Page 41 of Unbound

Don’t get too comfortable, Polly. It’ll only hurt.

“I’m starving,” I blurt, as if the loudness of my voice will drown out everything else.

It isn’t long before the mysterious dish and beverage are sat in front of me—something that looks a bit fancier than the breakfast sandwich I was expecting.

Bennett’s plain coffee seems small in his large hand as he takes a long sip before eyeing me warily. It’s only then I realize that I’m just staring oddly at the plate in front of me.

“It’s—um, one of their best dishes. Eggs over medium, avocado, crumbled bacon, tomatoes, and feta over a hash brown patty. And that’s a balsamic reduction drizzled over it. I think that’s what makes the entire dish, really, so I got you extra. And the drink is pumpkin spice—sweet, but they make their syrups in house, so I think you’ll like it. But . . . if you hate it—”

“It looks and smells delicious. I think I’ll love it.” I slice into the food, stuffing a too-big bite into my mouth and give him a quick thumbs-up.

It’s an immediate burst of flavors on my tongue, decadent and salty and sweet all at once. I moan a little as I go for another bite, covering my mouth and bouncing excitedly in place as I relive the indulgent tasting experience for a second time. Then, grabbing the mug, I take a drink of the coffee, letting the nutmeg and cinnamon dance across my tongue.

“Do you like it?” he asks, urgency lacing the words.

I nod heartily, which grants me a gleaming smile.

Bennett’s smiles are rare, beautiful things. I can count on one hand the number I’ve borne witness to. His lips tilt higher on the right side as his mouth closes in a softer smile. But his cheeks are still round and thick, dark eyebrows settled so that between them are oceans—so blue and deep I want to swim in them. His happiness is intoxicating.

This—me eating, enjoying the food he selected—it means something important to him.

Food. I log the thought away in my mental “Bennett’s Interests” folder, next to poetry and hockey.

“So,” I start, polishing off my meal in record time. “What got you interested in poetry?”

At this, he grimaces and messes with his hair before blowing out a breath. “I—are you sure you want to talk about poetry?”

“I mean, unless you don’t?”

It’s clear this—whatever it is—is really bothering him, hands back to fidgeting, shoulders shifting beneath the white material of his shirt.

“Poetry is our class together. Hockey is your job,” he says. My brow furrows, trying to dissect his meaning as he speaks. “We’re on a date. I’m supposed to ask you questions about yourself.”

Something like relief floods through my body, and I take a moment to set my silverware on my now scraped empty plate. If I didn’t think it would make him uncomfortable, I’d probably lick it clean. But this moment feels enormous, important, so I take my time before speaking.

“I’ve never been on a date before,” I confess, tucking a few loose hairs back behind my ear. “So, maybe I don’t know how it’s supposed to go, but I think knowing why you like poetry is getting to know you. And I’d like to know.”

The smile appears again, but broader, showing his teeth.

“This is my first date, too.”

Again, the air hangs still while we beam at each other.

“I brought you something,” he says suddenly, reaching into his pocket for a pressed envelope. “You can look at it later.”

Taking his clear command, I tuck it into the pocket of my overalls with a light pat. “All right.”

We never touch, but I can feel him. The soft guitar of coffeehouse music is the soundtrack to what finding something better, something good and safe, feels like.

That night, I open the envelope in the safety of my own room and read “Sonnet 227” under the soft light of glowing stars on my ceiling and the lamp by my bed. I almost laugh at the fact that it’s literally a poem by Petrarch and not just in the form.

But the laugh gets caught in my throat as I read line by line, heart hammering and skin flushing. In my mind, I can hear Bennett’s smooth dulcet tones whispering the words over my skin.

Happy air, remain here with your

living rays: and you, clear running stream,

why can’t I exchange my path for yours?