Page 8 of The Legend Next Door
Marcus extracts himself from the beanbag, which is quite the process given how deeply he’s allowed himself to sink into it, and saunters over to the kitchen, where I’m doing the dishes. Vanessa left a few minutes ago, and as always, there’s a subtle shift in the mood when she isn’t here, though I’ve never managed to work out how best to describe it.
His steps are long and sinuous as he moves toward me. Easy and unperturbed. At least, that’s the impression he wants to give. I know him too well to fall for it. Marcus and I go way back. Not quite as far back as Vanessa and I do, but we go back to college. College 2.0 that is. I met him during the first week of my ill-fated physio course. He’d known exactly where we were supposed to be and what we were supposed to be doing. I’d had no idea. He’s one of those friends who got my number, immediately added me to favorites, and simply never revisited the situation.
I’d have dropped out of college a hell of a lot sooner if it hadn’t been for Marcus.
I noticed his lanky swagger before anything else. His hair was closely shaved then like it is now. I noticed his smile and his skin next. His skin is dark brown and incredibly even, and his smile is nice. Really nice. It’s a smile that made him feel like family right from the start. A smile that always feels like an achievement to me, and not just because he’s choosy about flashing it.
Then, like now, he was a contradiction. Complicated in a way that makes complete sense to me sometimes, and other times, none. Easygoing but also a stickler for rules. Loud and outspoken in certain situations, painfully quiet in others.
Don’t get me wrong, I love the man, but I know this look. This posture. This stride. And it doesn’t fill me with joy.
“Jer,” he says in a loaded, overly concerned way that gets on my nerves.
I sigh loudly and hold up a hand to placate him. “Don’t worry, Moop. I know what you’re going to say. I’ve got it. No need to go there.”
“He’s straight, Jeremiah.”
“What did I just say? What did I literally just say? I saidI know.”
His lips press together lightly, but his jaw is tense. “He has a child, and he had a wife. Before he was married, he dated a string of models and actresses. All women.”
“Jesus, Marcus. I know what straight is, okay? Some dudes and dudettes want to bang members of the opposite gender—I understand the concept, and I know straightness exists, believe me.”
“I’m not saying you don’t, but I know what you’re like, and I saw how you looked when you said his name earlier.”
It feels too soon to sigh again, so I roll my eyes extravagantly instead. “I waskidding. My God. I was making a joke. Joshing around. Playing the fool. Taking the piss. Having some fun. You knowfun—the opposite of serious. It’s a simple concept. You’d know a lot more about it if you took that giant stick out of your ass.”
Marcus turns and leans against the counter, eyeing me up and down critically. I wait for him to say that he’d be only too happy to take the giant stick out of his ass if I had a giant dick for him to replace it with, but tonight, he misses the opportunity and goes with, “Give him a wide berth, bud. Take it from me.”
That irritates me too. It’s very smug. Very know-it-all. “He’s my neighbor, Marcus. He lives next door to me. I physically can’t give him a wide berth, and even if I could, I wouldn’t. He doesn’t know anyone in Seattle and he’s going through a really hard time. I’m not going to be a dick to him just because he doesn’t like dick.”
I turn my attention back to the dishes, scrubbing the mug I made for Ben a little more aggressively than strictly required before rinsing it thoroughly and putting it in the drying rack, ready for the coffee I know damn well I’m going to take over to Ben tomorrow. Even though I’m almost positive there’s no way Marcus can tell I made this particular mug for Ben or what my intentions for tomorrow are, to be on the safe side, I add, “It’sfine. It’s not like I’m going to flirt with him or anything.”
6
Ben Stirling
It’sbeenalong-assday. Not the worst I’ve ever had, but not the best either. The excitement of the move has well and truly worn off, and Luca has had enough of staying home and watching me unpack. He was grumpy by dinner time, and that’s not like him. He said, “If it’s not too much trouble, I’d prefer an alternative option,” to the spaghetti I offered.
I’m paraphrasing, obviously. He was a little less polite. And he acted like I was attempting an assassination when I suggested chicken nuggets.
By the time he finally went down, I was in a fury about the sofa situation and became convinced my future happiness hinged entirely on me moving the right sofa in front of the TV posthaste.
Long story short, there’s a deep scratch across the living room floor that wasn’t there before.
The good news is I found one of the pieces of LEGO Luca and I missed during our cleanup. The bad news is I found it with my foot. The middle of my foot. The soft, meaty arch that’s home to a cornucopia of nerve endings.
It brings the tally of pieces I’ve found in a similar way up to three.
I’m putting myself to bed early in the hope that tomorrow is better. Liz used to say sleep was a time machine to breakfast, and God knows I could use that about now.
I floss, brush my teeth, and pull on an old pair of sleep shorts. My new room is in the corner of the house, facing the backyard. It’s a too-big space that dwarfs the bed and side tables. It has five large windows dotted along two of the walls, which makes drawing the drapes more of a production than I consider ideal. The drapes came with the house, and on top of the excessive number of windows, I have an excessive amount of ugly fabric to contend with. There’s a blackout drape, one made of some sort of heavy, scratchy, patterned fabric, and one that’s gauzy and see-through. It’s way too much. I’m getting rid of all of them as soon as I work out who the hell you call to have drapes made for oversized windows. There must be companies that do this sort of thing. Surely. I’ll ask Amy about it tomorrow when I drop Luca at her place. She’ll know.
As always, when I think about things like this, there’s a stab. A sharp probe held to my side.
Liz was the one who knew these things.
I work my way around the room slowly, drawing curtains and trying not to let myself plunge into a fresh rage about how many of the damn things there are. When I reach the last one, on the west wall nearest my bed, I pause. The window looks straight into the cottage Jeremiah lives in.
