Page 96 of The Legend Next Door
See?He’s the sweetest birthday boy ever.
“Scratch that. I’m not going to find it hard not to spoil you. Iamgoing to spoil you. Wanna know why?”
He crosses one foot over the other and eyes me thoughtfully, amusement flickering distantly in his eyes. His chin raises a fraction. “Why?”
The mood is light and flirtatious, but the significance of the day and the things we’ve said to each other hang thick in the air. Our connection is no longer intangible. It’s solidified. Concrete. Unshakable.
“Because, baby, in life, some lessons are hard, and the only way to learn them is the hard way. The painful way. The way that changes you and your outlook on things.”
His gaze approaches gently, taking me in and holding me lightly. He understands the gravity of what I’m saying and, as always, offers me nothing but a safe place to express myself.
“I didn’t get to choose the lessons I’ve learned. None of us do. Life chooses them for us, but what I’ve learned is this: tomorrow isn’t promised. I’ve loved before, I have, and I loved well. I loved as hard as that version of me could possibly love, but that version thought he had a lifetime to love. He thought he had time. He thought tomorrow was given. The version of me that stands with you here and now is different. The lesson was hard, so fucking hard, but I learned it well. I’m not going to love you like I have time. I’m going to love you like every day is our last day. Our first day. Our only day.”
His eyes well and spill over. Behind him, the kitchen tile glints. The light under the range hood is on, casting a warm glow that brings the intricate patterns to life. Each tile is different, an assortment of swoopy lines and curves that paint a pleasing picture. With Jeremiah standing where he is, the design seems complete. It radiates out as though he’s the missing link, the much-needed focal point.
The image before me comes into sharp focus. Tiny hairs on my forearms stand on end and a rash of goosebumps travels up both sides of my body.
“Wow,” I say as I step closer and take him into my arms, holding his face in my hands and looking into calm crystalline orbs in wonder. “Your eyes. Your eyes, Jeremiah. I never noticed before…they’re exactly the same color as the tile.”
48
DearLiz,
Youknowaswell as I do, I don’t believe in this kind of thing. At least, I didn’t. I don’t know how to explain it—science and reason certainly don’t help—but I know, Iknowin my soul that you brought me here. That day in the car, all those months back, I saw the road sign for Thickwood Drive on my left and a car parked in the street with a Totally Pucked personalized plate on my right, and I stopped because I knew you’d have laughed your ass off at both of those things and doubly so that they appeared so close to each other.
Once I’d parked, going inside seemed like the only thing to do.
I didn’t like the house. It wasn’t my taste, but when I got to the kitchen, I stood in front of the range hood and saw that tile, and I swear I felt you. I felt your hand on my back and such a distinctive shove that I actually turned around, expecting to see you.
So, like I said, I can’t explain it, but I know. I know you brought me here. To this city. To this street. To this house. To Jeremiah.
Most of all, I know you brought me to Jeremiah.
You had my back one last time, didn’t you, Lizzie?
I love you and I miss you, and I’m happy.
Love,
Ben
Epilogue
Ben Stirling
I’minLasVegasin a locker room that feels like a home away from home, getting ready to go into a rink I’ve played in many, many times. I’m here for a pre-season exhibition game and I can’t even begin to count the number of rules that have been broken to get me here. It started with Luddy bending the ear of every management type he had in his contacts list. McGuire got wind of the plan and ran with it, blasting a call for me to come back for one last game all over his social media platforms. In a matter of days, the momentum it had gained was unstoppable.
It’s been a whirlwind six weeks, but I’ve trained my guts out, and I’m ready.
I’m present.
We’ve run through the game plan for the day, and I’ve said a few words to the team, and now I’m taking it all in, the smells and the sounds, the bright overhead lights. The game jerseys hanging from hooks. The names on the backs. The numbers on the lockers above each player.
My name and number especially.
The bench is hard under my ass and the ground beneath my skates is solid. Bryce sits to my right, taping his stick in the meticulous way that, for me, will always be synonymous with him. T-Dog is across the room, face scrunched into a scowl. Sev’s in his personal space, giving him advice on how to best strap on his pads. As always, it’s poorly received. I get it. T-Dog is one of the best goalies in the league. The last thing he needs is advice on how to pad up.
“Get off me, asshole, and stop telling me what to do. You’re not the boss of me,” he says.
