Page 3 of The Legend Next Door
The pain is acute.
The salt burns all the places in me that haven’t turned to stone yet.
I wait until I’m positive that tonight isn’t the night the dam wall breaks, then I turn off the lights, make sure the doors are locked, and go to bed.
3
DearLiz,
I’mthinkingofripping the kitchen tile out. Thought you should know.
I love you and I miss you, and I’m not happy.
Love,
Ben
4
Ben Stirling
I’montheswingon the front porch when I see him approaching. The fence between our properties steps down to five feet and then four when it gets to the street. I see his hair first, a mop of glossy dark curls that bounce when he walks. I consider ducking into the house, but he calls a cheery, “Hey, neighbor,” which puts an end to that.
It’s fine. I’ve been meaning to go over and introduce myself for the past few days.
He struggles briefly with the latch of his gate, stopping and setting something down before kicking it open, slipping through it, and letting it slam shut behind him.
We have a picket fence with an arch. It’s picture-perfect white timber with soft yellow climbing roses trailing over it. There are a ton of tiny buds visible, but they haven’t gone into bloom yet. He stands under the arch and smiles like someone who's normal. Someone who likes people and spring and putting names to faces, or at least putting faces to voices previously only heard through two holes cut into a fence.
“Jelly!” cries Luca, running down the path and opening the gate. I get to my feet and make my way to the steps.
Jeremiah has two coffee mugs, one in each hand. He gives me one, and then we’re left doing an awkward this-hand-no-that-hand handshake that requires us to move our drinks from our right hands to our left before we’re able to make contact.
His handshake is soft and firm at the same time and unnaturally warm from holding the hot drinks. It heats my palm in a way that makes me realize I was chilly on the swing before he got here.
“You must be the famous Jeremiah,” I say when I remember that talking is something people typically do when they meet each other for the first time.
“You must be Luca’s dad,” he says.
I raise my free hand and turn my mouth into the best guilty-as-charged look I can muster. “Yep. That’s right. People who don’t call me Daddy, call me Ben.”
Wait. What?
Is it me, or did that sound dirty?
Because that’s not what I meant at all.
His head dips, forcing him to look at me through thick dark lashes. I can’t tell if his cheeks have pinkened from what I said or if he’s had too much sun.
“Ben Stirling,” I clarify, lowering my voice considerably and bobbing my head to assure him I’m a respectable member of society.
Without meaning to, I give him the usual once-over. The quick left-right that allows me to search his eyes for signs he recognizes me.
I don’t find any.
He has no idea who I am, and for once, I’m not sure if I like it or not. I used to hate being recognized, especially when I was somewhere I had a right to expect privacy. Somewhere like my own front yard. It made me uncomfortably aware of myself, what I was wearing, and what I was saying. It made me feel obvious and rude for taking up so much space.
It’s strange how losing something will make you miss it, even if you weren’t wild about it in the first place.
