Page 50 of The Legend Next Door
Don’t they?
My chest tightens and my heart punches at my ribs in annoyance. It’s a blunt, indignant rage. An old, base anger I recognize. I know it. I’ve felt it before. I’ve felt it around women I wanted badly in the past. I felt it in spades when men so much as looked at Liz the wrong way.
Hell, I’ve felt it when guys on the bench picked up my stick and moved it without asking me to move it myself.
I’m not proud of it. Not even remotely. I know it’s not big or evolved of me, but I know this feeling, and I know what it means.
Don’t touch what’s mine.
It’s a lot to unpack, and I’ll definitely need to spend some time working through it at some point because what the fuck, but not right now. Right now, I’m high-stepping over train sets and picking my way through boxes and canvases as I beat a hurried path to my room.
There.
See?
Everything’s fine. Jeremiah is home. He’s not out. He’s in his bedroom, picking up shoes off the floor and tossing them into his closet without looking back to see where they land. He’s changed out of the clothes he was wearing earlier. He’s in sleep pants and a white tank now. The tank is a little loose on him. The fabric looks soft and thin, well-worn.
I was right. He’s not going out. He’s getting ready for a night in.
Unless the plan has changed and he’s decided to host.
Shit, maybe he’s having this guy over, and that’s why he’s straightening his house up.
Is he crazy? Is he seriously inviting a complete stranger into his home? He doesn’t know this guy from Adam. He said so himself. He said he met him on an app last night. He called him a random. Surely he’s not planning on letting him into his house and just hoping for the best? That’s dangerous.
You know what, I’m just going to ask him. I’m not going to drive myself crazy with questions and theories. I’m too old for that shit.
No date, huh?
His phone buzzes on the side table in his living room. It must because he walks over and picks it up. Blue ticks appear next to my message, and three dots pop up as he types.
I make a conscious effort not to hold my phone too tight as I stare down at my screen.
Yeah, I canceled.
How did you know?
Fuuuuuck!
What the hell is wrong with me? What was I thinking messaging him about this, and why the fuck did I not think he’d ask how I knew he wasn’t out?
More to the point, how the hell do I explain any of this?
Just a wild guess.
Shit.
No, I can’t do that.
I can’t lie to him. He doesn’t lie to me. He tells me the truth even when it leaves him so pink and uncomfortable I can literally feel the heat waves bouncing off him.
I can see you.
I can see into your house. Thought you knew from the other night when you came up to my room, but I guess maybe you were too out of it to remember.
I’ve been meaning to tell you.
I keep forgetting to mention it.
