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or toss havoc shoreward; it can give

gifts or withhold all;

—excerpt from “the poet compares human nature to the ocean from which we came” by mary oliver

P,

Contrary to your beliefs, Mary Oliver is my favorite poet.

So, are you the ocean? And if so—

please don’t withhold yourself from me.

Yours, Bennett

Chapter 21

NOW

Bennett

Rhys isn’t here, running late apparently. Which has left me alone, slightly tormented by the sight of his parents and my dad at a wide, round oak table in the dimly lit back corner of some fancy steak restaurant.

While we’d normally meet in Boston, my dad has come to Waterfell tonight. The Koteskiys like to be closer to home ever since Sadie’s brothers started to live with them.

Anna stands up when she sees me, eyes glittering as she steps forward with her arms open. It warms my empty chest, stepping into her embrace.

“I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever,” she says, pulling back to pat my cheek. Her husband and my father quickly join her on either side, only making my stomach sink further.

Still, I force a smile. “It’s only been a few weeks.”

“Way too long.” She shakes her head. “Come sit. Do you want a drink?”

Max pulls her chair out for her, settling her in it with a hand planted on the back of her neck. I shake my head politely, taking the empty seat nearest my dad.

Max makes easy conversation about school, asking about my classes and how practices are going, leaving my dad and Anna to interject with questions or comments of their own.

“And—with hockey? Any idea which teams are scouting you?”

I grimace, trying to hide it behind a quick gulp of my water. It’s unavoidable at a table with Maximillian Koteskiy and Adam Reiner—to not talk about hockey would be a feat. But without Rhys here I don’t have much to offer.

“I’m . . . not sure.” I shrug. “I haven’t met with Coach Harris yet.”

What I’ve said seems to startle Max. His mouth opens, but before he can say anything else, my dad cuts him off.

“How’s the gala planning going?”

They launch into small talk over the Koteskiys’ annual charity gala—half discussion with a friend, half information for their main benefactor, Adam Reiner. I don’t hear much, just tracing words along the napkin spread across my suit pants.

At one point, my dad reaches over to refill Anna’s wine with the bottle they bought for the table. She continues to talk, smiling at him and lifting her hand to his bearded cheek, smoothing a thumb over his skin. The casual intimacy of it all, the smile my dad sends her way that seems almost longing, makes my chest hurt.

I wait for Max to say something, to stand or fight or something, but he just watches his wife with a small, closed-mouth smile.

Nearly ready to excuse myself, I clear my throat. Because I can’t sit here and watch this.

Last year, when I’d first managed to recognize the looks of adoration my father sent his best friend’s wife, I’d almost printed a copy of “The More Loving One” by W. H. Auden, as if it would show him that I understood.

And then . . . then I’d gone on a double date that night and it had changed everything.