Page 37 of Unbound

Step Three: Make eye contact and ask her, “Would you like to go to coffee with me?”

I peek at her beneath my lashes, tapping my pen in time with my entire body’s thumping heartbeat. She pays attention to our professor as he moves through each piece of the assignment. Her hands fiddle mindlessly with her hair, unbraiding and re-braiding the tangled strands. My hands flex. I want to brush them.

Focus. Step One—

The buzzing of the egg timer on Dr. Britton’s desk sends an immediate shuffling frenzy through the classroom. Everyone might be moving slowly, but it feels like they’re frantic with the way my pulse throbs and my adrenaline spikes.

Paloma stands and I mimic her quickly. She’s slow as she sticks the papers in her folder and gently places mine in my open binder, smoothing the edges until they’re crisp once more.

“You said you had something to ask me?” She eyes me, expectant but hesitant.

“No.” I shake my head and look down at my shoes. “I don’t.”

We stand there for a moment longer.

“Your backpack is cool,” I finally say, face overly warm as I dare another glance to her.

Paloma grins broadly, but her cheeks pinken. She seems mildly embarrassed. “Thanks. I, um, found it at the thrift store actually—brand new, too. Had a tag and everything.”

She turns slightly, as if to show off the ocean-blue bag with a Waterfell Wolves hangtag. I grip my own bag a little tighter and reach for the binder she’s closed for me.

“See you later, Bennett.”

Say something. Compliment her backpack. Ask her to coffee.

Say something.

My mouth closes up into a tight-lipped smile and a wave that mimics hers as she heads out of the classroom.

Chapter 18

THEN: Freshman Year, October

Bennett

Another week goes by in our routine and I don’t manage to ask her.

I’m almost certain both my dad and my therapist are frustrated with my inaction, but neither one has pushed me to do anything. And maybe that’s worse.

As Dr. Anya put it, “Avoiding this is only hurting you, Bennett.”

Now as we leave the classroom together like we always do, Paloma chatters away. She hasn’t stopped talking since our group work started. I couldn’t be more grateful for it.

First, it was about the poetry project. Then, about her most recent thrift shop trip, which she was very enthusiastic about. As we leave the halls of the Haley Center for the sparkling sunlight and crowded main campus pathway, I become more aware of how often people stop to look our way.

At first, I’m sure it’s about me. I’m a big guy, just like my dad, and I’m used to the quick glances and intimidated eyebrow raises as I pass. But this is different. Men mostly, running their eyes over Paloma as she walks ahead of me, like she’s some performative art piece for them to look at. Something about it feels more . . . sinister than the glances I’m used to getting.

I walk a little closer behind her, like a hulking shadow, as we near the spot we usually split ways.

Try holding her hand.

It sounds so much easier than it physically is—and maybe it’s just me, but the thought of reaching for her makes my throat dry.

“Sorry. I’m talking your ears off,” she says, sounding a little defeated. Paloma loops a finger through the end of one of the messy twin braids she’s sporting today. I’ve paid enough attention to know she’s talking about the first hockey away series this weekend and her frustration at not being chosen over Jeremy to go. “I don’t even know if I necessarily wanted to go, but . . . I guess it’s more that I do more work than him. I try much harder than him and I still didn’t even get asked—”

“Do you want to get coffee with me?”

We both freeze at the words I’ve blurted out. A breeze blows a few loose strands of Paloma’s hair into her face and she pushes them away hastily.