9. Marley
NINE
MARLEY
Barking dogs drag me out of the best sleep I have had in a while. Upon opening my eyes I’m confused for a split second as the room comes into focus. Bennett’s house. A little zing of excitement zips through my stomach. The soft light filtering through the white curtains gives the space an almost ethereal look. More barking erupts, and I close my eyes again.
I sit up slowly, cognizant of my ankle as I swing my legs off the side of the mattress. I look at the bathroom door across the room and wonder if I could make it on my own. I probably could if I had already had a cup of coffee, but I feel like trying without it would be a fool’s errand. I don’t want to injure myself further or, worse, make Bennett feel bad because I made another dumb decision. I hear a door shut downstairs and then the creak of the stairs as Bennett comes up. There’s a soft knock on my door, and I call to come in before I remember I’m not wearing a top. I manage to turn and grab the shirt I’d left on the nightstand before he gets an eyeful.
A quick intake of breath has me turning to see Bennett staring at me. He’s not looking at me with lust, though. It’s something else—horror, crossed with disgust perhaps. Coffee is my preferred way of waking up, but when an attractive man is looking at you like that, well, trust me, it’ll wake you up just as fast. As my ego is in the process of shriveling up and dying, I realize that he’s probably got a full view of the scar across my back. On one hand, his expression is now totally understandable, but on the other, he’s probably going to want to know what happened, and I’m more of a set-it-and-forget-it type of girl—or in this case, a heal-it-and-don’t-deal-with-it lady.
I keep my body turned and slip on the shirt before turning back to Bennett.
“That’s how every woman dreams of being looked at in the morning after spending the night at a man’s house,” I tell him.
He slowly drags his eyes up to my face. “Are you okay?” he asks, that damn expression so plastered on I’ll need a chisel and hammer to crack it off.
“I am now,” I say, giving him a big smile, hoping he’ll catch on that I don’t want to talk about it. I notice then that he’s holding the clothes I wore yesterday. “Are those my things?”
He looks down and then back up at me. “Yeah. I washed them. I hope that’s okay.”
“You washed my clothes, and you’re concerned I wouldn’t be okay with it?”
“Some people are really private,” he replies quietly, his face finally relaxing.
I want to ask what about me makes him think I’m “some people,” but truthfully I am when it comes to certain things. Just not with clothes. If someone wants to do my laundry, I’m not about to fight them because they might see the size of my pants.
“Well,” I say, holding out my hand, “I appreciate it.” I’m trying to act cool, but I know I’m smiling like an idiot because this just all seems too perfect. Bennett returns the smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly. He hands me the clothes and turns to leave when I remember I do have an extra pair of underwear in my bag. “Um, Bennett?” He turns back to me. “Would you mind bringing my bag up?”
“Sure, no problem.” He nods and leaves the room.
When he comes back, I’ve put my bra and top on, and I’m sitting in half my clothes and half his. This time the look on his face is far easier to read.
“I’m just going to finish up here, then maybe you can help me back to the bathroom?” I’m trying to be more open about his help and taking some of the responsibility of asking off his shoulders. I keep acting like I’ve just got a cramp and I’ll be good in five minutes, when in reality I may only be somewhat better in five days and I need to accept the literal helping hand.
I’m honestly not sure how I’m going to keep going like this. If I have another day of sitting around and being taken care of, I may actually cry again. So when Bennett is slowly walking back down the stairs, I ask what he’s got planned for the day.
“Not too much going on today,” he says, in a tone that tells me he would rather have a lot going on. “I’m sure Karl will want me to come down to look at the road at some point. He’ll insist I go with him so we can brainstorm useless solutions together. I was also going to take the dogs for a walk and then maybe do some more work on the kitchen. ”
“Are you ever worried when you take them out like that?”
“Like what?”
“Without leashes?”
“I was in the beginning. But since I’ve got the space and typically don’t run into anyone, it’s easier to walk them off-leash around here.”
He walks right into the kitchen and sets me down on a stool.
“Coffee or tea? ”
“Oooh, coffee please,” I say, rubbing my hands together like a kid on Christmas morning.
“Take anything in it?” he asks, pulling two mugs down from the cupboard.
