Page 44

“No. Today is perfect. Just wait here,” he says, walking away before turning back to me. “I can . . . hold on to your backpack? While we walk?”

I grip the bag a little tighter. “No, that’s okay. I’ll just keep it with me.”

“You sure? I can—”

“I don’t want you to,” I snap. “I just . . . I like to have it with me.”

There’s a light flush of embarrassment covering my skin, but he doesn’t see it, turning from me abruptly enough that I feel a bit bad for snapping at him. It’s a long moment before the door reopens to reveal Bennett and a large black dog walking slowly beside him.

“This is Seven,” Bennett says, voice calm. His dog, a handsome black Lab with big brown eyes, comes to a stop right by him, cocking his head slightly as he gazes up at me with too-intelligent eyes. “Ready?”

“I’m ready.”

Seven approaches me before Bennett, butting his nose up against my open palm.

“Can I pet him?”

Bennett nods, watching us both closely as I bend down and run my fingers through his rich black fur. Soulful, almost sad eyes look up at me. It’s strange how much he reminds me of Bennett, like that old adage of owners and pets starting to look alike.

We walk down the sidewalk and off campus, toward the strip of stores and Brew Haven.

“So, what made you want a dog?”

“Oh—um, I didn’t, actually. My dad surprised me with him.” There’s a long pause as Bennett seems to wrestle with his thoughts. “He’s a therapy dog. For my—um.” He clears his throat. “For me.”

He’s silent for a long moment, eyes glancing like he’s waiting for me to do or say something.

“For you?” I try to help him.

“Mmhmm.”

I stay quiet, attempting to give him the moment.

But he never manages to elaborate, instead continuing on, stepping fast enough I have to take longer strides to keep up. I reach out for him, brushing his arm with my hand, but he jerks like he’s been slapped and maneuvers slightly away.

Seven slumps against Bennett’s now immobile legs.

“I’m sorry,” I say, raising my hands. A breath puffs out of him.

I start to walk again and he follows, hoping the movement will help his clearly building anxiety. “You don’t like touch, right? So maybe I should avoid touching you? I don’t know why I—”

“No. I don’t—” He huffs out an almost annoyed sound. “I like when you touch me.” A blush forms on his face at his open, vulnerable words said a little too loud.

I turn my head away so he doesn’t see my smile.

“I just prefer to know when it’s happening. And I don’t like light touches.” He pauses again, physically and mentally it seems. I wait for him, and Seven bumps me with his nose. He steps around me, nudging my thigh so I scoot closer to Bennett.

“Like this?” I ask, reaching toward his hand but letting my own hang until he grasps it in a warm, firm grip.

Bennett stares at our intertwined hands for a long moment before letting the lightest of grins grow slowly across his face. A sense of pride, toward him and this conversation, spreads, along with a need to be as vulnerable, to open my own chest and hand-feed him my insecurities that I carry with me like tokens.

But I don’t feel the bravery that Bennett seems to have. Instead, the fear is paralyzing, so I don’t.

From Bennett Reiner to Paloma Blake

The sea can do craziness, it can do smooth,

it can lie down like silk breathing