Page 42 of Unbound

The poem wraps around me like a blanket, soothing me gently as I fall asleep with the paper still clasped tightly to my chest.

From Paloma Blake to Bennett Reiner

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,

I have forgotten

—excerpt from “sonnet xlii” by edna st. vincent millay

Bennett,

A well-structured sonnet for you—you’re welcome.

Though not so love struck as Petrarch.

I’ve never liked this one much either.

—P

Chapter 20

THEN: Freshman Year, October

Paloma

Bennett is late.

It feels like a lie, because Bennett Reiner is never late—but it’s five minutes past our meeting time and I’m still alone in the private study room.

The door creaks open and I set my phone down on the table, smiling as Bennett enters, all broadness and height with a baseball cap settled low over his eyes. He’s decked in a Waterfell hockey T-shirt today, with his backpack slung over one shoulder and a container of some sort cradled in his arms.

“Hey—”

“I brought you something,” he cuts me off, pushing the blue Tupperware into my hands before scratching at the back of his neck and readjusting the hat he’s wearing. His cheeks turn scarlet, but I grin broadly up at him.

“What is it? Can I open it now?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “And, um, hey, Paloma.”

“Hey, Bennett.”

I pop the lid, the immediate smell of sugar making my mouth water.

“Cookies?” I ask, eyes wide. “Did you make them?”

“They’re chocolate chip. But, um, yes. I was late because it took a little longer but—you should eat one now. While they’re fresh.”

I can feel that he’s holding back from commanding me to eat a fresh, warm chocolate chip cookie. Not hesitating, I slip one from the container and bite into it, warm and soft, perfectly sweet with flakes of salt nipping at my tastebuds.

“God, Bennett,” I murmur, eyes nearly crossing as the chocolate melts against my tongue. “It’s incredible.”

He’s blushing, but he’s smiling—bright and wide and wonderful. He’s intensely handsome, the width of his features suited to the sheer size of him. He looks like a young Tom Welling, tall and broad with piercing blue eyes and a boyish cut of brown curls.

Lips usually pursed or frowning are pulled over brilliant, straight white teeth. There’s a chip in the right canine; I can see it more this close. My own smile comes easily.

“Thank you for this. You didn’t have to—”

“What you said, about swimming?” He cuts me off. “How it makes you calmer—that’s cooking for me.”