CHAPTER 58
THEN: Freshman Year, New Year’s Eve, 5:30 p.m.
Paloma
“P? You okay?”
I nod. “Just nervous.”
Bennett’s music is soothing and soft in the cabin of the car but I’m distracted, folding and unfolding the bottom of my maxi skirt with its ditsy floral pattern. It’s a little too cold for it, but I want to make an impression—
modest, but girlish. Pretty.
I desperately want them to like me.
When he notices I’m still fidgeting toward the end of our two-hour drive, Bennett reaches over and smothers both my hands in one of his massive paws.
“It’ll be perfect.”
“Yeah,” I agree, easy under the weight of his calming, intense presence.
Adam’s house in Beacon Hill is smaller than this one by quite a bit—this mansion is wealth in a dierent way.
Bennett explained, albeit briefly, that his parents were both from wealthy families. While his dad is from a long line of extravagant and continuously building wealth, his mother’s family came into money more recently. I wonder if his parents’ marriage was arranged for business purposes.
They’re not a family drama show, I chastise myself, focusing back on the ornately gated driveway and beautiful fountain that is currently covered in a thick blanket of snow.
Bennett’s mom is just inside the entryway, beautiful and tall with a waterfall of honey curls that she’s perfectly styled into waves. Her eyes are
crystal blue, lighter than Bennett’s, and she scans them over me once—twice —and then rushes to greet her son with a gentle hand to his cheek.
There’s a moment where Bennett almost flinches away from her, but he settles into the quick touch and grants her a closed-lip smile.
“Mom,” he greets, then turns toward me and pulls my hand from the clenched fist at my side and entangles our fingers. “This is my girlfriend, Paloma.”
“Nice to meet you, dear.” She eyes me for a moment before blurting. “Are you all right with hugs?”
“Yeah.” I smile and open my arms. She engulfs me quickly, tight.
“You don’t know how hard it is to not hug my child—but you know, he’s dierent.” She pulls back and shakes her head. “It’s just dicult, sometimes.”
The comment feels wrong, brutal and hurtful despite the gentle tone.
I spare a glance at Bennett, his hands in the pockets of his fancy slacks and bottom lip thoroughly bitten. He looks ashamed. Stepping back, I reach for his hand and tuck it into mine.
My mouth opens—to defend him or to yell at her, maybe a combination of both—before Bennett stops me with a tight squeeze of my hand and a subtle shake of his head.
His mom says something I don’t hear over the slight pounding in my ears —a little fury mixed with confusion and frustration.
Bennett kisses my forehead and pulls away, nodding to his mom. “I’ll help
him bring the food in.”
Him. Bennett’s stepdad.
I quickly straighten my spine, reminding myself that I’m not done with the first impressions just yet.
“Do you drink, Paloma?” Bennett’s mother calls as I follow her into the expansive dining room. She’s pouring herself something from a bottle that costs more than a year of my tuition, I’m sure.
I shake my head demurely. I’m eighteen, but more importantly, alcohol reminds me of things I’d rather forget. There are a lot of reasons I choose not to drink.
“No,” I say. “Thank you, though, ma’am.”
“You can call me Helen.”
She winks and ushers me into one of the seats at the grand table. It’s meant for a large group, but she’s only set the four places in the center. Taking a seat diagonal to me, she hands me a glass with a minuscule pour of white wine swirling in the bottom.
“Try it, sweetie,” she urges. “It’s not every day you’ve got the opportunity to drink this fine of a vintage.”
I don’t want to, but I want his mother to like me, so I take it and swallow it down brutally.
If it tastes any dierent than a boxed wine, I’m not the one to know, but I paint a charming smile over my pinkened lips.
“It’s good,” I muster. She nods approvingly, lipstick sticking to the rim of her glass as she takes down another large gulp of her bubbling champagne.
Her mouth opens to speak again, but just then Bennett comes through the door with a large platter of salmon on a thick wood plank. It looks delicious and fresh, beautifully cut into sizable portions. He serves all four plates before
returning to the kitchen.
“This looks—”
The words halt half out of my mouth, throat going bone dry as the empty glass in my hand slips from my grip, bounces o the table, and lands heavily in my lap.
Blond hair slicked back, a graying goatee, and haunting pale green eyes.
Ethan Marks, my nightmare in the flesh, stands across the suddenly too- small table with a cheshire grin and a bowl of grilled vegetables. He’s staring at me happily, like I’m his surprise birthday present. I want to stand, to excuse myself and run, but instead I’m frozen. A deer in headlights; prey caught, frozen in a predator’s snare.
