Page 62 of Unbound

It takes a long time, the bubbles indicating that my dad is typing. Then stopping. Then typing again, over and over. Before finally—

DAD

All right. Tomorrow at home. You can cook.

A smile takes over my face. I agree quickly before trying and failing to nap for the rest of the ride home.

• • •

Paloma’s hair glints almost a bright blond in the parking lot lights outside the back entrance of the Waterfell arena. She’s lugging a few of the equipment bags alongside the guy she usually works with—I’ve forgotten his name, but I know she doesn’t like him.

Which must be the reason I follow behind them with my own bag, rather than sneaking it home to clean myself.

It’s only the two of them sorting through it all, quiet until the smarmy-looking guy runs his eyes over Paloma where she’s bent over one of the bags.

“Jesus, Blake.” He laughs, crossing his arms and stepping too close. “I swear I’ve never seen someone with a better—”

I clear my throat, stepping in and shoving his body away from her with my own. My hand settles against Paloma’s lower back slowly, but it still makes her jump.

“Just me, P,” I say, trying to calm her. She straightens, eyes settling on mine over her shoulder as she stumbles slowly into my body. I hold her to me as my eyes lock back on him. She’s still tense, but she stays in my arms.

“Hey, Bennett,” she whispers.

“I’ll stay with you until you finish up, okay?”

Her eyes are wide, happy and glistening just slightly as she nods.

“Yeah. Um, hey, Jeremy?” She turns back to him. “I can finish up here with Bennett if you wanna go.”

“But I’m supposed to—”

“I’ve got it.” My voice is all Adam Reiner, no room for argument. He leaves with little complaint after that.

Paloma steps from me almost instantly and my body mourns the loss of her. She tosses her hair over her shoulders and directs her eyes down toward her feet with a furrowed brow.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

My throat tightens, but I stay firm. “I know.”

“Really.” She crosses her arms. “I don’t need you to just”—Paloma gestures vaguely around—“constantly swoop in. I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can.” I do know that. But the feeling of her relaxed and pliant in my arms last night still haunts me. Thrills me. I can feel the obsession creeping in, no chance to stop it or even quell it now.

In the quiet, Paloma steps away from me and continues to work. I take my bag off and start on my own things.

“Why do you . . .” Paloma begins, biting her lip before looking away from me. “I’m not judging. I was just wondering: Why do you like them cleaned and sorted a certain way?”

I know she’s not judging me, because she’s never asked why before. She’s always just done it the way I asked her to, because she knows it makes me feel better. More comfortable.

“It’s . . . I just have to have them that way. It’s—”

“Like . . . OCD?” she asks, but keeps her eyes pointed ahead. My throat closes up as heat dampens the back of my neck. I’m not surprised she’s picked up on it in some way. People use the term so loosely now.

“Yes.” It’s quiet for a long moment. “But not like . . . it’s not like how people think.”

Paloma looks at me then. “I wasn’t thinking anything, Bennett. Do you want to tell me about it?”

No. I don’t. But her eyes are so open, her posture relaxed. The call of her is impossible to ignore. “It’s not about being clean. I don’t wash my hands eight times or keep locking and unlocking my door. It’s . . . there’s a certain order. I need things to just be a certain way.”