20. Emory #2
“If anyone could do it, it would be you,” Gerard said, then looked shyly away.
“There were three chameleons living at the zoo, but the employee said only one came out at a time, and they were often very still and quiet so as to blend into their backgrounds. He said if I looked hard I might be able to spot one.” Gerard smiled, seemingly at his younger self.
“I’m surprised I didn’t burst a blood vessel, given how long I stood there staring.
My brothers got mad. Garret kept saying, ‘It’s probably hiding.
Let’s go! We’ll come back later.’ I wouldn’t hear it.
So my mom took Garret and Gavin to get ice cream while I stayed behind with my dad.
Eventually, one single leaf rustled, and I spotted the chameleon’s bulging, scaly eye staring right back at me.
I swear I screamed with excitement. My dad snapped a picture before thanking the employee.
When we met up with the rest of my family at a table near a concession stand, my dad showed them the picture, and my brothers were so jealous.
They asked if we could go back, but my dad told them no because there was still more zoo to see.
But he winked at me, like I’d done something good by staying behind and standing my ground, like he knew I’d be rewarded for my patience.
I remained obsessed with chameleons. Sometimes, I’d watch those live cams they set up at zoos to relax after a show. ”
Emory melted a bit for the young Gerard in the story. It was so wholesome. So un–We the Wells. Were pop stars allowed to be that cutely nerdy? “I don’t remember reading any of that on your Wikipedia page,” Emory joked, instead of saying what he wanted to, which was That’s so sweet.
Gerard raised a brow. “Somebody’s been back to the library.”
Emory’s stomach dropped an inch. He’d been caught, and there was no use lying now. “I needed more reading material.”
“But you had time to stop and Google me?” Gerard asked, seemingly delighted, pointing the body of his guitar in a flirtatiously accusing way.
Wait—was this banter? Was Emory being flirted with?
“Be careful where you point that thing, or I might pull a rock star and smash it,” Emory said, not quite nailing the tone he was going for. It came out a dash too foreboding, too serious.
Gerard chuckled. “Hey. Be careful what you do. Remember, I know where you live.” He knocked their shoulders together as they both sat down on the love seat. “Let’s see if you can surpass that monkey with a ukulele.”
After Emory removed his gloves, Gerard carefully passed the guitar to him. “This means a lot to you. Are you sure you want me fooling around with it?”
“He is not an ‘it,’ and his name is Pascal,” said Gerard of his guitar.
“And a second ago, you threatened to Jimi Hendrix him, so let’s split the difference, unless you have your own guitar lying around.
” Gerard’s eyebrows rose in challenge. “Didn’t think so.
” He reached over and plucked the pick from where it was nestled in the strings.
Scooting in, Gerard explained that each metal ridge on the guitar was called a fret and that the strings were numbered from bottom to top.
At first, Emory struggled with the finger placement on the G chord.
Not only couldn’t he see where he was placing his fingers, but they required a much firmer press than he’d assumed.
The rough strings cut into his finger pads as he strummed the six strings to varying effect, the noise coming out choppy and wrong.
He swore the painted chameleon on the body flicked its mouth into a frown.
“Can’t you just play a song on here for me instead?” Emory asked, growing agitated with himself.
Gerard shook his head. “I refuse to be that guy.”
“What guy?” he asked.
“The guy who plays their guitar and sings at people. I don’t serenade. There’s nothing more awkward than serenading,” he said. “Here, move up on the cushion.”
Through some finagling, Gerard wedged himself between Emory’s back and the back of the couch.
Emory froze in place as Gerard’s chest skimmed his shoulders and Gerard’s arms framed his own.
Gerard fumbled a bit, clearly searching for Emory’s hand on the fretboard, but Emory wasn’t about to give him any hints when this closeness was so appealing.
“Move both top fingers down a string and your index finger to the second string on the first fret. Strum only the lower five.”
Emory failed and groaned and failed and groaned again louder, all the while pressing into their points of contact. “This is excruciating,” he said. But it was also nice. Too nice.
“This is learning,” Gerard said.
In fairness, it had been a while since Emory had even broached a new field of interest. He gave himself a little grace.
Without care, he kept his fingers to the fretboard and strummed wildly. The resulting sound was nearly angelic.
“That was it! A C chord!” Gerard said excitedly and a tad too loudly in Emory’s ear. Still, that voice, that close? The hairs on Emory’s neck stood at attention.
“I wasn’t even trying that time!” Emory exclaimed.
“Sometimes that’s all it takes! Getting out of your own head. Try it again.”
Emory strummed. The C chord rang out and emboldened him. He strummed once more. Another C rang out, and his heart leapt. And again, with enthusiasm this time—
“Okay, too hard. Too hard. Be gentle with my baby. I don’t know where I’d get a replacement string around here,” Gerard said with a laugh. “Stick with me. I’ve got one more for you.” He instructed Emory on another chord.
“I think I’ve got it.”
“Strum the bottom four.”
Emory got it on the very first try!
“You’re a natural,” Gerard said, jostling Emory’s shoulders in a gesture of pride.
“Hardly.”
Gerard moved back to the other side of the love seat. Should Emory have pretended to be worse so Gerard would’ve stayed behind him longer? His body already missed the proximal heat.
Gerard said, “You could write a song now.”
“I will not be doing that,” Emory said.
“Suit yourself.” Gerard looked at him for a long, rich moment, face screwed up in contemplation. Emory’s heart twirled for a second, until Gerard said, “Tomorrow night, let’s skip the bandage head wrap.”
“I look too much like a mummy?” Emory said.
“I usually hate making direct eye contact with people, but it’s a little uncanny to see darkness where your eyes should be.” Gerard paused. “What color are your eyes, anyway?”
“Blue,” Emory said, before yawning.
“Blue?”
“Does that surprise you?”
“Maybe. I guess you don’t sound like you’d have blue eyes.”
“How does someone with blue eyes sound?” Emory asked, amused.
“Point taken.” Gerard gestured for his guitar back, stowed it safely away. Emory half missed the weight of it in his lap. “What shade?”
“Of blue? I don’t know.”
“Light or dark?”
“Light.”
“Pale or bright?”
“Pale.”
“Ice blue,” Gerard whispered. “If I had to guess.”
“Now that you say that, somebody did describe my eyes as icy once, so there you go.” Emory smiled.
“The sound of your voice gave it away,” Gerard joked.
Emory laughed too enthusiastically, too openly.
Worried he’d expressed too much, he excused himself to the bathroom and, as soon as he turned on the light, jumped at his reflection in the mirror.
Gerard had been right. All wrapped up, he looked every bit the monster he felt underneath, and how could Gerard Wells feel anything more than sympathy for a monster?