“Just black is good.” When I was younger my coffee was mostly cream and sugar. But in the field, you learn to drink whatever you can get whenever you can get it, and usually that means black coffee. It shocked my system for the first little while, but I eventually grew fond of the stuff.
Bennett puts the mug in front of me and leans on the counter. “Now, for breakfast I usually have cereal, but I’ve got some eggs and bread from Nancy in the freezer.”
“I’m good with cereal.”
Bennett pulls out a couple of bowls and a glass bottle of milk. I’ve suddenly been transported back in time. Who has bottles of milk anymore? My face must be speaking for me. “The Hores have a dairy farm,” he explains. “They also have chickens, so I get some basic ingredients from them. Nancy, Mrs. Hore, claims that her tomatoes are so good because her cows shit gold.”
“She thinks they shit gold or that their shit’s as precious as gold?” I ask as I take my first sip of coffee. It’s smooth and strong, and I am a very happy coffee addict at this moment.
“I think she believes it adds value to her garden.”
“Well, if she keeps growing tomatoes like the ones that made last night’s sauce, she can think whatever she likes.”
“Agreed,” Bennett declares, putting two boxes of cereal on the island. “What would you prefer?”
He has set out a box of Raisin Bran, which reminds me of my dad, and a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, which happens to be my absolute favorite. Part of me thinks I should pick the Raisin Bran to give the impression of someone who is a mature adult, aware of the benefits of fiber, but the other part of me is screaming for the sugary goodness of CTC. I point to the box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, and Bennett laughs. “Thank god.”
“What? You want all the Raisin Bran to yourself?” I ask, one eyebrow raised in question.
“God, no!” he says. “I wanted the Cinnamon Toast Crunch, but I didn’t want you to think I had the taste of a child.”
“Well, if you have the taste of a child, then so do I, and I say we embrace that. But why do you have a box of Raisin Bran if you don’t want it?”
“It was on sale, and I thought, ‘That seems like the kind of cereal I should be liking at my age,’ so I bought it, and well…it’s been sitting in my cupboard unopened for two months.”
“Well, maybe you’ll rescue a sixty-year-old hiker one day, and they’ll be grateful for all that bran.”
“That’s very true. Better to be prepared than not.” He hands me a bowl and the box of cereal, and I pour myself a decent helping. Bennett pours himself double.
After we finish eating, Bennett heads out to take the dogs for their pack walk. I’m back in the armchair with Bennett’s laptop so I can check my email. Sure enough, there is an email from one of the agencies I work with semi-regularly.
Marley,
I hope this email finds you well. We are hoping you’d consider going over to the G7 Summit in London next week. We know that it’s not your normal assignment, but there’s been word that there will be a heavy protester presence, and we want someone accustomed to chaos on the ground to capture it. Simon Newgate is going to be the journalist we send over, and he asked that we reach out to you first.
Please let us know by October 21.
Best,
Karen Hilcox
I hate covering protests. Mob mentality is not a fun thing to find yourself in the middle of. My worst injuries have come from being caught up in a crowd of people collectively losing their damn minds. I’ve never been so happy to be injured.
Karen,
Thank you for thinking of me for this assignment. Unfortunately, I will have to decline as I have suffered an injury and will be out of commission for about three weeks. Please pass along my apologies to Simon.
Cheers,
Marley
In all honesty, I have no idea if I’m going to be better in three weeks. But when I hit send, I’m struck with an immense feeling of relief. I guess that’s something. The only time I’ve declined opportunities in the past was because I already had something in my schedule. I was convinced I’d feel a sense of guilt or failure saying no to this one.
The next email is from Izzy which she sent late last night.
Marley, I’m going to need an update, friend!
Then another one this morning .
Marley. I will march through those woods and find you myself if I don’t hear back from you by noon.
The funny thing about Izzy is that she knows that when I’m in the field I may not get back to her for days, and she won’t send me progressively more paranoid emails in between contact from me. Yet here I am an hour away from home, and she’s losing her mind. The woman listens to way too many true crime podcasts.
Izzy, I’m going to need you to calm down. I’m okay. Let’s act like I’m on assignment in the wilds of Ontario.
Love you.
M.
I’m hopping on one foot towards the bookshelf closest to me when I hear the back door open and a woman’s voice call, “Bennett, honey, are you here?”