Page 112 of Unbound

Chapter 49

THEN: Freshman Year, December

Paloma

Bennett is silent for the first fifteen minutes of our drive to his dad’s house. He plays his usual slow indie music and I try to relax, but I can’t stop glancing over at him out of the corner of my eye, trying to gauge his frustration.

At me? Or at my lie?

Seven, on the other hand, sits in the backseat, his head between our seats resting on the center console, big brown eyes watching me too knowingly.

Finally, as we pull off the exit into downtown Boston, I ask, “Are you mad at me?”

“Yes,” he huffs. My stomach sinks, but I nod. “I’m mad you lied to me. I’m mad you weren’t going to tell me that you were alone for the holidays.”

My head is already shaking, fingers biting into the soft leather of my seat. “It’s fine. I don’t mind it.”

“It’s not fine to me,” he says, the words clipped and frustrated. He’s angry but he seems like he’s trying desperately not to be. Or at least, not to be loud or angry toward me. “You being alone isn’t fine to me.”

I’m quiet, unsure of what to do or what to say. As much as I haven’t experienced romance, I’ve seen anger. I’ve been taught multiple lessons in yelling or condescending speeches. I know when to keep my mouth shut.

Only . . . it seems to have the opposite effect.

Bennett looks over at me as soon as he’s parked in the driveway. His face looks almost sick.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and my eyes shoot wide. “I’m just—I hate thinking of you alone. I hate it and I’m—I think I let my thoughts get away from me when I heard the alarm and realized you weren’t going to tell me—” He stops, as if his throat closed up suddenly. Shaking his head, he rubs his hand over his thigh repeatedly, a self-soothing motion that’s almost aggressive.

“Next time, please, Paloma. Tell me,” he begs.

The words stick in my mouth, desperate to get out and stay in all the same. Thank you. For caring about me. For wanting me not to be so alone.

“I will,” I finally manage to say. “Promise.”

I stick out my pinky, a peace offering, however childish. But it works like a charm, Bennett’s intoxicating half-grin etching briefly across his features. He links his pinky with mine and shakes it.

After telling me to stay put, he gets out and rounds the car, letting out Seven and grabbing my backpack from the back before opening my door. There’s a part of me that’s still clenched tight over him holding it, a desperation to take it myself and keep it close, but I trust Bennett. And that trust and deep feeling of safety has only grown.

“I’m really happy you’re here, P,” he says, and my entire body relaxes into the strong feel of his hand on my lower back.

Inside the Beacon Hill house, Adam Reiner is seated on the white couch. A twinge of anxiety rolls through my stomach at the memory of the strained moment we shared months ago. At the clear, frustrating understanding apparent even now in his blue eyes so like his son’s.

“Paloma,” Bennett’s dad greets me first. “Happy you could join us.”

I nod with a soft smile. “Thank you for having me.”

Bennett kisses my temple with a quickly muttered, “I’m going to get you something to drink,” before disappearing toward the kitchen. I stare quietly back at the larger-than-life man observing me, feeling somewhat wrong and out of place.

I bite down on my lip. “Um . . .”

“You’re okay, Paloma?” he asks. His voice is low and calm. There’s a slight beseeching look in his eyes.

I tense but give a quick nod before stepping toward the tree like I’m admiring it. He’s too intensely observant, and I don’t like the way it feels like he’s seeing something I’m not showing. It definitely doesn’t help that Seven is trailing me, watching me keenly.

“All good?” Bennett asks, stepping up beside me with a warm mug of hot chocolate, marshmallows covering the top so I can’t see through the white, pillowy fluff.

“All good.”

Bennett eyes me a moment longer before wrapping his arm around me. “I think we’ll head to bed early. Dad?”