Page 53 of The Legend Next Door
He drops his hand quickly, swiping the back lightly across his forehead, worrying his bottom lip with his pointer and thumb before pressing it into his mouth and gnawing at it. An incisor glints as he releases it.
His lips are parted and pink.
Soft pink.
Pale pink.
The bottom one is wet, glittering where the moonlight hits it. It’s plump and lush, so full that there’s a slight dip in the middle. A dent. A little crease carved into his flesh by the sound of his laughter.
It takes me several seconds to register what I’m looking at. Where else I’ve seen that mouth, those lips. When I do, I step back as hard and fast as I would have if I’d been pushed.
30
Ben Stirling
IpackedLucaoffaround four this afternoon with a backpack, a big bag of treats, a bunch of flowers for his grandma, and a massive smile on his face. Amy, Rory, and Cam were all suitably impressed by the news of his wiggly tooth. He told them about it before Amy’s car had come to a full stop. Cam was quick to share tips on how to twist it to get it to fall out sooner, and Rory was so envious he couldn’t hide it. Luca was in seventh heaven.
I dropped the kids off at Ellen's and Jeff’s this afternoon. Amy is going to pick them up on Sunday morning.
I’ve been at a bit of a loose end since he left. I told Jeremiah to come over after eight. Not sure why. He’s home now, and so am I. There’s no real reason to wait, but here we are. The plan has been made, and it’s too late to change it.
I’ve been killing time by carting Luca’s toys out of the living room and into the playroom. It’s an endless procession. From a logistical point of view, I can’t help finding it kind of impressive that someone that small is able to move this much stuff in a day.
When I’m done tidying, I put out some snacks for tonight. Chips and queso go in the blue pottery bowl Liz bought at a farmers’ market years back, and a selection of cheese and crackers goes on a rustic wooden board I have no memory of either of us buying. I put out some roast nuts as well. Salted and plain. For good measure, I bake a batch of sausage rolls and cheese balls. I have plenty of time on my hands, so I whip up some guac and salsa and put that out too. Out of pure habit, I cut up some celery and apple slices and arrange them around a large dollop of peanut butter.
When the doorbell rings at last, I open the door to find Jeremiah on my doorstep wearing a big shithead grin and the Tampa Bay Blackeyes cap. It’s pulled down low, black with orange and yellow trim, and a flaming B embroidered on the middle of the front panel.
“Thought you said you wanted a Vipers cap,” I tease, reaching up and tapping the visor of his cap so it dips to cover his eyes. “Thought you said it would match with a bunch of your tops and wasn’t at all tacky.”
“I changed my mind”—he smirks from under the bill—“had to ’cause this one has aBon it.” He takes the cap off and holds it in both hands, turning it slowly and showing me the logo like I haven’t seen it a million times before. His grin changes. Shithead to something unnamed in two seconds flat. He’s still looking down, the apples of his cheeks bunched high from the way he’s smiling. “B for Ben Stirling,” he says with a throaty laugh.
I laugh too. The same way he does, but lower.
He turns the cap over in his hands, picking at a seam to remove a speck of lint before putting it back on his head. He hits me with a look that makes my breath catch in my throat and swipes at the cap hard enough to spin the bill to the back. A tuft of dark curls finds the gap, peeking out of the little window above the backstrap and spilling onto his forehead.
It gives me pause. He looks different like this. With the cap on backward, most of his hair is out of his face and his features are on display. More on display than they usually are. His cheekbones are pronounced. His jawline is sharp. His eyes are big and blindingly blue and the dip in his bottom lip is more obvious than usual.
I lean against the doorframe for balance and say, “Fuckboy,” very, very quietly.
The word lands and settles heavily in the space between us. Jeremiah reaches over it and hands me a bottle of red. For his part, he seems happy to pretend that it didn’t happen.
That he didn’t flirt with me.
And that I didn’t flirt back.
“Wow,” he says when we get to the kitchen.
It’s clear to me now that I’ve over-catered. The island is groaning with enough food to feed a hockey team. Not only that, almost everything I’ve laid out contains a copious amount of cheese.
I decide to sidestep the catering fiasco by uncorking the wine. As I pour a healthy glass for each of us, I wonder, not for the first time today, what the hell is going on with me.
I’m not myself.
Maybe I should start with beer and perhaps even stick with it all night. Wine has a way of going to my head.
I ignore my intuition and raise my glass to Jeremiah. He does the same. He looks at me over the rim, soft, fleshy lips distorted by the curve of the glass. His eyes dance a mischievous jig that makes him look pretty and impossibly boyish.
I take a large sip and swallow it quickly.
