Page 98 of Unbound

Her eyes scan over me a little more intensely. “Are you sure? He can come with us.”

“I’ll be fine.” But her worry over me and my dog makes another rope of obsession loop out from me and over her.

Her backpack is on the floor at her feet, but I grab it and carefully place it in the backseat before turning the music up and handing her my phone.

“I made a playlist for the drive,” I offer, pulling away from the curb slowly. “Some of your poems are on there.”

She’s quiet, fiddling with my music app for a long while as Bon Iver plays through the stereo. When she finally hands my phone back, I see she’s changed the name of the playlist from a number to “B + P.”

My chest thunders, that same ache I’ve grown used to pressing hard against my heart. This time the smile she gives me as I glance over at her is softer, something more exposed and vulnerable. Like she’s unsure.

I take her hand in mine.

She doesn’t let go of it for the whole drive.

• • •

The house isn’t as terrifyingly massive as some of the other Reiner properties, but it’s my favorite. It’s the one place my father laid claim to, even if we didn’t visit here much other than a week or two in the summer.

It’s winter now, too cold for much of the actual beach, but the little quiet town is close to Chatham and other popular Cape Cod destinations. Overall, the house is cozy, private, and perfect for this. Perfect for her.

I tell her to wait for me so I can get her bag and open her door. She doesn’t fuss when I take her sweater and slide it carefully over her head, straightening it and fixing her hair slowly, gently. She spends most of the time staring over my shoulder at the house.

It’s a family home, originally built for my dad’s youngest brother. An elegant sign over the entrance and a carved wooden one on the door state the year it was built and the name, Speyside. My grandfather named it after his youngest son’s favorite place in Scotland.

I think it makes my dad sad that it’s named after the place where his brother got his favorite whiskey, knowing it was the alcoholism that nearly killed him so young. Knowing it was the alcohol that brewed near-hatred between the sons and their father, before my uncle left it all behind.

But still, my dad has never taken the signs down.

It’s New England classic, shingle-style architecture with an older feel in contrast to the well-insulated, beautifully updated interiors. The kitchen itself is far better than even my dad’s home, as if he’d had me in mind when he renovated it. Three bedrooms, all beautiful and simple, and cozier than either my father’s Boston home or my mother’s extravagant mansion.

As I quietly tell Paloma where everything is, she looks wide-eyed across the large, pristine rooms.

“Paloma?”

“Hmm?”

Her eyes are fixed out the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the darkened beach. It’s not far, but we’re up on an elevated hillside. I flip the switch by the door, illuminating a pathway down to the water.

“I’m going to cook us some dinner,” I whisper, stepping boldly up behind her, releasing her bun with my fingers and petting through the strands until they lay softly against her back. “Why don’t you go sit by the ocean?”

“Really? I can?”

“Of course.” I grab one of the thicker quilts out of a wicker basket by the sofa and step back over to her. “It’s cold out, take a blanket with you.”

“Okay,” she agrees in an almost half-trance state as she stares at the stretch of dark ocean. I give her the directions to start the firepit as the sun sets in the distance.

It doesn’t take long for me to heat up the warm ramen I’d already cooked this morning, the pork belly soft and warm, the noodles thick and from my favorite Asian market. I pour everything into thermoses from a high cabinet and shrug my flannel jacket back on as I head out into the bitter cold winds, which are only growing fiercer as the sky darkens.

“Hey, love,” I say, pulling Paloma’s attention from the nearby lapping waves. “Cold?”

She shakes her head. “All good.”

I hand her the thermos, fingers feeling her palm to make sure she isn’t frozen and lying about it.

I turn the fire up a little higher, sitting next to her on the bench seat she’s chosen.

In the quiet, I observe her. The soft dip of her chin, the lithe upward curl of her nose. The perfect symmetry of her face, cheeks flushed with the proximity of the fire. She stirs the spoon around in her cup, taking a few noodle-forward bites, before looking over at me sheepishly.