Page 28 of The Legend Next Door
Thebuzzofanincoming text wakes me, vibrating near me and rattling the contents of my skull. I feel around on my bedside table, eyes screwed shut against the evil otherwise known as daylight. When I accept defeat, I open them a crack and eventually find my phone in bed with me, along with a crumpled lined page with dots and arrows drawn in blue and red markers.
I sit up and smooth the page out. It has things likeoffsideandonsidewritten in large, untidy handwriting. Ben’s large, untidy handwriting. I smile at it for a while, then fold it in half and put it in my top drawer.
I remember I have a message waiting, so I plug my phone in to charge, and open my WhatsApp. My heart leaps when I see Ben’s name on my screen.
I feel rough
Oh! It’s the first message I’ve ever gotten from him, and I can hardly believe how adorable it is. He feels rough? He feels rough, and he’s messaging me about it. I’m so happy right now.
I take a screenshot to send to Ness and then remember things like privacy and discretion and decide against it. I’m sure Ben wouldn’t want me sharing our personal correspondence with others.
I feel rough too
Too many words and maybe a bitPick Me. No. Delete.
Same.
No. Too few words.
Me too.
Perfect. I read what I’ve written back twice to check for typos and inappropriateness and hit send when I find none. He replies right away.
Worth it though.
I had a good time.
I manage not to squeal, but not by a lot.
Me too
Nope. Said that already. Delete.
Same.
Okay, that’s me done with being restrained. The man knows me. He’ll think it’s weird if I keep being appropriate.
FYI, I’m putting an extra shot in your coffee this morning
Thanks. I need it.
I fire off another message to the owner of the yoga studio. I’m calling in sick today. There’s no way I can teach yoga in this state. If I attempt downward dog right now, there’s no telling what could happen. And yes, I’m aware that what I’m doing is the exact opposite of the phasing-out plan I made a few days ago, but so what. A man can change his mind, and this isn’t even a real change of mind. It’s more like a little detour. A little blip. I’ll be back on the sensible wagon tomorrow.
Though I’m sorely tempted to make Ben’s coffee immediately and dash next door in my shorts, I opt for a nice shower and a change of clothes instead. I think it’s an encouraging sign that the sensible wagon isn’t completely out of reach for me.
After seven quick changes of T-shirt, I head out wearing a pair of jeans that hug my ass in a way I know affects gay men positively and a plain white T-shirt that has never been known to offend straight men. It’s called balance.
I pair it with oversized sunglasses.
When I get next door, I find Ben on the porch, on the swing, waiting for me. Either that, or he’s simply inhabiting the property he legally owns.
“Jeremiah,” he croaks, dragging my name out. He holds out his hand toward me and grasps at nothing until I place his mug in his hand. “Thank you.”
Gratitude rolls through his voice. It has the same effect on me as it did last night when he thanked me for coming over. It coats my skin, warming it and slithering all over me until it finds the tiny cracks and crevices that lead straight to my bloodstream. My entire body warms.
“The tequila was a mistake,” says Ben.
“Oh, yes,” I agree heartily. “A big mistake.” A mistake I’d make over again in a heartbeat because of how Ben looked when he poured it. Mischievous. Younger than his years, not older. Silver-blue alight and sparkling with the promise of fun.
