Chapter 9 Mile Nine
MILE NINE
ROPE PLAY
The lamp posts lining the path leading towards the campus’s visitors’ parking lot hum awake as sunset approaches.
Garrett and I stop by his SUV to drop off my purse and bag of clothes before we head to the track around the soccer field for our first training session.
The entire way, I prattle on about my excitement that the campus coffee shop rolled out their holiday drinks earlier than normal this year.
“Do you have any idea the self-restraint it took for me not to go back for a second sugar cookie latte today?” I preen, just a bit, as we arrive at his vehicle.
“Your glucose levels will erect monuments to your self-control,” he says wryly, digging something out of his backseat.
“Be nice or I won’t invite you to the ribbon-cutting ceremony,” I toss my bag into the passenger’s side and pivot to face him.
“I have something for you.” He hoists up a shopping bag.
“Is it a sugar cookie latte?” I coo.
“No,” he grunts and hands me the bag.
“Boo!” Smirking, I take it. “What…” Brow creased, I dig into the bag and feel around and pull out a thick elastic exercise band and several different types of rope. “What is this?” I scrunch my nose. “Are you going to tie me up if I’m a naughty girl?”
“The thought has crossed my mind,” he says, his rumbly tenor vibrating through my entire body.
“You have?” I breathe, trying to fight the mental image of Garrett’s strong hands wrapping rope around my wrists and securing me to the headboard.
My body served up for his leisurely exploration. His hands trailing over every inch of my bare skin—down my throat to my collarbone, over the swell of my breasts, past my belly, and gripping my thighs before dipping his head between my legs and drinking me up like I’m the sugar cookie latte.
Oh god... I flick the rubber band on my wrist to combat the little coil cranking tight in my core with the idea of being at Garrett’s mercy.
He coughs. “It’s for tethering us together while running.”
“Yeah… Ha. Ha…” With an awkward laugh falling out of me, I snap—for good measure—at the rubber band again. “I know. I’m just messing with you. Don’t be pervy.”
We will just ignore that I’m the one being pervy. Garrett brings rope for guide running purposes, and I want to live out some dormant, low-stakes bondage play that I had no idea lived inside me.
“I thought we could try different types out to see what works best for us. The band”—he pulls it from the bag— “keeps us snug together, but the rope will give you the ability to fluctuate how much slack or closeness you want. We can experiment.”
“This is sweet.” I grin, running my fingers along the braided rope.
“It’s not a big deal. Anker mentioned it. He said you just did human guide for the 5K, but this might be a better idea for a marathon.”
It’s standard for most blind/guide pairs to use some sort of tether to maintain contact during races.
Human guide is great for walking but proves challenging for running.
The height differential aside, exercise means a lot of sweat.
That can make it difficult to hold onto someone, especially for 26.
2 miles. A tether allows a runner to remain connected to their guide but have the freedom to move.
“Let’s test this one out.” Selecting the thinner rope, I hold it up.
“Okay.” He nods. “Do you want to leave your cane in the car, or do you want me to hold it? I thought we could just power walk tonight. It might be a good idea for our first few sessions to just focus on getting comfortable with each other.”
I curl my hand tighter around my cane’s handle. This is part of it. I know this. Running with my cane isn’t possible. The cane poses a safety risk if holding it, and slows you down if strapped to you. It’s best to have someone else hold it until you cross the finish line.
The idea of leaving it behind tightens the knot in my stomach just a little tighter.
With the cane, I am safe. It not only helps me navigate spaces and find any obstacles that could trip me up, but also ensures I have the key to my own rescue in my hand.
The cane is like a fail-safe guarantee that I’ll never be left behind… Not again.
“Hey…” He places his palms on my shoulders, their heaviness soothing the worry sloshing inside me. “I can hold your cane.”
“But it will slow us down.” A furrow dips my brow.
“We’re just starting, so no need to worry about timing.
This is about getting comfortable with this.
With each other. I’ll hold onto your cane, so you know it’s right there.
That way you can practice without it, and if you need a mental break all you need to do is say ‘turnip,’ we’ll stop, and I’ll give you your cane. ”
My mouth pulls up with his use of our safe word.
It’s supposed to be for our emotional boundaries, which I guess this is one.
It’s probably the biggest one that I have.