“Ethan,” Helen says, smiling over her shoulder at him. “This is Paloma, Bennett’s beautiful girlfriend. Paloma, this is my husband, Ethan.”
Her husband. Bennett’s stepfather.
My stomach sours; tears fight to spill free. I clear my throat and blink rapidly to push them back.
“Pleasure, Paloma,” he says, setting the bowl across the table.
“Isn’t she a doll?” Helen says, grinning brightly at me. It’s a compliment, and maybe I should say thank you, but I can’t hear anything besides my own heartbeat thundering in my ears. It feels a little like I’m dying.
“That she is,” he agrees easily, reaching his hand out to shake mine. “Nice to meet you.”
I don’t want to touch him—but they’re both staring at me and Bennett is still gone.
I reach a shaky hand toward him and he grasps it in both of his, almost massaging the skin with his thumbs in the overly tight hold. The desire to wash my hands is so overwhelming, I stand and stumble back over my chair.
“I—um—” My voice is shaky at best as sweat pools on the back of my neck.
“I need to use the restroom, please.”
“I can—”
“Sit, Helen,” he commands lightly, kissing her cheek. “I can show Paloma where it is. I need to change my shirt anyway—I smell like a grill.”
“All right,” Helen concedes, giving him another sparkling smile as he refills her glass so she doesn’t have to move.
Suddenly, I don’t want to go—not knowing he’s with me—but I don’t see how to get out of it. I stay guarded, a few steps behind as we trek through the long hallway, right to the sharp turn from where I can’t see back toward the kitchen and living room. My heart hammers against my ribs as he opens a door and stands, waiting for me.
“Right here, Paloma.” He speaks my name like an unwanted caress. I hesitate before swallowing hard against the thick lump in my throat and walking in, trying to grab for the door before he can— He slides in, shoving me back and closing the door tightly behind him.
“Get out,” I try to snarl, but it comes out a weak, squeaky plea.
“Look at you,” he says, taking a step toward me with each word until my body is back against the wall of the half-bath. It’s a small space; bright light from an extravagant chandelier above makes everything harsher.
“S-stop—”
Ethan reaches toward my face and my limbs finally react. I grab his wrist, stopping the movement just before he can touch my hair.
“New hair color?” He yanks his wrist from my grip and reaches for my hair anyway—like he owns me, the touch all proprietary. “I love the change. Makes you look all grown up.”
I pull back, slamming my body into the opposite wall.
“You need to leave, now. I—” I swallow loudly, trying to imbue my voice with strength I don’t feel. “I’m going to—”
“Tell Bennett?”
My snarl is half-baked, like a hapless child facing o against a cruel adult.
“What makes you so sure I haven’t already?”
“Because I know you, Polly.” He smirks, watching the taunting nickname hit me like a slap. “Did you tell him?”
“I will.” It’s a lie—I don’t think I could tell Bennett if I tried. Risk having him look at me with disgust? Knowing the girl he’s cared so gently for isn’t who he thought?
Ethan steps closer, hands raised like a peace oering. I press myself up against the far wall, a terrified, cornered animal.
“I’ll tell Bennett,” I say again, begging my voice not to wobble.
“And what would you say?” He smiles, head tilting to the side. “That you seduced me? Begged for me repeatedly? You want to tell Bennett that you used to fuck his stepdad and beg to sleep next to him, so you didn’t have to go back to that trailer?”
My stomach rolls so violently, I worry I’m going to throw up. Heat swelters
against my neck and face, head shaking.
It’s not true. It’s not true.
And that same small voice screaming inside of me Stop! Stop! Stop!
“I was fourteen.” My voice is weepy despite trying to make it cold and defensive. “Y-you—you took advantage—”
He laughs and the sound makes my nausea worse.
“All right, Paloma. You were fourteen, sure. Fourteen and begging a man more than twice your age to save you, to take you away, right?” He laughs.
“Playing the victim since day one, are we? Tell him if you want, but don’t go around telling him a lie.”
He’s right. I hate how easily he paints the picture of it all—because I did beg him to take me with him, called his number and cried for him to carry me
away from it all. But I was scared and— You asked for it.
Shame settles sharply between my ribs; my heart aches with the pressure.
Tears pour down my cheeks, my body giving up, losing the fight against it.
I go slack, hand grasping the sink counter like it will hold me up.
“I know you best. And Bennett is my stepson.” Every word is a strike to my heart, a kick to my already beaten body. “And you, Polly,” he coos, “are not
who you’re pretending to be.”
“Okay,” I acquiesce.
