34. Marley
THIRTY-FOUR
MARLEY
Three weeks later
It’s actually good to be back in my own place. I love Nellie, but no matter what I always felt like I was in the way or too heavily relying on her generosity. I was also getting tired of being asked if I’d talked to Bennett on any given day. Being home lets me do what I want when I want to do it. I don’t have to worry about what anyone else wants to eat or feel bad for not being a better conversationalist. But most of all, I don’t have to keep lying to her face when she asks how I’m doing. Apparently Nellie really focused on the “He doesn’t really have anyone other than his neighbors” part of our conversation. Me randomly staring off into space probably didn’t help my case either.
I say I’m fine, but then every night I curl up with Bennett’s sweatshirt and stare at my phone telling myself that I can’t text or call him. At one point I even convince myself that he’s forgotten all about me by now. I do such a good job convincing myself of that that I end up sobbing into the hoodie. The thought of him being perfectly happy without me is both soothing and a special kind of hell. Great for him, depressing for me.
I’ve only got forty-eight hours to do a proper cleaning of my place before I leave on my first assignment in over a month. I dust every surface and open a few windows to get some fresh air in, even though it’s lightly snowing. When I pull my bedsheets out of the dryer and begin to separate them, I notice that Bennett’s hoodie had gotten bunched up with them. I’ve washed the last of him out of the fabric, and I end up sitting on my bare mattress crying for half an hour. When I pull myself back together, I tell myself this version of me needs to take a hike before I leave.
Twenty minutes later I’m at the post office, stuffing the sweatshirt into a box. I end up staring at the open package for a while. I told myself I needed to cut and run, and everything in me tells me to close the box and do that. Except there’s a damn little voice telling me to at least stick a piece of paper in with it to say thank you. That is what a normal adult human would likely do. And there is something about Bennett that makes me want to be that adult. So I quickly look around and grab the first thing I can write a quick note on. I borrow the post office’s pen and scribble, “Benny, I accidentally washed this. Doesn’t smell like you anymore. Thanks. Marley” Then I stick the postcard of a moose standing in a marsh into the box, shut it quickly, and practically run from the building. It’s only when I get home that I realize that I may as well have written that I liked him and missed him and wished he was here. I briefly consider texting him, but what would I say exactly? If I text him, that would open the floodgates, and I’m not ready for that.
Before I go to bed, I log into my email and find one from [email protected] . I open it to find a picture of a smiling Sophie standing next to Clarice who has a giant red and white ribbon attached to her halter. “We did it. Time to give those horse snobs a show.” I reply with a quick “Congratulations, Sophie. What udderly fabulous news.” For some reason I also let her know I’m heading off to Syria for work before congratulating her again on the win.
I do a quick check of my schedule for tomorrow and ensure all the relevant alarms are set before tucking myself in. It’s the first night since I left Bennett’s that I don’t have his hoodie to snuggle with, and I’m already regretting sending it back. I eventually fall asleep as my mind creates an elaborate plan to break into the post office and steal it out of the outbound mail bin.
I’m triple-checking my equipment when my phone rings the next morning.
“Newsgate! This couldn’t wait until tonight?”
“Goddammit, Marley, you know how I feel about that nickname.”
“What?” I say innocently. “It’s so appropriate.”
“Fucking pain in my ass,” he grumbles, but I know he’s not actually mad about it. “Listen, there’s been a change of plans. Karen has us on a flight for two this afternoon now. So you’ve gotta get a move on and get to the airport pronto.”
I glance over at the clock on the microwave. It’s 10:30. “She sure knows how to add drama into the mix.” I roll my eyes and begin to pack my stuff.
“Keeping us on our toes for sure.” I love working with Simon; he’s got a wicked sense of humor and yet knows when to lock it away. That’s important in our line of work. I, on the other hand, have a hard time locking away the humor and tend to bust it out when I shouldn’t.
“I assume she’s emailing all the relevant information?”
“Should already be in your inbox, darling. I’ll see you soon.” He hangs up, and I take a deep breath before going into prep mode.
We’re flying into Istanbul and then to a smaller city close to the Syrian border. From there, we’ll cross over land with a couple of other journalists, a group of physicians, and medical supplies. I hate traveling in a large group. It draws more attention, and it puts me on edge. And in general people tend to not go about their lives the same way around a big group of foreigners, which makes it hard to capture the real story. Although I will admit that traveling with doctors is better than with people often just labelled as “officials.” I can’t be invisible when I’m surrounded by guys in khakis, polos, and flak jackets, claiming they’re there to save the day.
