Page 69 of Unbound

I nod. “I’m sure.”

“Okay.” He squeezes my hands where they’re still held in his. “But next time, we are going somewhere better.”

“All right,” I concede.

• • •

We meet at the same time in the same coffee shop, all the way down to the same booth.

I swam again, but took the time to dry my hair and wear something slightly better than our last date. Bennett, yet again, is dressed far nicer than me. I drink him in, broad shoulders covered with a flannel, sun-kissed brunette curls, ocean blue eyes and pursed lips. He’s so handsome my chest aches.

“Good morning,” I say as he stands from the booth and scans over my pretty thrifted cardigan and scrunchie-bound updo. Taking the initiative, I lean in to kiss his cheek, but he turns just in time to catch my mouth.

Breath huffs out of me, and my cheeks blaze at the warm feel of his lips.

“Good morning, P.”

His voice is low and scratchy, still sleepy and unused. It makes my body tingle, enough that I pull away from him and try to regain my wobbly footing and hazy vision.

Bennett is more intoxicating than I’d imagine any drug or drink might be. And because it’s so unintentional, it’s somehow headier.

I feel a bit like blustering out “Are you my boyfriend?” but anxiety grabs hold of my tongue. I’ve never done this before. My only experience with romantic relationships is . . . not normal. And I watched my mom cling to every drug-addicted man who showed her an ounce of attention or affection. Or money. Drugs.

The blissed out, lovestruck version of my mother was more palatable, so selfishly, I didn’t mind.

Until they turned their attentions to me.

I shake my head, clearing the dangerous thoughts.

There’s a girl working—the same brunette with the scowl—but it seems like she’s also babysitting two kids in a booth nearest the front, coloring sheets scattered across the table. We wait until she returns to the counter to order our drinks and food—which I let Bennett handle entirely, just standing at his side, his hand in mine, smiling.

It’s like one of my Prince Charming fantasies, but real. How I’d imagined having a boyfriend might be like.

We haven’t said the boyfriend or girlfriend words. It’s only our second date—and yet, I feel like if I asked, he’d say yes. In my head, it’s simple. He’d hold my hand and ask before he kissed me. Open my door and walk me home—without asking to come in or sleep with me. He’d take care of me without asking for something in return. He’d play with my hair and scratch my back. And he’d be just mine.

I think he already is.

Sitting back down, Bennett reaches for my hand across the table, thumb pressing circles into my skin. I smile so hard I think my lips might split from the force.

“I liked the poem you sent yesterday,” he says. “Or, I guess, song.”

“Did you just read it? Or listen to it as well?”

I’d taped a printout of the lyrics to “Roslyn” by Bon Iver and St. Vincent. Mostly because I love the song, and the lyrics are so interpretable. But also because Bon Iver’s music has been my sleep playlist ever since the night in the hotel room. It’s easier for sleep to find me with the lull of music and the memory of Bennett’s warm, safe arms around me.

“Both. I treated it solely as a poem first, reading your annotations—”

“Checking my work?” I snark, but grin through the tease of my words. “How did I do, professor?”

Bennett blushes and ducks his chin, shaking his head at my antics. “You’re brilliant, Paloma, I didn’t need to check your work to know that.”

He says it so simply, as if speaking of the weather or reciting hockey stats. Does he know it feels like a kiss to my skin?

“It works nicely as a poem, but there’s an added level of emotional complexity with the music. A haunting, eerie element unfelt without it. Even the repetition is entirely different with the sound element. Which, I think, means you categorize a lot of music as poetry.”

My eyes flutter closed as I nod, agreeing with his sentiment. Thrilled that he treated my choice for our game with the intensity of a John Keats ode.

“Which—” he continues, smile growing as he almost tugs on my hand in his excitement. “—means you like poetry.”