2. Bennett
TWO
BENNETT
This is not how I anticipated ending today’s pack walk; trying not to trip on the dogs weaving in and out of my path while carrying a beautiful woman on my back. I am surprised by the direction the day has taken, but I find that I’m not upset about it.
We’ve only been walking for roughly five minutes when I hear Marley clear her throat. “So, um, come here often?”
I chuckle. “Is that a pickup line?”
“No, ‘If I squat down, do you think you could climb onto my back’ is a pickup line,” she says, forcing a real laugh from me.
“Touché. You could say I come here often. I don’t often go home with a woman I met on the trail, though.” I can feel my face heat.
“That’s shocking, actually. I’ve heard of guys using a dog to pick up women, and you’ve got so many I’d expect women to just be drawn here by some unknown force.”
“That makes me sound like a predator. Not my style.”
“That’s a relief because I’m kind of at your mercy right now.” It hits then that despite the chatter and the calm demeanor, she’s in a pretty vulnerable situation. Her legs tense, and I’m guessing it’s dawning on her too.
I stop abruptly. “I really have no ill intent here, just so we are crystal clear. I’m just a guy helping out an injured hiker.”
I can feel her relax. Other than being a man, I hope I have done absolutely nothing to make her question her safety. “Bennett? Ben? Benny?” I have to hold back a shudder when she says Benny, only one person ever got to call me that. “I trust you,” she says, sounding genuine.
“Besides,” I say as I start walking again, “how do I know this isn’t some ruse to get me to take you into my home so you can case the place?”
“I guess you’ll just have to trust that my injury is real and that I have never quite mastered vomiting on demand,” she says innocently.
After about five more minutes of silence, she leans to the left, and I can feel her eyes studying me.
“Did you play football?” she asks.
“I did.”
“I knew it.”
“I also played hockey, soccer, and basketball,” I add.
“Oh, well, that makes sense, I guess.”
“Why’s that?”
“I don’t know, you seem sporty.”
“I was a small-town kid. To field a team in anything, everyone had to become sporty, whether they wanted to or not.”
“That sounds… fun.” She says “fun” in a way that makes it obvious that fun is not the way she’d describe having to be sporty.
“Well, I was sporty, so it was for me. Although, it’s hard when half the team doesn’t want to be playing the game, and the other half wants to be winning,” I reply, sounding a bit more winded than I feel.
“Do you want to take a break? I can’t be that light. Honestly, if my ankle didn’t hurt so badly, I would have crawled back to my car and taught myself to drive with my left foot just to avoid being carried.”
“I’m definitely glad you didn’t attempt that,” I say, readjusting again. “We’re almost there, and you’re not that heavy.”
“You are too kind,” she scoffs.
“Remember that when I’m making you ice your ankle in about ten minutes.” I chuckle.
“I’ll have you know that I’m a damn good patient.”
“In need of medical care often, are you?”
“Not exactly often but enough, and I’ve had no complaints.”
“Do you give the medical staff a caregiver experience survey?”
“As a matter of fact,” she begins, and I involuntarily let out a bark of laughter. “Let’s just say this isn’t my first unfortunately timed injury.”
“Sounds like there’s a story there somewhere.”
“Probably…” she says, sounding distracted. “Holy shit,” she murmurs as my place comes into view.
“Home sweet home,” I say, appreciating her reaction.
“Truly,” she says in wonder. “My apartment is… I don’t know, like a comma in my life. A place where I catch up on sleep. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.”
“Oh yeah? And what had you been expecting?” I ask, curious to know her answer. What type of home did Marley expect a guy like me to live in?
“I don’t know.” She laughs. “Some run-down hunting lodge type thing, or a modern monstrosity.”
My home is neither of those things. But I can imagine why she’d think that; it does seem to be a theme out in the middle of nowhere. My house, on the other hand, is somewhere in the middle. Old but well-kept, large but not excessive, although perhaps too large for a single guy like me, even with all the dogs.
“It’s beautiful,” she adds as we get closer and the finer details come into view. The stonework and the window trim and accents scream English manor, but the porch that wraps around, surrounded by the fall garden, is all Ontario.
“Maybe hold off declaring your undying love for it until you see the inside,” I add as I open the door and step across the threshold.