Page 70 of The Legend Next Door
“Was that okay for you?” he asks. “The wholetouching a dick that isn’t yoursthing?”
“It was good,” I say. “Really good.” I mean to stop there, but the truth comes tumbling out of me. “I…I didn’t know how I’d feel about it. I wanted it in an abstract way beforehand. A curious, questioning kind of way where I really wasn’t sure what it was going to be like in reality. I thought it would feel really new, and it did, but it also…didn’t. I thought I’d like it because I like you. And I did. I liked it because I like you and want to make you feel good, but I liked it more than that. I liked it for me too.”
He hums and squirms in my arms, dropping his head and resting his forehead against my lips for a long while. “Damn, Captain,” he whispers, head still bowed. “You’re good.”
I slide my hand down his back, down the arch, up the swell of his ass, and swat him playfully, just hard enough to make him look up.
“You know exactly what you’re doing with that Captain shit, don’t you?”
His eyes widen in a picture of faux innocence, and then he kisses me softly, stamping his lips lightly against mine a few times before doing it harder. Longer. Our tongues dance together, and whatever it is that makes us two separate people begins to disintegrate. It’s the Sunday morning of kisses. A sunny Sunday. Warm but not hot. A sunny Sunday morning where the day stretches out ahead of you, and you have no plans to leave home.
By the time it ends, I can’t tell up from down and I have no idea what day of the week it is.
Jeremiah’s expression is on the cusp again. This time, it’s on the cusp of something big and serious. I feel the shift before he speaks. “How do you feel about the fact that you’ve been with someone who isn’t Liz?”
The question hangs in the air, heavy and weighted. It hurts, but I like it. Need it. Jeremiah rests his head on my chest, crown near my chin, and lets me feel what I need to without making me look at him.
Eventually, I say, “I thought I’d feel like I was cheating. That’s how I felt whenever I thought about doing things with women who weren’t her. Bad. Wrong.” I tighten my grip on him and raise my head so my nose is buried in curls and the scent of his hair envelops me. “It didn’t feel like that,” I whisper. “It didn’t feel anything like that.”
Neither of us moves for a long time. We don’t talk either, but I feel heard. I’m grateful he can hear me without talking because I don’t know how to put this emotion into words. I’m not sure there are words for it.
I’ve been angry for so long. I was angry about lots of things. About Luca growing up without a mother. About me growing old on my own. Angry that Liz died young. Angry that a world exists without her. Most of all, I was angry that, for me, the world stopped turning, but for everyone else, life went on.
Life went on.
Games were played, lost, and won. Groceries were delivered and meals were made. Laundry was washed, dried, and folded. The sun set and rose again.
The world kept turning, but I was frozen.
I love Liz, and of course, I still miss her. That hasn’t changed, and I doubt it ever will, but for the first time since she died, there’s a creak in my bones, a sideways tilt, a pause and a lurch.
It’s slight. Barely there. Blink and you’ll miss it.
It’s so subtle most people wouldn’t feel it. The only reason I do is because it’s been so long since it last happened. I hold on to Jeremiah as tightly as possible and close my eyes to fight the vertigo that accompanies movement after a long time of standing still.
There’s a deep, dull clank as a lever shifts. I cling to him, grateful and happy and sad and ready, yes, ready, for the second the earth beneath me slots into its axis and slowly begins to rotate once more.
36
Ben Stirling
Ifeelbruisedbutbetter by the time Jeremiah is ready to leave. Lighter and clearer in my own mind. He skips down the stairs, stopping on the last one to wave at me. Again. He waved on the porch too. And on the first step.
I try not to smile too big about it.
I fail there.
He gets to the gate only for his exit to be thwarted by the latch. Instead of turning it left to release it, he turns it right. Moonlight hits the top of his head and icy-blue mercury spills down one side of his body.
The sight of him with his back turned to me, the sight of him leaving, suddenly seems wrong. Very wrong. Panic comes out of nowhere and tightens my chest.
What if he couldn’t hear the things I didn’t say aloud? What if I only think he can hear them?
I take the stairs three at a time and fly toward him, crashing into him hard enough to knock a soft, surprised squawk out of him. I wind my arms around him so tightly I feel his rib cage adjusting.
“Thank you,” I say, nestling my face into the place where his neck and shoulder meet. “Thank you for saying her name. Thank you for making it so I can talk to you about her and feel like it’s okay for me to do it. Thank you for asking if I’m okay and for knowing I might not be. Thank you for spending the day with me and helping me hang up the paintings. Thank you for letting me play with your dick, and thank you for being gentle with me. Thank you…just thank you.”
He raises an arm and curls his hand around my neck, turning his head to try to look up at me. He can’t because of how I’m holding him, but I can’t loosen my grip on him or let go of him just yet. I don’t want to. I kiss his cheek lightly. Once, twice, three times, until it creases against my lips.
