27. Emory
Emory
Gerard’s guitar case called to Emory from the corner of the room.
Unpacking the guitar, he ran his hands over the body of it as if it were Gerard himself. Emory’s fingers left trails of reverence across the sleek, painted wood. Holding something so perfect almost brought tears to his eyes.
Every few minutes, flashes of Gerard kissing him blocked all forward motion on his research presentation. Kissing Gerard brought up two important things: one, that Anderson was still out there somewhere, ready to undercut Emory’s research, and two, he wanted to kiss Gerard again … badly.
These two objectives warred in his head all morning. No matter how many cups of coffee he drank or different focus playlists from Gerard’s iPod he put on, nothing helped.
When he grew frustrated, he flipped back through his notes and contemplated how he would present what he had so far. If his plan was to ambush the alumni gala, he needed to do so in an attention-grabbing way. He strummed a C chord on Pascal and wondered, What if I put it all in a pop song?
Reaching over, he grabbed his notebook and tore some pages loose.
If he worked hard, maybe he could whittle his research down to an easily digestible lyric.
Even in a room full of so-called “academics” and “researchers,” he couldn’t be sure his message wouldn’t get mired by his own enthusiasm, bogged down by his own bitterness.
Mulling this over, he practiced the progression of three chords Gerard had taught him. Strumming took the most coordination, and he struggled with it, but instead of allowing his impatience to stop him, he breathed in, out, and through.
By the time Gerard returned to the apartment, Emory’s fingers were grooved and raw. The strings would continue to have a harsh bite until he developed calluses.
Smiling ear to ear, Gerard stood near the door, holding Regina’s mountain dulcimer. “You’re practicing…”
It only occurred to Emory then that he probably should’ve asked for permission first before touching Pascal. Hormones kept clouding his thought processes. “I hope that’s okay.”
“Of course it is. There’s nothing better than a proactive student,” Gerard said.
Emory set Pascal aside, eyes never leaving Gerard’s mouth. Had it been less than twenty-four hours since Emory’s second kiss ever? Harping on it would only make him do or say regrettable, mushy things, so he settled on a much safer question: “How did the audition go?”
Gerard flopped into the rocking chair and kicked off his sneakers, which rolled into a stack under the coffee table. “I got the solo.”
“Why don’t you sound pleased?” Emory asked.
“I’m still not sure how I feel about…” Gerard visibly puzzled while Emory’s breath caught in his throat.
Please don’t say last night. Please don’t say the kiss.
“Performing? Yeah, performing. When the choir sings during mass, I’m one of a group, and we’re not even facing the congregation in the pews.
I let my voice do all the work. But a solo at a community party feels more like what I do with We the Wells, even though I’ll be ‘James,’ not ‘Gerard.’”
Emory nodded in understanding. “Did you ever enjoy performing?”
“Oh yeah. Before the overwhelm and the burnout, I lived for the adrenaline of being onstage. Now I tolerate it as a necessity of the trade.”
Emory looked down at his unedited lyrics. Some were scribbled and others were crossed out. If Gerard Wells, handsome star with a voice of gold, didn’t like performing, what made Emory think he would be able to do it in front of a room full of people who shunned him?
From the first meeting he had with his caseworker in the foster system to his interviews for his PhD program, he’d always bristled under an intense gaze and grown agitated while caught in the line of questioning. The only exception had been when Gerard bartered his silence for Emory’s story.
“Why did you audition for the solo, then?” he asked.
“Regina promised to let me play her dulcimer.” He shrugged, almost as if he were embarrassed that his rationale was that simple. “This will be a good test at least. I’ll gather more data. What have you been working on?”
Emory scooped up his papers. “Nothing.”
His invisible hands were not fast enough. “Those look like chords. You weren’t practicing. You were writing a song!” Glee leapt across Gerard’s face.
“Hardly.”
“Can I see what you have so far?” Gerard reached out.
Used to protecting his belongings and privacy, Emory held the pages closer to his chest.
Gerard reared back with too much force, sending the rocking chair on a fast ride. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to overstep.”
“No,” Emory said, sense smacking him upside the head. “I’m … sorry.”
“I get it. I’m protective of my first drafts, too,” Gerard said. “At least, I used to be. Now I know the initial mess is the only way to make magic.”
Emory reconsidered, turning the papers into white flags of truce passed between them.
Gerard looked askance. “Are you positive?”
“It’s not good. You’ve written hits. I’ve only ever written scientific papers.”
“Hits start with drafts, and drafts become demos. Seriously, drafts aren’t meant to be good,” Gerard said, sitting back with the papers face down in his lap.
Emory did not allow his gaze to linger there long or else he might be inspired to vault over the coffee table and claim that seat for himself.