As Anker says, I have trust issues. I don’t trust that people won’t hurt me.
That they won’t leave me behind. It’s so cliché, but it’s my truth.
Friends take care of each other. Garrett’s words from my office echo inside me.
He’s right. Real friends have each other’s backs.
Just like they pour pineapple champagne down the drain, so their allergic friend doesn’t drink it.
They say nothing about it, so that same friend just smiles and thinks the man she likes brought her a delicious bottle of bubbly to celebrate her birthday.
I fold my cane and hand it to him. “Okay.”
The sun hangs low over the quiet soccer field.
We’re the only people on the track. Despite that, I offer no slack.
For the first lap around the track, I remain snug to Garrett.
With each step, my muscles coil tight, seeming to brace for any possible misstep.
The rope tethers us to one another, wrapped around each of our hands.
Heart racing, we move around the track at a brisk pace.
“Bend,” Garrett says, as we round the track.
I smile. Throughout our lap, he’s called out changes in the path, including straightaways, bends, and ruts. I take a mental note to say something to the athletic department about the need to fill in some of these ruts that could lead to injuries.
Despite Garrett’s communication, I remain locked to him. His large form is a step in front of me. I know I should loosen my grip, but anxiety pulses through me.
“How are you doing?”
“Awesome,” Teeth gritted, I tug at the rope.
“Sure about that? Any closer and I’d be giving you a piggyback ride,” he teases, as we start the second lap.
“Is that an option?”
“No,” he laughs.
“Worst guide ever!” I pout.
“You hate this.”
“So much!” I whine with the conviction of a toddler being told they have to eat their vegetables, which I kind of am.
“But you’re still doing it.” The upward drag of his mouth is audible in his encouraging tone. “You’ve not turniped me once.”
“That’s not a word.” I bite my lower lip, tamping down the wide grin threatening to belt across my face.
“It should be. It’s a fantastic word,” he says, laughter punctuates his tone. “Seems like a real missed opportunity for one of your deep-voiced audiobook narrators to growl turniped”—his voice somehow gets impossibly lower— “or whatever nonsense they get up to in your dirty audios.”
“Erotic audios.” My correction is breathy, which we can pretend it’s from our power walk’s pace and not from the way his deep bass pulses through me. I also won’t pretend that Garrett’s voice isn’t in my auditory spank bank.
“Pardon…erotic.” He huffs a chuckle. “Straightaway.”
My head tilts. We’re halfway through the second lap without me realizing it. And, somehow, I’ve loosened the death-like grip on the rope, just a bit. It’s now almost death-like. If that’s a thing?
“Thank you,” I say softly.
I feel him shrug his shoulders before he follows with a mumbled, “Just making small talk.”
Soup. This man is soup. He nourishes. He’s hot. He comes in a can that you need to pry open. Soup can also scald and burn if you try to eat it too soon. That’s something I need to remind myself.
“Rut on the left, moving to the right,” he calls out and moves us closer to the fence that hugs the field.
Anxiety may cascade within me, but it doesn’t stop me.
Even if I haven’t loosened the reins completely, I still proceed.
That is such a huge victory in itself. As we move down the first straight-away of our second lap, I offer just a little bit of slack.
Not much. I still remain close enough to Garrett for his body heat to caress me like soothing kisses against my forehead, a promise that everything will be okay.
“Bend,” he calls out again as we round the track and start our third lap.
The pattern of our path imprints itself into me.
Each turn. Each little dip. Each avoided rut.
My fingers twitch against the rope before I loosen the slack a little more.
Garrett offers two quick tugs of the rope as I increase our distance.
It’s so quick, but those two tugs almost paint his pleased smile that I’m pushing past my own boundaries.
I must trust that Garrett will keep me safe.
Just as he has to trust that I’ll do the same thing.
So often, people assume the human guides are the ones with all the responsibility.
That’s such a short-sighted way of looking at it.
The visually impaired person is just as responsible for their pair’s safety.
This is a relationship where we both need each other in order to make it to the finish line safely.
The more familiar I get with this track, the less holding tight to Garrett I do. By the time we round for the fourth, and final lap, I’ve allowed myself to slacken the rope enough that I no longer feel his body’s heat lapping against me.
“Crossing the finish line, but let’s gradually slow to a walk before we stop,” he calls out.