coils around her waist, and I can feel the moment coming to a close, but I greedily soak up every second.
Her lips are soft and she tastes like chocolate and whipped cream.
The lights flicker back on and Clover’s smile is glowing, her nose red, and white clouds of cold air mingle between us. “That was convincing, right?”
“Very,” I tell her, my voice hoarse.