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The pool is relatively busy today—everyone active on a Saturday morning—but I spot Paloma easily. She’s already finished swimming, towel wrapped around her body like a column, squeezing her hair out as I approach.
“Hey.” She grins, eyes dancing with delight at the sight of me. The effect is a little heady. “What are you doing here?”
I clear my throat and tuck my hands behind my back.
“I wanted to ask you on a date. Tonight.” I dart a glance down at my shoes. “Not coffee.”
“Dinner?” she asks, patiently waiting as it takes me a moment to swallow and nod. “That would be great. What time do you want me to be ready?”
“I’ll—at six thirty. That should give us time to get to the restaurant by seven.”
She’s still smiling, peachy lips flushed like they’ve recently been bitten. Like they sometimes look when I kiss her harder, the way I secretly like best.
“That’s perfect, Bennett.”
It feels like it is—until that night at 6:45, when I’m stuck in my car, too anxious to drive anywhere. Panicked and hungry, I check the time again, only to grow somehow more paralyzed now that I’m past my time to pick her up and off my scheduled plan.
“You can cancel,” I whisper harshly to myself, batting my hand on the steering wheel. “She won’t be mad.”
It’s the easy solution. Try again when I don’t feel so terrified.
Only . . . I don’t want to cancel. I want to be with Paloma desperately.
My phone rings, the noise blaring in the silence of my car. Stomach somersaulting, I let it ring almost until the end, answering just before it goes to voicemail.
“Hey, Bennett?” Her voice is calm and sweet.
I can’t speak, throat dry. I’m not even sure at this point how long I’ve been sitting here.
“It’s Paloma,” she continues. I can hear the slight hurt, the anxiety I’m feeling mirrored in the sound of her voice dropping slowly at my continued silence.
“H-hey,” I manage to wrangle out. “I’m s-sorry—”
“Are you okay?” she asks, voice losing all hesitation.
Tears sting at the corner of my eyes and I feel stupid and achingly ridiculous.
“No.”
“Where are you?” There’s shuffling and then the slamming of a door. “At your house?”
“Yes,” I say. “In my car.”
Every word I manage sounds half-strangled.
“Okay—stay there.”
The call beeps, but I don’t drop the phone away from my ear—as though if I listen harder, I’ll be able to hear her breathing. The soft swish of her hair against the speaker. Anything to bring me back.
Focus. Remember your list.
1.Go to her dorm, to the door, and knock.
2.Tell her she looks beautiful.
3.Hold her hand and open her car door.
