6. Marley
SIX
MARLEY
“I didn’t know if you’d prefer it with or without ice?” Bennett asks, carrying two glasses of water, one with ice and one without. I don’t know why this does funny things to my brain and multiple other body parts, but I point at the glass without. He hands it to me and then puts his own down on a coaster next to where he’d been sitting before turning back to me and pulling something out from under his armpit.
“It’s not the newest, but it will help support your ankle until you can see a doctor,” he says, holding up what I can now see is a tensor bandage. “May I?”
I’ve noticed he’s very prudent with the permission seeking. I’m not complaining; it’s just a very different approach than I’m used to. I gesture for him to go ahead, and he bends to raise my leg off the pillows which he moves aside so he can sit. Then I watch with a mixture of horror and fascination as he sets my ankle in his lap. I can’t help but sneak a peek at Yogurt who is sitting next to the ottoman, staring at Bennett and wondering if he’s perhaps jealous of my foot. I’m officially the weirdest one in the room .
“Okay, that should be good,” Bennett says, looking up from my ankle and no doubt catching me smiling like a moron at him. I try and look away, but when he smiles back, I’m fucked.
I swallow the Disney princess sigh that’s been building and blink a few times before looking down at his handiwork. “Thank you,” I manage to squeak out, which seems to draw his eyes from mine down to my mouth.
“You’re welcome, Marley,” he replies, looking back down and running his thumb lightly over the exposed skin above the bandage. The contact alongside the way my name sounds on his tongue does inappropriate things to me, and those things aren’t necessarily purely sexual either.
I’ve only been in Bennett’s home for three and a half hours, and in that time he has applied ice to my ankle five times, sat in companionable silence with me, and turned my brain to mush more than anyone has in the last five years. When he’s not with me, he’s off doing whatever it is he would normally be doing—at least that’s what I assume. I assured him that I’d be fine alone and he didn’t need to worry about me stealing anything and taking off, which had earned me a tiny smile and bashful nod. He was upstairs for a while—I could hear him walking around directly above me—and when he came down he said he was going to check on the dogs. Meanwhile, I’ve sat twiddling my thumbs as my body re-enacts the reaction to his touch. All seven times he’s attended to my ankle, I’ve jumped a little the minute his skin makes contact with mine. He, on the other hand, has not reacted once, which makes me think it’s all in my head. Bennett did bring me a few books, and I pretended to be excited to read one, but truthfully physically reading is a surefire way to put me into a foul mood.
People tend to assume that those with dyslexia can’t read at all, which is bonkers. There are countless super successful people who have it. I love stories with all my heart, but fighting with the words ruins them for me, and the more they shift the more frustrated I get. I was never one of those patient kids that could keep at it. I got it or I didn’t, and while I eventually got reading, it was a long hard road, and the joy that was supposed to come with being in control never materialized. So I indulge in stories through audiobooks. Reading without the constant battle between my eyes and brain has allowed me to appreciate books in a way I never would have imagined in school.
I’ve got my thumbs going in a pretty good rhythm, and I’m staring so hard at the book cover that it’s blurring when I hear a crash from the kitchen.
“Everything ok?” I call out.
“Yep.” His reply comes out somewhat strained. He comes into the room a minute later holding a bag of pasta. “Um, do you have any allergies or anything? Food allergies, I mean, although I guess if you have any other major ones that would be good to know about. I know bees are rare this time of year, but you never know, right? Are you allergic to dogs? I’m going to guess not as you haven’t even sniffled once since being—” He stops mid-sentence and finally looks at me. He shakes his head slightly. “Wow, that was a lot, sorry. I just—”
I cut him off before he can apologize again. “You just care about someone else’s well-being? Because that’s nothing to be sorry about.” I’ve spent a lot of time in places full of people that don’t give a shit about anyone else. It’s hard to watch someone turn off their humanity in real time; it’s scarier than knowing someone wasn’t born with any. “I have no allergies that I’m aware of, and I will eat just about anything. I just wish I was able to help out.”
“Do you want to come sit in the kitchen? Or you can stay here and keep reading.” He points at the book on my lap, and I look down and scowl at it.
“Truth? I’m not a huge fan of paperbacks. I tend to do audiobooks.” He looks genuinely horrified, and I honestly think he’s about to throw me out when he tips his head back and groans.
“I should have given you the remote,” he says, gesturing at the TV. “I don’t use it much so I tend to forget it’s there.” I’m starting to get the impression that Bennett is too hard on himself.
