I thought about Benji.
I don’t know why. Maybe because I was on my way to take care of someone else’s dog. Benji had been a squat beagle mix with short legs and a loud opinion about everything. We got him when I was little and when my parents divorced, he became one more thing my mom was expected to take care of.
So I did it instead. Fed him. Walked him. Cleaned up after him. Slept with him curled against my feet.
Avery was already wrapped up in hockey by then—early morning practices and weekend tournaments and summer training camps that ate up every school break. He couldn’t walk Benji because he had dryland at six. Couldn’t feed him because he was at a showcase in Detroit. Couldn’t take him to the vet because there was a scouts’ game in Buffalo and Dad was already loading the car. The whole family rotated around Avery’s schedule, his trajectory, his future.
I didn’t mind taking care of Benji. He was mine in all the ways that mattered.
He died when I was fifteen. Cancer. We found out and put him down the same week. No time to adjust to the idea before it was done.
The sting of tears hit the back of my eyes on a packed train over a dog that had been dead for six years.
Embarrassing.
The train slowed into the next stop. I stood, hoisted my bag, and let the crowd carry me onto the platform before I could really embarrass myself.
Walking out of the air conditioned train car and into the stifling heat was like being hit in the face with a hot, wet towel. The humidity was extraordinary. Despite it, I had on a long sleeved white t-shirt and baggy cargo pants, my skate bag hefted across my chest as I made the short walk to Derek’s building.
Aspen heard the key in the lock before I’d even finished turning it. The whining started immediately—urgent, delighted, the full body anticipation of a dog who treated every return as a rescue.
I dropped my bags by the front door and went to let him out of the crate. He launched himself at me with the enthusiasm of someone who had been waiting specifically for me and no one else would have done.
He licked my face thoroughly and without apology.
“Do you want to go for a walk?”
Could dogs grin? Because the look he gave me before bounding toward the front door suggested strongly that yes, they could. His leather leash with the poop bag dispenser was looped around a row of hooks near the door. Next to it hung a black and teal Frost hat—Derek’s, obviously, probably left there for the sole purpose of taking Aspen in and out.
I had forgotten a hat. It was aggressively hot outside. I yanked it on without overthinking it.
I double checked my pockets for keys and headed back out into the heat with Aspen trotting beside me. He walked with authority, like a dog on a mission. I let him lead. We circled the block and he conducted an extremely thorough olfactory investigation of several points of interest without producing any results.
I snapped a photo of him mid-stride, ears flopping, looking very serious about the business of walking.
Made it to your place. He’s doing great.
The response came back faster than I expected—a heart on the photo, and then:Thank you. I’m glad he’s in good hands.
He’s easy to take care of.
I pocketed my phone and let Aspen drag me toward whatever had caught his attention next.
???
Derek had told me I could sleep in his bedroom while he was on the road trip.
I took the couch.
The couch was fine, firm but workable. Something in me balked at taking his bed. It wasn’t about comfort. It was about boundaries. He’d handed me a key, left me alone in his place, trusted me with Aspen. The bedroom felt too… personal. Like more than I’d earned.
He’d had enough people take what they wanted from him. I wasn’t going to be another one.
Still, I noticed things I couldn’t help noticing. The way his kitchen was organized with the particular tidiness of someone who was a touch neurotic. A Traverse City postcard pinned to the fridge with a magnet. Physical therapy resistance bands coiled on the shelf by the door next to his gym bag, as routine as car keys.
Aspen took me outside two more times before noon, nudging the rope of bells with his nose. I was fairly certain he had trained Derek to take him outside as often as he liked and was now running the same experiment on me. Twice he circled the block in apparent seriousness and did absolutely nothing. I walked him anyway. The heat was brutal but the fresh air was worth it, even when it plastered my hair to the back of my neck and my shirt to my chest.
I checked out the gym on the fifth floor. It faced a communal outdoor space—a large pool catching the summer light, a hot tub beside it, cushioned lounge chairs. The gym itself was empty, the particular quiet of a space usually full of people who were currently at work.
