3. Marley
THREE
MARLEY
Once inside, Bennett slips his boots off, careful not to jostle me too much, then walks into a cozy-looking living room. This is a room true to its name—you can tell a lot of living is done in this space. The couches are plush, and there are blankets thrown haphazardly on every seat. I’m going to assume most of the living here is done by the dogs.
“I’m going to put you in that chair in the corner, slide the ottoman over, and stack some pillows to elevate your ankle,” Bennett explains as if I have any choice at all here. Which I suppose I appreciate.
He squats in front of the chair, and I do the reverse of what I had done in the woods, dropping my small day pack beside the chair in the process. Then I watch as Bennett slides a large ottoman over and stacks a couple of pillows. “Mind if I—” He gestures at my leg, and I nod. “This is probably going to be the worst part,” he says as he begins untying my boot, and I know exactly what he means as the pressure of the boot loosens, and I swear I feel my ankle swell in real time. It’s unpleasant. He takes off my other boot faster, then tells me he’ll be right back.
I hear the front door open and close, followed by a sharp whistle. I can’t see much through the window from where I’m sitting, but I do catch a few dogs running by. About five minutes later, I hear another door open and close and the sound of wet boots on the floor. I can also hear Bennett speaking quietly to someone. My heart sinks a little at the thought of it being a woman. Which is beyond ridiculous. I have officially crossed into unfamiliar territory.
“Ice, ibuprofen, and some water.” Bennett declares, walking into the room, carrying all three in one hand while he balances Yogurt in the other. The dog, not the food, although I kind of wish it was the food because I am a bit hungry. And then I remember that the last thing I ate is on my shirt, and to my horror, on the back of Bennett’s.
“Um, I hate to ask, but you wouldn’t have a spare shirt and pair of pants, would you? Maybe something of your wife’s or girlfriend’s?” It couldn’t be more obvious that I was fishing for information. I may as well be wearing one of those hats fly-fisherman wear and a pair of fucking waders.
Bennett is much cooler than me and avoids the fact-finding mission like a seasoned politician. “I’m sure I can find something for you,” he says as he wraps the ice in a tea towel that I didn’t realize he’d thrown over his shoulder. Then he’s squatting next to my ankle again and gently lifting and adjusting the ice for maximum contact. I can’t control myself as a hiss escapes me, and I toss my head back, breathing in deeply. “Sorry,” he says with such remorse that it hurts my heart a little.
“S’ok.” I breathe, trying to smile in a way that doesn’t scream “I will end you.” Because that’s not how I feel, but it is also very much how I feel. I’m dealing with some very complicated feelings at the moment.
He stands and puts his hands on his hips, and I so badly want to make a Brawny Man joke. He just looks down at me but doesn’t say anything. I’m in a male-dominated industry, and I’m often in areas that are off-limits to most women, so being looked at is something I can usually ignore. But I don’t know how to ignore Bennett looking at me. The looks I usually get say, “What are you doing here?” I don’t know how to interpret this look of his.
“You’ve got vomit all over the back of your shirt,” I say, wincing.
His brows furrow for a split second before he nods and mutters, “Right. I’ll be right back.” Then he turns and heads up the stairs. I watch as his legs disappear and let my body relax. I didn’t realize how tense I’d been the whole time. It’s as though my mind and body were dealing with two different situations. My body has been on high alert while my brain has been ogling Bennett. I’d be the first to die in a slasher movie if the bad guy looked like him. However, now that the tension is gone, the pain has made itself known again. I try to focus on the space I’m in instead of the pain.
There is a saving grace in not being able to walk around: I won’t be caught snooping, which is good because I can rarely forgo a good snooping opportunity. From where I sit I can see a wall of shelves, absolutely brimming with books. Across from it is a wall of framed pictures. An older couple makes up most of them, but I think there are a few of Bennett as a child. From this angle, I can just make out what looks to be a graduation picture. There is a TV above the fireplace, and I can imagine curling up in this room with a good book or movie on a rainy day, absolutely buried under a heap of dogs. It’s a pleasant thought.
Eventually, I let my mind return to the man who has so graciously brought me into his home. Bennett is the type of guy you’d expect to see on a promotional poster for milk. Milk-poster good looks with his hazel-green eyes and wholesome smile. He’s got light brown hair and a well-groomed beard a shade darker. His nose has a small bump that’s only really noticeable from the side; I assume he broke it playing one of the many sports he was forced to participate in. He has a light dusting of freckles, and I can imagine that they were much darker when he was a kid, probably like mine after I’ve spent lots of time in the sun. His lips are, to put it bluntly, entirely kissable, and I can’t help but wonder what they would feel like against my own, how his slightly fuller bottom lip would feel between my teeth.
“You’re going to be swimming in these, but at least everything is clean.” Bennett’s voice brings me back to reality. He’s holding up a sweatshirt and a pair of dark sweatpants. He’s also changed his entire wardrobe and is now in a tight Henley with the arms rolled up and dark grey sweatpants. It’s incredibly rude of him. I’m caught off guard that this man, who carried me out of the woods so I wouldn’t be consumed by mosquitoes, could be so thoughtless.
“Hmmm.” I pretend to be deep in thought, tapping my mouth to ensure I haven’t drooled down my chin. “I think swimming may be preferable to the vomit.” He doesn’t bring them to me though; instead, he looks from my outstretched leg and back to the clothes. It takes me a minute to realize that while my shirt will be easy to change, maneuvering out of my leggings may be a challenge.
He gestures towards my legs. “Do you need help?”
Truthfully, I think I can get my pants to my ankles. It’s the sliding them off my right leg that I’m dreading. I do some calculations, looking from my ankle to the pants and back again. “Um, I think I’ll be ok. I may need help with the end bit, but I’ll try first.”
Bennett nods and places the clothes where I can easily reach them. Then he points with his thumb somewhere outside the room. “I’ll just be out there. Yell if you need help.” Then he’s gone so fast that I can practically see one of those cartoon dust trails.