Page 63 of The Legend Next Door
It’s no matter. This won’t take long.
“Hey,” he says as I approach. His face is still only partially visible and his hand has curled down around the opening in the fence now. There’s a slight sign of force where his thumb meets his palm so I think he’s applying pressure, leaning on the hole in the fence, using it as something to brace himself against.
It doesn’t bode well.
He pushes himself onto his toes. He must because his face is completely visible now, chin hooked over the fence, and fuck me sideways, he’s beautiful. I’ve berated myself a lot for what happened, but seeing Ben sleepy and a little disheveled lets me know once and for all that I didn’t have a choice. And if I did, it was a choice I made a long time ago. Before I was me. Before I existed. Before I knew things about getting hurt and being rejected.
A choice that went something along the lines ofI’d let that man do anything to me.
“Hey,” I reply, unsure if I want this over and done with as fast as possible or to drag the small talk out to avoid the inevitable for a little while longer.
My knees are unsteady, but I’m upright, and later, I’m going to be super proud of myself for that. I’m going to buy myself a big fucking tub of salted caramel ice cream, and I’m going to eat the entire thing all by myself. I won’t even feel bad about it. Might have two tubs if the first one doesn’t make me feel queasy.
“Sorry about everything, lapse-in-judgment wine big mistake, totally understand how you feel, thank you and goodb—” I say in a single garroted breath.
“Jeremiah.” There’s something in his voice that’s unusual. An irrevocability almost, but not quite. It’s hard to place because I haven’t heard it before. He cracks a small smile. That’s not abnormal. Lots of people smile when they’re delivering bad news. It makes them feel better about ruining someone else’s day. “I couldn’t help noticing you were late with my coffee this morning.”
Ben’s brows raise a fraction, and he looks partially, if not all the way, pleased with himself. That is abnormal. People don’t usually look pleased with themselves when delivering bad news. Unless they’re psychopaths, and Ben’s definitely not a psychopath. A lazy swirl of confusion begins to wind itself up my legs.
“So I thought I’d come over to tell you that if you see me out with other people, be sure to come say hello, okay?”
It takes me the longest long time to work out what he’s saying. Seriously, I get stuck on the coffee issue, the lack thereof, and feel incredibly guilty about not taking it to him. Next, I detour to thoughts of his mug and how I should give it to him because I know he likes it a lot, and I’ll never be able to face using it or touching it if I’m out of touch with Ben. Finally, I circle back to what he said.
If you see me out…
…with other people…
…be sure to come and…say hello…
Say hello
Say hello
If you see me out with other people, be sure to come and say hello.
My eyes fill with tears when what he’s saying dawns on me. They’re big tears, and they’re hot. So runny and salty, they turn the trees and sky around Ben’s head into a haze of blue and green. They’re my tears, but they’re not just my tears. They’re the tears of men like me. They’re the tears of men who’ve loved men through the ages and been treated badly for it. They’re the tears of my younger self. The tears of every version of me that’s ever been hurt or felt used or cast aside. But most of all, they’re tears of joy.
I turn on my heel and bolt toward my house, wiping them off as I go. I run powerfully. Long strides, arms pumping in smooth, wide arcs. It’s not my usual gait. It’s the gait of a man with the ability and inclination to run a marathon and call it fun. A man nothing like me, in other words.
“What are you doing?” cries Ben.
“Coffee!” I yell over my shoulder.
By the time I come out of my house armed with two steaming mugs of coffee, Ben is at the gate at the end of the path, waiting for me on the curb. I trot briskly to him. I’d love it if I could play it cool, but I think we all know how far out of the realm of possibility that is.
Ben opens my gate, takes his mug from me, and leads the way to his porch.
I’m aware that I’m smiling like the biggest idiot on the planet, but guess what? I don’t care. I don’t give a shit, not a quarter of a shit, not even a tenth of a shit, because I’m not the only one smiling. Ben’s smiling too.
His hair is rumpled, still damp from his shower, and he’s wearing a white linen shirt instead of his usual polo or T-shirt. He’s rolled it up to his elbows, and damn. Those arms. Those hands. Those veins running down those arms and hands. I want to memorize every single one of them. Every. Single. One.
It’s a lot.
When I’m able to meet his gaze, the same thing that happened the first day I met him, and the second, and every day after, happens again. Bone fractures. Brain matter fries.
I have coffee in my mouth and no clear notion of how to make it go down.
Ben seems to have no such problem. He takes regular sips and swallows without incident, though each time he raises his mug to his lips, I notice he holds it there for a second longer than he needs to in an effort to hide his grin.
