"Where about is your house?"
"Do you know where Parka Street is?"
He types the street onto the display screen between us. "The GPS will," he says, smirking.
"House number twenty-four.”
Without much conversing, we pull out of the parking lot, but the longer we’re driving, the more questions continue to percolate. "I find it odd we were on the same flight the other day. Why were you in South Carolina?”
He chuckles as if he knows something I don’t. "I don’t know if it’s as odd as it seems. I was at an exhibition for my dad’s business, but he called and told me I needed to leave a day early and get on a flight the next morning to head back because your dad needed help in the shop. That’s when I found out what was going on."
I guess our situation a little less of a happenstance now, but the odds of being next each other—was a weird coincidence no matter how he wants to spin this. "There was only one flight going out of Charleston to Burlington that day."
"Yeah, I was thankful for the one available flight. I didn’t find out what was going on until the night before, as well,” I tell him. "My dad doesn’t like to make anyone worry unless it’s necessary."
"I can understand," Brett says. "I didn’t know his daughter—you—had moved out of Vermont, so I didn’t think it could be you sitting next to me, or the reason you looked familiar."
"Makes sense," I say, turning my head to stare out the dark window.
"Life is full of surprises, but I guess that’s what keeps the days interesting, right?"
"Some surprises," I correct him. "Some, I could do without."
A minute of silence passes, but I hear a few sighs, and Brett clears his throat twice.It’s obvious he has something to say.
"Do you remember making barrel forts in the back room when we were younger?"
The question shocks me because of his assumed memory issues. Those days feel foggy to me because I’m a couple years younger, but I somewhat recall he and Journey stirring up the trouble I followed along with.
"I think we got in trouble that day.” I know we got in trouble that day.
"Journey and I did, but you were too young to take the blame for lifting empty barrels," he says, laughing at the recollection.
"You have a good memory, I guess.” I keep my focus out the window and away from whatever look he might have on his face.
“I like to think so.” The urge to scoff at his remark is strong. The GPS tells him to turn and he does. He pulls into my parents’ driveway and puts his truck into park. I don’t bother to wait to see what he’s doing to and hope he gets the hint I don’t need his help. I hear a second door slam, continuing my nightmare.
“What kind of dog do you have?”
“A wild killer beast. He attacks people he doesn’t like.”
“Wild killer beasts are my favorite,” he says without skipping a beat.
I unlock the front door and step inside to mywild killer beastwhose paws are on my shoulders, and tongue is lapping up the side of my face. "Benji, get down," I scold.
It takes Benji less than a second after he drops back down to all fours for him to realize there is someone else with me. Someone he doesn’t know. I wish I had one of those protective dogs who might growl a little to show Brett who’s the boss, but no. Benji is a lover. My sixty-pound dog has his paws on Brett’s chest and his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth. "Is he a husky?" Brett asks.
"I told you, he’s a killer beast."
"You are definitely a husky," Brett says to him. "Look at those miss-matched eyes, a blue and a brown. My brother, Brody, had an Aussie-husky mix, and the same kind of eyes. He was the friendliest dog."
"Was?" I ask, grabbing Benji’s leash from the coat hook.
"His ex-wife took the dog and left the kid. Totally normal, right?"
"You’re both single dads?"
"Not by choice, but yeah—life happens. The girls are only a few years apart, so we keep them together as much as possible."