It feels like I’m thirteen again, staring at an older, handsome cop who’s oering me his coat because it’s the middle of winter with a foot of snow outside and there’s no heat in our trailer. My hands are over my ears while my mom screams and begs them not to arrest her current deadbeat boyfriend— “Do you have somewhere to go for the night?” he asks.
“Sometimes I sleep at the school,” I admit, then feel ridiculously stupid because I just admitted to something illegal to a cop. “Please don’t tell.”
He chuckles and swipes some melting snow from his ashy blond hair. “I won’t. But I really don’t think you should stay here tonight.”
“Oh.” I nod, swallowing hard. “Okay. Yeah. I, um, can maybe ask our neighbor?”
The ocer grimaces. “No. I don’t—” He hus a long breath and then looks around at the other ocers, one of whom is trying to calm my mother down while the others shove the strung-out addict into the back of a cop car.
“What’s your name?” he asks, the question so abrupt I gape for a second, like I
can’t remember.
“Um, Paloma.”
He smiles. “That’s a really pretty name, Paloma. I’m Ocer Marks, but you can call me Ethan if you want.”
“Okay.” I nod, but choose not to, huddling tighter into the thick coat. “Thanks, for this.”
He shakes his head. “Sure.” Glancing around again, Ocer Marks squats into the snow so I’m no longer staring up at him. He’s handsome, much more than the guys
that hang around our trailer or the men my mom dates—probably because they’re all gaunt and drugged up. He looks clean, safe. Like a real adult.
“Listen, I shouldn’t oer, because it’s inappropriate, but I really don’t think you should stay here. Especially with your mom this upset.”
I peek over at her again. Everyone says we look alike, blond bouncy curls and dark brown eyes, a golden undertone to our complexions and apricot lips—even with her reckless lifestyle, everyone says she’s beautiful.
And I’m her twin—a fact that gives me more anxiety than it does any
complimentary feelings.
“Yeah.”
“So, if you can hang here for a bit, I’ll come back and get you. I have an extra guest room you can sleep in just for tonight, okay?”
Hesitancy has me biting down on my lip. Men have oered this before, or something similar—to take me from my mom, to go on a little trip with them while she’s high. But it always leads to them trying to take something I don’t want to give.
An exchange I didn’t agree to.
I curl in tighter at the thought. He looks safe, but assumptions have gotten me nowhere good.
It must be written all over my face, because he raises his hands in surrender. “Just a warm place to sleep—safe, I promise. I won’t touch you, okay? I just want to make sure you’re safe.”
Part of me wants to say no, self-preservation and fear riding me hard. But it’s freezing, and I don’t want to go back in the trailer with Mom while she cries all night and yells at me—finds a way to blame me for it all.
“Okay,” I agree, nodding my head. He smiles and it makes me feel a little warmer in the icy snow.
Panicked breaths saw out of me, and Ethan’s eyes widen just slightly.
“Relax, Polly,” he whispers. “Breathe.”
I can’t.
“You need to cry? That’s okay—they can’t hear it in here, okay? Just calm down.”
I shake my head, wanting to scream and cry and rage. “Stop it,” I beg instead. Hatred for myself only grows.
Tears work down my cheeks for a long moment, but I’m too scared to look away from him. Ethan steps forward, hands still raised as if to placate me. He grabs the hand towel o the hook by my head, reaching out slowly to wipe away my tears.
It’s worse. At one time, I would’ve begged for this aection, when it was the only touch I knew. The confusing swirl of comfort and fear only serves to make me sicker.
“All better,” he sighs, releasing my chin and stepping back. “God, Polly— you still look so much like your mom. Just more beautiful.”
Just like your mom.
“I’ll let you wash your hands,” he says. “But hurry. You better get back to your sweet boyfriend. I’ll go keep my wife and my stepson company until you’re all put together.”
The reminder is as sharp as the snick of the door.
I let a few silent sobs rake out, ugly and harsh as I run the tap to cover the noise just in case. Closing my eyes tightly, I pull it all back, slow and sure.
Until everything is sealed behind my comforting barrier of ice. Walls of adamant steel are cracked but strong where they’ve protected me for so long. I hide behind them now.
It’s like mourning myself as I stare in the mirror, knowing that I have to let go of who I’ve been since arriving in Waterfell—the image of myself I’d finally created that was good and nearly whole, without the darkened shadows of my past. And I have to let go of the one person I’ve ever tried to hold on to for
myself.
Bennett.
Stop it. You knew this would happen. It was stupid to try to hold him. Stupid.
I try to shake the thought from my head, ripping a few pieces of toilet paper to dab below my eyes.
