Unbound, p.18
Unbound, page 18
“I’m kidding,” she says, voice softer as she slowly places a firm hand on my thigh. “This would feed three of me for days.”
There’s a stretch of silence as Paloma finishes her bowl and sets it atop mine, before she looks up at me from beneath her lashes.
“You’re always feeding me.”
“I like feeding you.” It’s a better answer than I obsess over you being hungry. I think you were, at some point. I worry you still are. Sometimes I can’t sleep from worrying about it.
Instead, I smile at her, reaching my hand out to touch her hair gently, looping it around my finger and back behind her ear. It’s soft and silky, and my obsession with the strands only grows.
“Is this your natural hair color?”
Her cheeks darken, eyes darting away. I feel a little heat rush up my spine.
“Is that a bad question to ask? I’m sorry—”
“No, no. It’s fine,” she says, even if I’m almost certain it’s not fine. “It’s… close. I’m blond, this is just kinda darker.”
I nod. She seems surprised that there aren’t any follow-up questions.
“Do you like it?” she asks.
The question itself is surprising, because Paloma is intensely beautiful. At first, when I started to notice, it overwhelmed me.
I’d never really been attracted to anyone before. I could recognize objectively beautiful people based on typical standards and locker room talk.
I also understand that girls do find me somewhat attractive, because of my height or the fact that I’m on the hockey team. But I don’t have the same build as the other guys on the team and never have. I’ve always been broader and softer than them. It didn’t bother me.
But seeing the way that others often watch her, knowing how attractive and mesmerizing Paloma is to most everyone… it makes something like anxiety and fear churn in my gut, a sickening mixture. I can’t distinguish the jealousy from the protectiveness.
I know if she spent any real time with the team instead of doing their laundry in separate rooms and hauling supplies to storage areas, this would be different. Because Paloma is exactly the girl that, physically, most of the guys would be panting over.
I want to keep her as just mine. At least a little bit longer.
“I… I love it,” I say, feeling bolder. “I love your hair, Paloma.”
Can I wash it? Can I brush it? Can I braid it and care for it and never let anyone else touch it?
I don’t say any of the obsessive thoughts about her running through my head. I haven’t even been able to admit them to my therapist.
Paloma smiles and pushes up on my thighs to kiss my mouth gently.
She lets me play with her hair all night as she slowly falls asleep on my chest.
* * *
The pool is relatively busy today—everyone active on a Saturday morning—but I spot Paloma easily. She’s already finished swimming, towel wrapped around her body like a column, squeezing her hair out as I approach.
“Hey.” She grins, eyes dancing with delight at the sight of me. The effect is a little heady. “What are you doing here?”
I clear my throat and tuck my hands behind my back.
“I wanted to ask you on a date. Tonight.” I dart a glance down at my shoes. “Not coffee.”
“Dinner?” she asks, patiently waiting as it takes me a moment to swallow and nod. “That would be great. What time do you want me to be ready?”
“I’ll—at six thirty. That should give us time to get to the restaurant by seven.”
She’s still smiling, peachy lips flushed like they’ve recently been bitten. Like they sometimes look when I kiss her harder, the way I secretly like best.
“That’s perfect, Bennett.”
It feels like it is—until that night at 6:45, when I’m stuck in my car, too anxious to drive anywhere. Panicked and hungry, I check the time again, only to grow somehow more paralyzed now that I’m past my time to pick her up and off my scheduled plan.
“You can cancel,” I whisper harshly to myself, batting my hand on the steering wheel. “She won’t be mad.”
It’s the easy solution. Try again when I don’t feel so terrified.
Only… I don’t want to cancel. I want to be with Paloma desperately.
My phone rings, the noise blaring in the silence of my car. Stomach somersaulting, I let it ring almost until the end, answering just before it goes to voicemail.
“Hey, Bennett?” Her voice is calm and sweet.
I can’t speak, throat dry. I’m not even sure at this point how long I’ve been sitting here.
“It’s Paloma,” she continues. I can hear the slight hurt, the anxiety I’m feeling mirrored in the sound of her voice dropping slowly at my continued silence.
“H-hey,” I manage to wrangle out. “I’m s-sorry—”
“Are you okay?” she asks, voice losing all hesitation.
Tears sting at the corner of my eyes and I feel stupid and achingly ridiculous.
“No.”
“Where are you?” There’s shuffling and then the slamming of a door. “At your house?”
“Yes,” I say. “In my car.”
Every word I manage sounds half-strangled.
“Okay—stay there.”
The call beeps, but I don’t drop the phone away from my ear—as though if I listen harder, I’ll be able to hear her breathing. The soft swish of her hair against the speaker. Anything to bring me back.
Focus. Remember your list.
1. Go to her dorm, to the door, and knock.
2. Tell her she looks beautiful.
3. Hold her hand and open her car door.
My hand hits the steering wheel again, a strange sort of grief welling up in me that I couldn’t get to the first step because one thing in my routine went wrong and now nothing for this night will be okay.
I need to call her back. I need to cancel and tell her we can do it next weekend and it will be better then—
A knock sounds at my window, making me jump and drop my phone to the floor.