“It’s okay.” I shrug. “Circling back to the kitchen, if it’s not too much trouble, I don’t hate the idea. Although if it is then I can stay here. I’ve got a pretty nice ass groove developing.” I shimmy back and forth to illustrate my point. This at least gets him to smile.
“Not too much trouble at all.” He comes over and squats in front of me again, and I awkwardly latch onto his back.
“You know,” I ponder out loud once he’s standing, “this is far more pleasant when we aren’t two halves of a vomit sandwich.” This makes him do some sort of laugh-groan hybrid, and I decide I like the sound of that too.
The kitchen isn’t nearly the dump I was expecting. “Dump” isn’t the right word for it; “dated” would be far more appropriate. The cupboards that remain are pine, and the counters are an off-white material I can only classify as not marble. The appliances, however, look new and definitely not from the bargain aisle. It’s a work in progress. Basically the room version of me, just with shinier appliances.
“I’m, ah, doing the work myself,” Bennett says, stopping in front of an island stool. “So I have no clue when I’ll be done.” He drags another stool over and drops the pillow he must have grabbed without me noticing and lifts my ankle on top of it. He makes taking care of me seem effortless.
“I like it,” I say, looking around. “It has character.”
Bennett glances left and right, his expression letting me know he does not share my view. “If you say so. ”
He starts filling a pot with water and setting out things he’s going to use to cook the pasta. I notice a jar of red sauce on the counter. “Did you make that?” I ask, hoping I don’t sound too shocked by the idea.
He grabs it and sets it down in front of me. “My neighbor makes a bunch at the end of every summer and gives me a few jars.”
I stare back at him blankly. “You have neighbors?”
“Yeah,” he laughs, turning to the pot on the stove. “The Hores live about three kilometers north. We are the only two properties on the road, meaning they’re as stuck as we are until the town comes and sorts it out.”
“The… whores?” I repeat, needing him to clarify that he means that’s their name and not that there are a bunch of whores down the way. Which is fine—you do you and all that—but I still need clarification.
“H-O-R-E.” He smiles back at me while opening the bag of pasta. “When we first met, Karl, Mr. Hore”—I snort—“stuck his hand out and said ‘We’re the Hores. If you ever need to borrow a hoe, we’re your people.’ And he said it totally straight-faced.” I guffaw because that’s all I can do. “He then laughed and said when you’ve got a name like Hore, you’ve got to just lean into it.”
“I respect that,” I say, still laughing. “I went to school with a lot of Dicks.” I think for a minute. “I mean that in all the possible ways.”
“I went to school with Randall Bottum,” Bennet says, turning and leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed.
“Oh no!” I say, covering my face with my hands and laughing. “That poor kid.”
“I wonder what Randy’s up to now.”
“I’m sure you could find out on social media.”
Bennett shrugs. “Don’t have any.”
“Excuse me?” I slowly blink at him a couple of times. “You must be around my age, and you don’t have social media?”
“Thirty-two, no social media,” he replies.
I’m dumbfounded. Flabbergasted. Positively gobsmacked by the notion that someone born after 1990 isn’t connected to the world through at least one social platform. Where does he post pictures of dogs and his food and this fucking view? Not the one I’m currently looking at, although deep down I’d be over the moon to be sharing this view with people. “Look at me, friends and strangers, look at what I get to stare at every day. Oh, quake before me in all this glory.”
“You seem surprised,” he says, turning to dump the pasta into the boiling water.
“I honestly don’t know if I’ve met someone my age without it. I mean, sure, I’ve met a few in areas of the world somewhat cut off from technology, but even then humans find a way to share nonsense on Facebook.”
“Never saw much point in it.” He shrugs. “I’m pretty private, and my life is all about the dogs these days. Who wants to just see pictures of dogs all the time?”
He cannot be for real. “Have you actually ever been on the internet?” I inquire seriously, because I’m beginning to think he hasn’t.
“Obviously.” He turns away from me to stir the pasta, and I’m momentarily distracted by his muscles moving below his shirt.
“But like… have you really?” If I’m not mistaken his ears have gone a bit red. It now kind of seems like I’m digging for far less PG information than I intended. I don’t care if he has a hundred porn sites bookmarked, although now I’m wondering if he does and what kind he gravitates towards. “I mean, if you had, you’d know pictures of dogs are right up th ere with cat videos and passive-aggressive memes about everything.”
“I have email and pay all my bills electronically. I’ve got news and weather sites bookmarked. I’m not completely useless in the modern world, Marley.” He’s smirking at me again, and fuck me, I like it. More of that, please.