Page 6

6

Ben Stirling

It’s been a long-ass day. 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.

Actually, I’m not sure cottage is the right term for it, really. There’s nothing cottagey about it. It’s an obvious add-on. New and modern and in stark contrast with the Colonial Revival style of the main house. It’s reminiscent of Barcelona House. A flat roof appears to float on vast panes of glass. The roof has a deep overhang that creates a covered outdoor space that houses a pottery wheel and low shelves crammed with vessels in progress. Inside, the kitchen is sleek, counters uncluttered. A suspended wall of books separates the kitchen from the living room and another divides the living room from the bedroom.

Lucky bastard. I bet his floors don’t creak or scratch at the drop of a hat.

He’s on his sofa, bare feet on the floor, face blue from the flickering light of the TV. He’s wearing soft pants and the same T-shirt he wore earlier when he came over. A cream one with a red stripe on the hem of each sleeve and tiny bobbles on the fabric where it stretches across his chest.

In addition to the light from the TV, LED lighting strips have been installed at the top and bottom of the bookshelves and behind the headboard in his bedroom. A mishmash of vivid pinks, purples, and blues that glow in a way that reminds me of Christmas when I was a kid. Christmas before everyone decided to skip multicolored lights in favor of tasteful, warm white. Christmas when Christmas was fun and making it magic was someone else’s problem.

He gets up and pads to the kitchen. He flicks the kettle on and waits for it to boil, hip cocked, one leg bent at the knee, phone held to one ear. Now and again, he pins the phone in place with his shoulder and uses both hands to gesticulate as he talks.

He smiles the whole time.

When the kettle boils, he hangs up and takes his time deciding which mug he wants, lightly touching this one and then that before opting for a white one with an outline of a bird painted on the side. He dunks a tea bag into the mug and adds a spoonful of honey and a squeeze of lemon. A tendril of steam rises from the mug and curls in a slow, swooping circle above it.

I can see it from here.

With the expanse of glass in his cottage, he’s very exposed, and if he’s not already aware of it, he should be. I’ll tell him the next time I see him.