Page 15 of The Legend Next Door
“So, can I get your number?” It seemed like a normal thing to say in my head, but aloud, it feels like it comes out of nowhere, so I tack on, “I-I’m not hitting on you or anything.” This time, Ben does look bewildered. It’s just a flicker, and he manages to tamp it down quickly, but it’s there. To set him at ease, I clarify, “For the curtains.” As I say it, my commitment to this brand-new project becomes unshakable, growing exponentially with each word that leaves my mouth. “I know a lot of people in Seattle and, and my aunt works with designers. They’lldefinitelybe able to recommend someone. Leave it with me. I’ll call around and see who does residential, and mark my words, I’ll find the best curtain person in the city for you.”
That’s right. I will. I’ll help Ben with this if it’s the last thing I ever do. I don’t care if I have to ingest a hundred silkworms and shit out yards and yards of silk thread myself. There’s no way on Earth I’m letting this beautiful man in his beautiful shorts experience curtain panic again. No. Not on my watch.
Getting his number is a slightly more complicated process than it needs to be because I hand him one mug to hold while I get my phone out of my pocket, and then realize I’ll probably type better if I have both hands on my phone, so I hand him the other mug as well. As I do it, I realize I should have just given him my number and gotten him to missed-call me because his hands were free. It would’ve saved us both a world of trouble.
I’m feeling heavily scrutinized as I type in his name and become momentarily unable to remember if you spell Stirling with anIRor anER.
A big part of me wishes I’d never started this project. The rest of me wishes I was at home with a book.
Ben takes pity on me. He must because he says, “Wanna hear something even more stupid than the curtain thing?”
“Yes, please,” I say gratefully.
“I’ve got to warn you, it’s really, really stupid.”
I’m feeling so buoyed I chirp, “Oh, I have a huge penchant for stupid things, and…”
Fortunately, he cuts me off there.
“I still train like I play hockey.” I understand the gravity of what he’s saying immediately. The magnitude and the loss form a vast pool around him. My hand drops to my sides as I search his eyes. The pain I find there is hard to describe. “I train like I’ve been benched for a while, you know, like I’ve been out with an injury, and I’m waiting on a call giving me the green light to come back.”
“That’s not stupid, Ben.”
He smiles, but he doesn’t believe me. “I loved three things. Liz, Luca, and—”
“—and hockey.”
“And hockey.”
He doesn’t need to explain that he lost two things when Liz died, and he doesn’t need to explain that as he wrestles with the grief of losing his wife, he’s mourning the loss of the game as well. He doesn’t need to explain because the pain is written all over his face.
“I understand, Ben,” I say quietly. He does the same thing he did earlier, balls up his fist and presses it to his mouth. This time, he doesn’t look away as he nods. His sorrow and vulnerability are limitless. Huge, vast things that stretch out behind him like gnarled dark wings. “You’re not alone.” He nods again but without conviction. “It might feel like you are, but you aren’t. There are major hockey fans all around you.” He cracks the tiniest of smiles. I click on his number and place a call, hanging up when his phone vibrates in his pocket. “You have my number now, so you can call me if you need anything. I mean it. Anything.”
“Even stupid things?”
“Especially stupid things.”
10
Ben Stirling
I’ve drawn approximately five hundred and eighty-six yards of fabric, and I still have one window to go. The last one. The one near my bed.
Jeremiah’s house is lit up again like it was last night. He’s not on the sofa tonight. At least, not anymore. He was there for a while, then hopped up like he’d forgotten to do something. He disappeared through a doorway off his bedroom—a bathroom and dressing room, maybe?
When he returns to view, he’s changed out of the clothes he was wearing and into a sporty-looking ensemble. It’s the kind of thing you expect to see on people who shop at Lululemon or places like that. He’s wearing pants and a crop top. Tight pants. Leggings or yoga pants, I think you’d call them. They’re midnight blue and purple with swirls reminiscent of the Andromeda galaxy. They cover his legs to one, maybe two inches above his ankle. His feet are bare. His tank is black, snug, and cropped to show a thick band of his midriff, and he has a yoga mat under his arm.
He slides open the glass doors and rolls the yoga mat out under the covered area near his pottery wheel. His back is toward me, shoulders down and loose, and he starts with gentle stretches of his neck, slowly working his way down his body.
There’s something peaceful about watching the way he moves.
There’s something peaceful about him too.
I’m not sure I really understood the phrase “holding space” before today. I’ve heard it mentioned, but I’ve never really given much thought to what it means. I’m pretty sure that’s what happened, that that’s what he did for me today. I told him ridiculous things about being afraid of curtains and life without Liz, and he held space for me. That’s exactly what it felt like, like there was a space around us and he held it for me. In his arms and his hands. Like he pried something open. Something rusty and old, holding it ajar until a little light and fresh air had been let in.
I’m not sure exactly how he did it or why, but it was the most comforted I’ve felt since the day Liz died.
He moves through poses with well-practiced ease. The poses start off fairly simple but quickly get complicated. Very complicated. He does a perfect headstand, with his toes pointed, body stiff as a board, and holds it for so long I start wondering if he’s lost consciousness, but then he moves into a position that involves lying on his belly and pressing himself up with his arms, bowing his body back in what I can only assume is an attempt to see how far he can bend his spine backward without snapping it. From there, he moves effortlessly into a position that, honest to God, does look like he’s making himself into a pretzel.