Simon assured me that we’ll be able to sneak away from the crowd and cover some grassroots stuff. This is another one of the reasons Simon and I work well together; we’re not in this field for the glory or to get famous. We both want to help facilitate change. It’s why we’re still doing the job. It’s why he puts his life on the line and leaves his son as frequently as I leave my safe little one-bedroom apartment.
I get to the airport with just under three hours until our flight and find Simon on the other side of security. He greets me with a hug and a coffee. We spread out on the floor near our gate and go over a map of the area we’ll be traveling to. He also has a few field notes from colleagues already on the ground. We’ve always done this to some degree, but two years ago a Thai journalist was taken hostage along with two Italian photojournalists after they unknowingly ventured into hostile territory. One of the most dangerous aspects of the job is that friendly territory today may not be so friendly tomorrow, so knowing what’s happening around our destination is vital.
When we have another hour before boarding, we grab sandwiches from a chain famous for their Montreal smoked meat, and Simon doesn’t waste any time in asking me about my ankle.
“Let me get this straight,” he says, putting down his sandwich and clasping his hands under his chin. “You sprained your ankle on some trail and were rescued by a hot football player?”
“And his twenty-one dogs.”
“Oh right, can’t forget about the dogs.”
“Simon, there were twenty-one of them, it was literally impossible to forget about them.”
“Mm-hmm, mm-hmm, sure, whatever you say. So did he pick you up and throw you over his shoulder, caveman-style?”
I laugh remembering how Bennett said he’d always wanted to do that. “Despite the threat of that happening, no, he gave me a good old-fashioned piggyback ride.”
“Rewind. The threat of that happening?” he asks, a perfectly manicured eyebrow lifting high.
I’ve said too much. “I was resistant to the help, and he told me that I had a choice: be eaten by mosquitos, willingly climb on his back, or let him throw me over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.”
“Lucky you. It’s not every day one gets told to climb an attractive man.” I adore Simon. He’s won several awards for serious stories he’s done around the world, and yet he’s the first to ask for all the juicy gossip. I think it’s how he balances things. He needs to embrace the ridiculousness of our so-called drama at home because real drama is harder to sleep with.
“It was not a hardship, I can tell you that.” I sigh.
“So, when are you seeing him again?” he asks, picking his sandwich back up and taking a bite.
“Um… well, honestly, I hadn’t really thought about it.” Liar , that little voice in the back of my mind screams.
And up goes his eyebrow again, but somehow it’s disapproving this time. “Excuse me?”
“He’s the relationship type, and you know I’m not.”
“True, you’re the hit-it-and-quit-it-to-drown-out-the-bombs type. ”
“Ouch. Okay, no need for the brutal honesty, Newsgate.” It’s one thing to say that to myself, but a whole other thing for someone to say it to me.
“Did you discuss it?”
“What?”
“A relationship.”
“No!” I laugh like the suggestion is the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard.
“Did you discuss a casual fling?”
“No. What's your point, Simon?”
“How do you know he’s the relationship type?”
“I…” I guess I don’t actually know. He screams commitment, and I guess I just assumed.
Simon puts his sandwich back down and then gestures for me to do the same. Then he grabs both of my hands in his. “Listen, honey, take it from someone who didn’t ‘do relationships.’ I wasted years thinking I was saving someone else from having to lose sleep over my job. I know that’s where your head is at too. I wasted time dodging a man who wanted me despite that. And in the end, it was him that left. We had all the plans in place for my inevitable demise, and he’s the one who was taken without warning, without a plan. I want more for you because this fuck-’em-and-chuck-’em thing you’ve mastered will never fill the hole of someone to actually love. Getting to experience that is worth the heartache, I promise you that.”
I don’t know what to say, so I just stare down at our hands.
“Just promise me you’ll think about opening yourself up and allowing someone to love you the way you deserve to be loved.”
“Okay.” I nod, but I don’t think either of us believe me.
“Now, how long did you wait until you had sex with him?” Simon’s grin returns, and he takes another bite, anxiously awaiting the gossip he not-so-secretly lives for.