21. Gerard
Gerard
The next morning, while bent over to touch his toes during a full-body stretch warm-up led by the unexpectedly limber librarian in the choir, Edna, Gerard got a whiff of the T-shirt he’d thrown on before leaving that morning.
Burnt wood … banana …
Emory.
In his rush to get out the door, he had scooped up the first T-shirt he saw, assuming it was clean and his. Now, he stared down at his sneakers, blood rushing to his head, smelling like his invisible roommate.
Their impromptu guitar lessons the night before had awoken an unexpected, unshakable affection for Emory. The last time he’d experienced that kind of connection, he was getting to know Toby, which felt like a road he could not traverse again while hiding out on an island.
Though maybe he could adopt a what happens on Iping stays on Iping mentality?
In a way, the biggest problem he had faced with Toby was publicly coming out and being seen together. Nobody could see Emory in his present condition, which at the very least solved one potential problem. Not that he should’ve been searching for hypothetical solutions.
During vocal exercises and song run-throughs, Gerard held his hymnal and sang louder, hoping his volume would drown out any pesky thoughts, his voice would vibrate so sharply in the space that it would pop any bubbles of feeling that escaped him.
He kept his eyes locked on his music, afraid to spare a glance at the statue of Jesus on the cross because he was certain he would see freshly painted judgment there.
Near the end of their hour together, Regina made an announcement.
“Angie and Kellen are heading up the annual Halloween Masquerade Party this year at the school and have decided to do a small talent portion to showcase local groups. Angie has generously asked us to lend a song or two to the program. This would require a few extra hours of rehearsal time per week, so I understand if this doesn’t fit into some of our busy schedules, but I think it’s a sweet opportunity, even if not all of us can participate.
I’d like to take a vote on this now, if we’re amenable. ”
“What would we be singin’?” asked Grace, an elderly soprano with at least fifty years on Gerard.
Regina perked up at Grace’s question. “Since it’s the evening before All Saints’ Day, I was thinking we’d do a solo of ‘Blest Are the Pure in Heart’ and then to get the crowd going, we’d perform a choral arrangement of ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’ with optional sing-along for the audience.”
Titters of excitement broke out around Gerard while his own gut tightened. He’d come to Iping to escape performing.
Regina asked for a show of those who would like to perform. When every person in the room raised a hand, Gerard followed suit so as not to be singled out.
Clearly having anticipated an affirmative vote, Regina passed out pages of sheet music for the selections, telling everyone to look over their voice part before next rehearsal, and that anyone who wanted to audition for the solo should prepare to do so next time.
Gerard had half a mind to trash the solo selection on his way out of the church, but the title of the hymn stopped him.
A hazy memory formed of his oldest brother, Gavin, strumming this on his first guitar back when they were kids.
In childhood, their bedrooms shared a wall, so in early evenings, Gerard would press his ear up against the navy-blue paint while Gavin was practicing, taking in both the setbacks and the excitements of learning an instrument.
If ever Gerard was home sick from school and the house was empty, he’d sneak into Gavin’s room.
Some other younger brothers might have gone looking for love notes or drugs or dirty magazines, but Gerard went right for the guitar.
He’d sit by the window and try to replicate Gavin’s playing, assessing how different the sounds and motions were from the organ at the church or the keyboard in the den.
That morning, as he walked toward the Bay Brew café, Gerard decided that he would work out the solo song on his guitar for the fun of it and rerouted to Regina’s after securing another pumpkin spice latte, the flavor of which had still not grown on him.
Quietly, he reentered the apartment, expecting Emory to be asleep with the curtains drawn and the lights out, but instead, he heard what sounded suspiciously like a moan.
Not one of those ghostly moans Emory had made when trying to scare Gerard out of the apartment; this was more guttural, more decadent, more …
Oh God. In the few beams of sunlight streaming in through the flaps of the semisheer curtains, the impression of Emory’s long body was well defined on the cream-colored fitted sheet that hugged the sagging mattress. The outline of his middle indented deeper a few times as another moan broke out.
Gerard lost his grip on the door handle, and the door thudded back into its frame.
