Page 27 of The Legend Next Door
We both drink.
It quickly devolves into a complex drinking game. The rules are convoluted, but if you focus and follow them to the letter, it makes for a really good time. Jeremiah drinks whenever he gets a player’s name wrong. I drink whenever I laugh. We both drink when a player from either team touches the puck.
To add to the intricacy of what’s happening on and off screen, I pelt him with questions about hockey. “Okay, I’ve got one.” I’m talking a little louder than usual and my voice sounds different. Deeper. Like I’ve been drinking honey, not wine. “The offside rule.”
“Never heard of her,” says Jeremiah.
“Drink!”
“I’m kidding. Of course I know about the offside rule. You’re making it so easy for me.”
“You haven’t answered.”
“Okay, so it’s when one team has consistentlyhad the puck.” He breaks the word into distinct, clunky syllables to show the strength of his disapproval. “It’s when they just keep trying and trying to score a goal, and it’s not fair because the other team hasn’t had a turn. And that’s just wrong. It’soffsideto be selfish like that.” A rough snort leaves me through my nose as I try not to laugh. I look at him in amazement. “That’s it, isn’t it? No? Are you sure? Am I at least close?”
“Not even a little bit.” I laugh and the buzzer sounds, signaling the end of the first period. The players skate off and no one touches the puck.
We both drink.
When the game resumes, I find myself pouring tequila and rambling about curtains. Jeremiah talks at length about what an awful mope Marcus has been lately. We have completely independent conversations with each other, but somehow, it all makes a lot of sense.
At a certain point, I say, “You’re right, and Marcus is wrong,” with an extreme amount of conviction, and Jeremiah says, “Let’s go to your room and sort out these goddamn curtains once and for all.”
It’s a phenomenal idea. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself. Of course I need his advice. Of course I haven’t been able to explain the horror of my curtain situation without showing him. Some things have to be seen to be believed.
We bump our way up the stairs. I lead, and he follows. When I get to the landing, I stop, clench a fist, and hold it up like a Marine on a mission. He freezes instantly and then answers with a hard-to-decipher signal I interpret as: proceed with caution. We tiptoe down the hall like complete fucking idiots, holding on to the wall and each other lest we make the slightest sound that could wake Luca.
When we get to my room, Jeremiah closes my door and flops back against it. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he exclaims. “You said it was bad, but I hadnoidea it was this bad. You didn’t say anything about the color. Or the fact that there’s so much pattern. Are those stripes, florals,andstars?”
“’S pretty bad,” I slur.
“You can’t live like this.” His mouth is ajar from shock and his eyes are so overcome with emotion that the cerulean sky looks misty. “You can’t do it. No one should have to, but you not especially. I mean, especially not you.” He scrapes himself off the door, recovering quickly and marching around the room with a businesslike stride. “This has to go…and this has to go…and this too—whatever it is.” As he works his way around the room, I feel a mild sense of trepidation. An unease that’s distant but making itself known. “I think it’s called a pelmet…or a swag, or something like that. Doesn’t matter though. Has to go.” He spins around suddenly, stopping unsteadily and facing me. “You know what you need?”
I wave expansively around the room. “All thish to go?”
“Yes,” he says decisively. “You need that. And then you need electric blackout blinds everywhere. You can have a decorative curtain framing the window. Something soft and paired back to give the room a little warmth, but you need blinds that you can open and close at the touch of a button. You can’t be opening and closing all this every day. It will age you prematurely. You could put one switch at the door, and another one here, next to your be… Holy shit, my bookshelves looksogood from here! Look. Aw, aren’t my books gorgeous?”
“Mm, gorgeous,” I say.
“My house looks like a shiny tube of glitter, doesn’t it?”
“Mm, tube of glitter,” I say.
“A tube of glitter with a fairy light stuck up its ass.”
A long while later, the game is over, tequila has been liberally consumed, and we’ve solved several serious global crises that have plagued humanity for centuries.
I see Jeremiah out, standing on the porch and watching as he leaves. He latches the gate behind him without his usual well-practiced ease and turns, giving me a wave that’s half-shoulder shrug, half-wave. He walks the short distance from my gate to the side gate that leads to his cottage. As he goes, I feel an almost overwhelming urge to yell, “Jeremiah, I like you more than pistachio ice cream.”
Fortunately, I manage not to. Instead, I say, “Jeremiah,” and wait until he stops moving and looks at me. His face is honest, open, and sweet. His eyes are so hopeful that I feel it in my belly. “Grateful isn’t the word.”
He shrugs again, less coordinated than last time, and this time, he adds a salute that he punctuates with a wink. “Anytime, Captain.”
As he disappears from view, he stubs his foot on something. He must because I hear him muttering, “Jesus fucking Christ,” in a pained way.
18
Jeremiah Blake