It’s already dark outside, but the multiple streetlights illuminate Paloma against my car window. Her hair looks darker without the light, long and wavy. Her makeup is done—it might be the first time I’ve seen her with any—and she’s dazzling.
So much so that I almost knock her over trying to open the door, forgetful of the state of my clothes and my eyes still wet with tears.
“Hey,” I breathe, angling my body toward her without getting out of the car completely.
She’s dressed in a long white skirt with a floral pattern and a navy cardigan, with little heeled boots peeking out from the ends of the skirt.
“You look beautiful,” I say, words muddled. Her brow only furrows, making my stomach sink. Why can’t I get this right?
I try to picture what she sees—my clothes rumpled and sweat-soaked, my eyes bloodshot and still teary, and my skin pale. Not exactly the image I want her to have of me. My eyes squeeze tight at the desperation to make it all stop, to go back in time and just be normal enough for this one goddamn night.
“Bennett…” My name sounds like a plea. “What happened? How—how long have you been out here?”
“Not long.” I shake my head. “What time is it?”
Her eyes are wide pools of sad mahogany.
“It’s almost eight.”
My head spins, hands shoving through my once-styled curls until I’m sure they’re a rat’s nest atop my head.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out, shaking my head back and forth. “I shouldn’t have—”
“Hey,” she whispers, suddenly close. Her scent works into my nose and mouth, stifling the apologies waiting on my tongue. Her arms slip up and over my shoulders as she presses herself into my body hard, stepping up to the cab between my legs.
“Can I—”
She doesn’t get the question out before I’m hauling her to me, holding her as tightly as I need. My body is still trembling. I war over explaining myself or just letting her comfort me, which only causes more distress.
She coos into my ear, hands bracing me instead of attempting any soft touches—because she knows me now. Paloma has taken the time to understand what I need, what soothes me.
“What happened?” she asks, her voice muffled with her face pressed into the collar of my flannel.
“I don’t know,” I lie, only to immediately ramble on with, “It’s—my plan was perfect. I just had an issue with Seven. He… it rained today, and he tracked mud in, and I didn’t realize it until after. So, once I finished cleaning, I was off my schedule and rushing and everything just…”
“Spiraled?”
I nod.
“Okay.” She pulls away from me and I feel the loss of her immediately. “Let’s come up with a new plan.”
My brow furrows, head already shaking. “It’s— We can still go—”
“Maybe something a little smaller?”
“I don’t want you to be disappointed.” The words ache, raw and vulnerable.
Paloma’s eyes soften, hand reaching out for mine. “I would never be disappointed. Please trust me, Bennett. I just want to spend time with you.”
CHAPTER 37
THEN: Freshman Year, November
Bennett
About a half hour later, we arrive outside the large brownstone in Beacon Hill.
I’ve always loved my father’s home, the warmth of the red brick exterior and the vibrant, well-styled interior. It’s an older historic home that was passed down to my father through his father’s side of the family, one of many Reiner family properties.
The Reiner family history traces back through decades of investment group funds, massive sports team owners, and one major private manufacturer—but it started back in the 1880s with massive success in mining businesses. And the Reiner family always had sons. Jonathan Reiner, my grandfather, had three sons—Jacob, Jonathan, and Adam, my father.
At this point, no one in our family technically needed to work for a living. But my uncle Jacob entered the family business of investment banking. My dad played one year in the NHL and went back to law school after his injury, starting his own immediately well-respected firm. It was only Jonathan who rebelled against the Reiner family rules and disappeared from family photos altogether.
Overall, most of my family is cold and distant. But my father is different, always has been.
“You’re—” Paloma pauses and clears her throat. “This is your house?”
“My dad’s.” I nod, rubbing the back of my neck a little self-consciously. “He’s… his family is generationally wealthy.”
“Yeah.” She snorts, stepping up at my side, eyes still running over the ivy-laden brick. “No kidding.”
I reach for my keys, but before I can slot them into the keyhole, the door opens.
My dad is standing on the threshold, suit still on, sans jacket, sleeves rolled to his forearms.
“Bennett?”
I nearly swallow my tongue at his tone. “Sorry. I didn’t call—I just thought—”
“No, no. You’re fine. I’m glad to see you.” He reaches forward for a tight, solid hug, before pulling back and glancing toward Paloma still in the doorway, with Seven sitting at her feet. It was her suggestion that we bring him.
“This is Paloma. We’re—I’m going to cook for her, if that’s okay.”
My dad’s eyes brighten, and a smile replaces his previous anxious expression. “Oh, absolutely. I’ll let you show her around and just be in my office if you need me, all right?” He grins at my date politely before backing away from the door with a quick, “Pleasure to meet you, Paloma.”
If she says something back, I don’t hear, too focused on thinking of whether to show her around first or feed her.
But knowing I won’t be able to focus on anything else until she’s eaten, I guide her toward the kitchen.
Paloma follows me through the long corridor, coming to a brief stop at the sight of my father’s one-and-only NHL jersey framed in the living room.
“Seven?” she asks.
My throat feels tight, skin heating. “Yeah.”
