Page 23 of Loud Unspoken Memories

When I put a pair of his boxer briefs on the line, another tingle shoots through me. Choosing not to ignore the intense feeling this time, I grab a pair of my panties and hang them right next to his boxers so they’re just touching, figuring it’s the closest I’ll ever get to being in his underwear. I back away, admiring the proximity of our respective undies, and laugh at my adolescent antics.

A sound in the distance has my heart beating wildly. This time it has to be him. I dart to the window and peer out, but the falling snow prevents me from seeing beyond his truck.

I hear it again—the distinct sound of a bark.Oh, God. Is it a wolf? Or a coyote?Dowolves and coyotes bark? For a moment, I picture myself stuck inside this cabin, a pack of hungry animals standing guard outside just waiting for their next meal to emerge.

Then I see movement. Dallas comes into view carrying something that looks heavy on his shoulder, and there’s a dog by his side. My chest heaves in deep relief.

I hurry to the door, throwing it open, knowing the smile on my face tells him just how pleased I am that he’s back. But his face doesn’t reflect my bliss. In fact, his expression is sullen and distant as he climbs the stairs to the cabin.

The dog sees me and trots ahead of him. I squat and am rewarded with a cold nose against mine. “Hey, buddy. Were you lost?” I look up at Dallas. “Did you find him in the woods?”

Dallas shakes his head and I just know what he says next isn’t going to be good.

He walks past me, shuts the door, and drops a forty-pound bag of dog food on the floor, stretching his arms out over his head.

I stand upright, stare at the food and look at the dog. “Don’t tell me your neighbor fled from the storm and abandoned his dog. Because I will hunt him down and—”

“He didn’t abandon him.” He pulls out a chair, its legs scraping on the hardwood floor. He rubs a hand across his scruff and sits. “Marti, Abe is dead.”

A hand flies to my mouth. “Oh my god! What happened?”

I don’t know this Abe. Heck, I just found out about him hours ago, but the thought of anyone dying is exponentially sad. The dog stands next to me and nudges my leg. I sink to the floor and pull him into my arms—which isn’t easy to do considering he’s a Husky.

“He likes you,” Dallas says. “His name is Bex.”

“Spelled B-E-X? Or B-E-C-K-S?”

His brows sling low. “What does it matter?”

I shrug. “I just don’t want to get it wrong.”

“Well, I have no idea.”

I look into the dog’s eyes. His big, icy-blue, sad eyes. “I think you’re Bex with an X. It has more character. And I think you have a lot of character.”

“Bex with an X it is,” Dallas says.

“So what happened to Abe?”

“Best as I can tell, heart attack. And I’m pretty sure it instantly killed him. His whittling knife and a piece of wood he was working on were on the ground under the snow, and his glasses were still perched on his nose.”

“Did you try and resuscitate him?” I say, having trouble getting out the words because I know all too well how horrible it is to be the one to find someone, orsomeones, after they have passed.

His face carves into tormented lines. “He’d obviously been there for some time. A snow drift was halfway up his legs. He was basically covered in snow except for—" he stops talking and looks away, emotion having clogged his words.

“Except for what?”

Dallas swallows hard and can barely speak. “There was a melted spot on his thigh in the shape of Bex’s head. The dog must have been sitting there for… I don’t know, days even, just waiting for Abe to wake up.”

Tears spill down my cheeks and I hug Bex tighter. “We have a lot in common, you and me,” I say. I run my hand along his gorgeous dark coat. He leans into me as if he needs someone as much as I do. I rub his white underbelly as I tell Dallas, “I’m the one who found my, um… dad. No one else was home. I did exactly what Bex did. I wrapped myself around my dad and prayed for him to wake up. Even at twelve years old, I knew he wasn’t going to, but I stayed by his side for hours, wishing it to be true anyway.”

He closes his eyes. “Damn. That’s messed up.”

He has no idea just how much. “You’re telling me. It took more than fifteen years of therapy for me to figure my shit out.”

He cocks his head. “So you’re older than twenty-seven? I’d have guessed you’re younger.”

“I’m twenty-four.”

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