“Sorry!” Gerard yelped, covering his eyes even though he clearly couldn’t see anything. Hot coffee splashed onto his exposed hands and onto the floor.
“What are you doing back already?!” Emory shouted with an edge to his voice. Gerard peered through a crack between his fingers. The clothes haphazardly balled on the floor were airborne now, being tugged back on.
“Sorry!” Gerard repeated. “I had choir practice this morning and came back to grab my guitar. I didn’t realize you’d be—”
“This is my time as per your roommate agreement,” he snapped, nothing at all like the guy from the night before during the lesson.
What Emory failed to realize, Gerard thought, was that he’d have been better off staying naked, because as soon as Emory put on those thin gray sweatpants without any underwear, he inadvertently made his raging boner visible.
Highly visible.
Largely visible.
“You’re right,” Gerard croaked, trying not to think about the sheer size and shape of Emory’s dick.
With a hand still over his eyes, he set his coffee cup down and felt his way toward the kitchen. He grabbed a towel and cleaned up as best he could.
“You could’ve knocked!” Emory growled, though the growl was undercut by audible embarrassment.
“I’ll knock next time,” Gerard said. He banged his shin because he wasn’t watching where he was going. Slightly hurt, he bent down to retrieve his guitar case. “I’ll leave you to it. Not it as in—Uh, just … have a good afternoon!”
He bolted out of there at a speed even his personal trainer couldn’t keep stride with. It wasn’t until he hit the dock that he realized he’d left the rest of his pumpkin spice latte behind.
On the public beach steps from the house, Gerard spent the rest of the day learning the solo song, and definitely not thinking about Emory Griffin’s very real yet very invisible dick.
There was a hell of a lot of cognitive dissonance needed to sing the lyrics “Blest are the pure in heart, for they shall see our God” while seeing, in his mind’s eye, a pair of scandalous sweats hugging a slender, unseeable frame.
No, he felt more like the “lowly soul” in the third verse of the song.
Sand shifted and seaweed squelched behind him. He stopped playing and spun around. Regina wore plum-colored capris, a trucker hat, and an IPING ISLAND sweatshirt surely from the souvenir shop near the dock.
“Oh joy! I was hoping you’d take the hint,” she said, smiling at him, wind whipping her short hair against her cheeks.
“What hint was that?” he asked.
“That you should take the solo,” she said. She took a long time to sit down beside him. Her bones creaked and cracked. “I purposefully printed the sheet music with the guitar chords on it, hoping to inspire you. I heard you playing last night.”
“I wasn’t play—” He cut himself off before he divulged anything about Emory. “I don’t plan on auditioning,” he said, setting his guitar down in the case beside him.
“Why not?” she asked, almost sounding offended.
“Because I’m new to the choir. I’m sure there are plenty of deserving longtime members who would love to sing this,” he said, snatching the sheet music off his striped towel before it blew away.
“Perhaps, but I think all good longtime members want what’s best for the group, and what’s best for the group is the person who is best for the song.
” Her pragmatism struck him in a sore spot.
When in the recording studio, We the Wells never worked that way.
Some label exec decided years ago that Garret was the de facto lead singer.
Lines and harmonies got doled out to Gerard and Gavin as if they were afterthoughts and not integral parts of the sonic experience of the song.
But of course, equality in a band was next to impossible.
Besides, if he took the lead on a studio recording, he’d be expected to sing lead for that song on tour, which meant a reorganization of their perfect triangle of microphone stands.
Gerard was the rear left point. He was comfortable back there.
“I don’t think I’m the best person,” he said to Regina, eyes cast out on the water. People with more money and better suits than him had told him so.
“You sounded like the best person to me a minute ago,” she said.
“I was only playing around.” His gaze roved back to her face.
“What some people who train for a lifetime would give to have an ounce of what you do when you’re only playing around.” Her wispy eyebrows rose.
Sometimes, there was this misconception that chart-topping musical artists lucked into success with raw talent, which Gerard didn’t understand.
Emory would have explained it better, but Gerard was certain there wasn’t some sequence in his DNA that made him capable of composing melodies or singing harmonies better than the next guy.