Page 9 of The Legend Next Door
Actually, I’m not sure cottage is the right term for it, really. There’s nothing cottagey about it. It’s an obvious add-on. New and modern and in stark contrast with the Colonial Revival style of the main house. It’s reminiscent of Barcelona House. A flat roof appears to float on vast panes of glass. The roof has a deep overhang that creates a covered outdoor space that houses a pottery wheel and low shelves crammed with vessels in progress. Inside, the kitchen is sleek, counters uncluttered. A suspended wall of books separates the kitchen from the living room and another divides the living room from the bedroom.
Lucky bastard. I bet his floors don’t creak or scratch at the drop of a hat.
He’s on his sofa, bare feet on the floor, face blue from the flickering light of the TV. He’s wearing soft pants and the same T-shirt he wore earlier when he came over. A cream one with a red stripe on the hem of each sleeve and tiny bobbles on the fabric where it stretches across his chest.
In addition to the light from the TV, LED lighting strips have been installed at the top and bottom of the bookshelves and behind the headboard in his bedroom. A mishmash of vivid pinks, purples, and blues that glow in a way that reminds me of Christmas when I was a kid. Christmas before everyone decided to skip multicolored lights in favor of tasteful, warm white. Christmas when Christmas was fun and making it magic was someone else’s problem.
He gets up and pads to the kitchen. He flicks the kettle on and waits for it to boil, hip cocked, one leg bent at the knee, phone held to one ear. Now and again, he pins the phone in place with his shoulder and uses both hands to gesticulate as he talks.
He smiles the whole time.
When the kettle boils, he hangs up and takes his time deciding which mug he wants, lightly touching this one and then that before opting for a white one with an outline of a bird painted on the side. He dunks a tea bag into the mug and adds a spoonful of honey and a squeeze of lemon. A tendril of steam rises from the mug and curls in a slow, swooping circle above it.
I can see it from here.
With the expanse of glass in his cottage, he’s very exposed, and if he’s not already aware of it, he should be. I’ll tell him the next time I see him.
7
DearLiz,
Ifyoucouldlet me know who you used to contact about things like custom drapes, that’d be great. Really great.
I love you and I miss you.
Love,
Ben
PS You made everything look easy. But it isn’t. It’s all fucking hard.
8
Ben Stirling
It’sabrightandcheery morning, and Luca has woken in a bright and cheery mood.
“I’m telling you, Dad, it’s a pancakes kind of a day today.”
“Sundays are pancake days, sweetheart.MaybeSaturdays. It’s only Wednesday today.”
“Mm.” He scrunches his face. “Feels like Saturday though.”
He’s not wrong. With the move and the fact that I pulled him out of school a few weeks before the end of term, the days of the week have rolled into one. I had to check the calendar on my phone yesterday to see what day it was before I called Amy to see if she could take Luca today. And good thing I did too. I was off by three days. It would’ve been hard to explain if I’d asked her to take Luca for a playdate this morning because her kids still have a couple of weeks before their summer vacation starts. Anyway, she’s taking him for a few hours this afternoon instead, and thank God for that because I need to hit the gym. I haven’t worked out as much as usual since we got here, and I’m feeling it. I need to get my sweat on. I have pent-up energy making an ass of itself all over my body.
I didn’t sleep well. I had that dream again. The one where I’m in the locker room getting ready to play. All the guys are there. T-Dog and Sev are bickering, and Louis and Bryce are laughing. Everyone’s there, all doing what they do to get ready for the game. It’s one of those dreams that feels really real. So real you feel like it’s actually happening. Like that dream you had when you were a kid, where you were busting to pee, so you’d get out of bed, walk down the hall, open the bathroom door, pull down your pants, and sit on the toilet.
It’s exactly like that. It’s so real there’s no way I can tell it’s a dream. I see everything and everyone like I’m still there, part of the team before anything bad happened. I smell the sweat and laughter and inside jokes that have soaked into the bench I’m sitting on. I hear the crowd baying to draw us out. My skin tingles from the quiet, cool whisper of the ice calling my name.
Like the dream we all had when we were kids, this one ends badly. I’m in the tunnel, blade covers off, ready to go on. I have my team lined up behind me. The light crash of helmets tapped against mine and the ghosts of hands clapping me on the back still echo through me. I have my stick in my hand and my game face on. I put my right skate to the ice and push off.
And nothing.
No glide.
No icy blast.
No lines. No nets.