Adam Reiner, lucky number seven… my hero as a kid. My hero now, who I named my dog after. She’s the first one to catch it.
Paloma sits at the countertop while I start on our meal—braised beef with a quick garlic butter pasta and roasted vegetables.
“Do you want something to drink?” I ask, wiping my hands on the towel over my shoulder once everything is cooking. “We have a few things up here, but there’s an entire wine cellar downstairs.”
Her cheeks flush red, hands freezing where she was previously tapping her nails over the marble. “I don’t drink, really.”
“Me either,” I say, feeling another strange stir of relief wash over me. “How about sparkling grape juice?”
It feels silly to suggest it, a children’s drink for a New Year’s party, but she lights up.
“I’ve never had it. But it sounds good.”
I pour her a drink, the light pink liquid bright against the big crystalline glass, and hand it to her by the stem. While the beef cooks, I offer to show her around.
We trail slowly through the three-story building. I let her stop and ghost her fingers over the extreme number of baby pictures lining the walls and bookshelves. Before we leave the main level, I take her to the plot in the back where my dad cares for my herb garden.
Anna was the one to show me how to do it. She’d come over every day for a week, still in her work clothes, arms up to the elbows in soil as she helped me set it up so I could grow my own vegetables and herbs to cook with.
I’d mourned the little garden when I left for Berkshire, but my dad tended to it as if it was his second child.
It’s too chilly in the evening to sit outside, so I take her back into the kitchen to check the food, then upstairs through the secondary living room, the library, and then—
“My bedroom.” The words are rough in my throat. Paloma pushes the door open farther to one of my two childhood bedrooms.
This one is more me than the one at my mother’s house. My bed is tidy, blue and gray flannel bedding tucked tightly with a white sheet just folded overtop. Two or three hockey trophies serve as bookends for the overflowing tomes of poetry and literature study littering the bookshelves.
“This is… quite the collection,” Paloma says teasingly, hands touching the spines of my books carefully before her chin turns over her shoulder. “You’ve always loved poetry?”
I nod, hands shoved in my pockets so I don’t reach for her.
The sight of Paloma in my room, golden lamplight dancing over her skin, her hands on my books—it makes something wild rouse within me. Something on the edge of feral. Terrifying enough that I ache for space, room to breathe without the scent of her in my nose.
“Stay here,” I command lightly. “I’m going to bring the food up and we can eat in here.”
I’ve said the right thing by the way she relaxes and slumps onto the end of my bed. I want to stretch her out across it, desperate to kiss her hard—harder than usual. To explore more of her. To beg her to show me how to make her feel good.
Instead, I nearly take the hinges off the door with the way my shoulder hits the frame as I stumble out into the hall.
By the time I return to my room with our plates, Paloma is laying against the pillows on the headboard, one of my books open under her fingers as she reads.
I can imagine coming home to this sight for years. And that thought is exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure.
“Which one did you grab?”
“Dog Songs by Mary Oliver.” She giggles. “I’m reading to Seven.”
Seven is asleep on her thighs, one of her hands on his head. I sit below her, putting her plate on the bedside table and mine on the floor beside me.
“Read to me.”
She does, her words low and soft as she reads “Little Dog’s Rhapsody in the Night.”
“ ‘Tell me you love me,’ he says. ‘Tell me again.’ ” She paces over the poem perfectly, making my heart pound louder, harder in my ears. “Could there be a sweeter arrangement? Over and over he gets to ask. I get to tell.”
My affection for her fills the room until there is barely space to breathe. We eat and I let her give her opinion over each poem as she turns through them, listening more than speaking.
No one but her could make me feel this way in the aftermath of my spiral, to still make this feel romantic and intimate. She’s the only one who would do exactly this with me, that would make sitting on the floor of my childhood bedroom with poetry and an old record spinning feel like a special occasion.
Only her.
Hours later, she helps me take the plates down and clean them. Our arms brush each other periodically, gooseflesh littering my skin beneath my flannel. I want to kiss her again. I almost do—
But my dad enters the kitchen just before I can work up the nerve, the moment fading like smoke in the air.
CHAPTER 38
THEN: Freshman Year, November
Paloma
Bennett’s dad looks so much like him, it’s almost unsettling. Both much too tall and well built, the beard and slight lines around his eyes and mouth are all that separate the man in the crisp suit from his son.
“I just need to grab a few things from my room. Can you wait here for me?” Bennett asks.
I nod despite the fear clogging my throat.
Don’t be a baby, Polly.
Bennett kisses my forehead and moves past me to the hallway.
The quiet is awkward and unsettling, compounding the anxiety I’m already battling.
Adam Reiner steps forward, not even that close to me, to reach for something on the countertop beside me.
“Hey.” A smoky voice. Male. Indistinguishable. “Need some help?”
Hands on my waist, holding me still. A punishing grip.
“You look just like your mom.”
My stomach rolls, sickness threatening. I nearly jump out of my skin, flinching back and away from him, knocking my hip hard into one of the elaborate drawer handles. A hiss of pain explodes from my lips, skin burning so hot I’m sure I must be on fire.
