Page 49 of The Legend Next Door
Ben
29
Ben Stirling
It’slateandLuca’sin bed. I’m upstairs in the room I’ve been calling The Room of Doom. It’s where I’ve been putting things I can’t find a proper place for. The train set Luca never plays with is in here. So are many of the framed hockey jerseys and art I haven’t put up yet.
The Room of Doom looks onto the street.
It’s dark in here, and I haven’t turned on the light. I’m standing at the window, watching. Looking out. I’ve been here since Luca went down, and so far, there’s been no sighting of Jeremiah heading out on his date.
The night air is a little too close. I feel off. A little too hot and too big for the room I’m in. My mind is racing, spinning in small circles, and ending up back where I started.
I’ve thought about lots of things since I saw the sex toy in Jeremiah’s bathroom the other day. I have. I’ve been present and attentive when I’ve been with Luca, and I was perfectly polite and coherent when the curtain lady came over this afternoon. I even had her measure the rest of the house while she was here, and that’s some good, clear thinking right there. It’s taken me weeks to get off my ass and make the appointment, so I figured I may as well get the whole place done at once rather than risk waiting for the next time I take it upon myself to become proactive about homemaking.
I’ve called a pool and yard service since I spotted the toy, and I got a really good workout in yesterday. I got a less-than-good one today, but still. My point is, I’ve thought about other things. Lots of them.
It’s just that I’ve thought about the toy quite a lot too.
It’s been hard not to. Maybe it’s problematic of me, but in the back of my mind, I guess I wondered if Jeremiah was the kind of guy who liked giving it or taking it. Or both.
I’m not proud of myself. I know it’s none of my business. He’s my friend. It makes no difference to me what he likes in bed.
It’s just that now I know for sure he likes taking it. Or giving itandtaking it. Either way, I know he likes taking it because he wouldn’t own that particular toy if he didn’t. There’d definitely be no reason to have it in his shower if he didn’t use it.
It’s purple, the toy. Not lavender or mauve. Strong, vibrant purple. Like stained glass in a chapel window.
It looked sturdy. You know, like it was securely fixed to the wall. Like the mechanism that held it there was robust.
The thing I keep coming back to is the height it was mounted at—just below waist height. Jeremiah’s waist height, not mine, and I feel some kind of way about the fact that I know it was there, at that height, on purpose. It’s the right height. The right height for him. That’s where he needs it to be when he uses it. When he plays with it.
I have no idea why I’m fixated on that idea, but I am.
I wonder if there’s a specific tile he uses to mark the height or if he just knows where to put it. Maybe he has to move it around to find the right spot each time.
Or maybe he has to go up onto his toes when he works it in.
There’s a disturbance down below on the street. A movement. A jerky shadow trickling from Jeremiah’s side of the house. I press the side of my face against the window and crane my neck. My body temperature rises despite how cool the pane of glass is against my cheek.
The sinews in my neck stiffen and don’t release.
I let out the breath I’m holding.
It’s a false alarm.
It’s not Jeremiah. It’s a woman walking her dog. A fluffy Pomeranian that seems pleased to be out at this time of night.
When they disappear from view, the street falls quiet again. There’s no movement except for a streetlight that flickers and hums now and again.
I take a while to relax despite the fact that I’m almost positive Jeremiah hasn’t left home yet. I’ve been posted here since eight p.m. sharp, and I haven’t seen him. He probably canceled the date, or maybe his date canceled on him. No. They would have swapped photos when they chatted last night. There’s no way his date canceled on him.
Jeremiah must have changed his mind.
He’s probably home, getting ready for yoga.
There’s no way I missed him. I’ve barely blinked since I’ve been here, and no one arranges to meet for a hookup drink earlier than eight o’clock. Hookups happen late at night.
They do.