The urge to be close to Gerard now that they’d kissed was overwhelming.
“Tell me what you’re trying to say first.”
Emory flushed and shrank. “It’s not only not good, but it’s silly.”
“Pop music is supposed to be at least a little bit silly.”
“This is silly in a different way. The song is going to be about my research. Actually, it’s not about my research; it is my research.” Emory twiddled his thumbs, though Gerard couldn’t see that. At least his nervous habits stayed hidden while he was invisible.
“Oh, okay.” Gerard scrunched up his face at the paper. “I’ve never even heard of half these words. Is the bridge just … an equation?”
Emory softened his voice. “You mentioned how pop music has a way of making people listen, and I want them to listen to this.”
“There’s nothing silly about that,” Gerard said encouragingly.
Emory’s confidence cobbled itself back together. “I want my former classmates and professors to hear that I accomplished exactly what I always believed was possible. I want to write the catchiest song they’ve ever heard so they can never get it out of their heads.”
“You want to write an earworm,” Gerard said, a smile blooming.
“An earworm! Exactly. I want that earworm to burrow deep into their brains as if they were apples.” The macabre thought devilishly delighted Emory.
“Gross.” Gerard hit him with a withering look.
“Sorry.” Emory registered how easily he’d proffered that apology. The look on Gerard’s face suggested that he was surprised, too. “I was looking for a distraction and wasted time on this. I got carried away.”
“Honestly, I kind of love the idea of you setting your research to music,” Gerard said. “It’s creative. Nobody is doing it.”
Bolstered by the comment, Emory uncharacteristically chirped, “Really?”
“I think we might need to work on some strumming patterns first before you can really get cooking on this,” he said, voice alight. “Up for another lesson?”
Upon Emory’s assent, Gerard rounded the table and plopped down next to him. Emory’d never been so acutely aware of another human being before, his presence both a shock to the system and a quiet comfort.
Gerard spoke of bars of music and how there were typically four beats in a bar in pop songs. He played a track, instructing Emory to strum on every first beat in the bar.
Learning from Gerard lit up a dormant center in Emory’s brain. He was used to muddling through lectures on autopilot as professors reiterated lessons he’d already learned, broke down chapters in textbooks he’d already memorized.
He had to pay close attention to what Gerard was saying or risk missing something important. He refused, on principle, to miss a single word Gerard Wells said, because music was foreign to him. So, too, were his newfound fizzy feelings.
Would they kiss again? Should they talk about it?
He was so unpracticed at the art of flirtation and the modern modes of seduction. Blindfolded and earplugged, he could run an entire lab-safety seminar for a group of first years, but he couldn’t for the life of him evaluate his wants and desires with clearheadedness.
“Done for the day?” Gerard asked.
Emory had blinked, and an hour and some change had passed. His fingers moved despite his thoughts being preoccupied. Maybe that theory of his that he had two brains worked in other scenarios beyond science.
“I’m getting a little hungry. I’ll start dinner.” Without thinking, Emory popped up off the couch.
Pascal fell forward. Gerard caught the guitar before it smashed against the table. “You seem … distracted,” Gerard said.
“I…” He couldn’t finish his sentence or even form words. If he tried to cook in this condition, he was certain he’d set the entire house ablaze. Giving in to his impulses, he grabbed Gerard by the shoulders and leaned down. With Pascal sandwiched between them, he kissed Gerard.
It was as good as, if not better than, the kisses the previous night.
“Just for that … I’ll help with dinner,” Gerard said when he broke off the kiss. He stood and then led them into the kitchen.
“I’m going to need a lot of help.” Emory fumbled around in the fridge. “We’re out of most ingredients.”
Clearly hungry himself, Gerard quickly opened a cabinet. He pulled down a packet of ramen, grabbed the cheese from the fridge, and copped a measuring cup from the drawer. “Tour bus specialty, coming right up.”
In two mugs usually reserved for heavy pours of coffee, Gerard cooked the ramen and then added some leftover carrots from the previous night’s dinner and boiled eggs from that morning’s breakfast. From crusty bottles, he tapped in drops of soy sauce and a hint of sriracha before stirring and serving each with a teaspoon.
The whole while, he regaled Emory with tales of late nights on a shaky bus rumbling through who knows where.
He detailed everything from the smells (sweaty show clothes tossed into baskets along with stinging alcohol from passed-around shot glasses) to the sights (his bandmates flopped onto couches tinkering with instruments or scrolling on their phones while others played cards at the small booth).
It all sounded less glamorous than Emory’s imagination might’ve supplied.
After his first bite of ramen, Emory said, “This is surprisingly good.”
“You’ve never had everything-but-the-kitchen-sink ramen?” Gerard slurped up a skinny, swirly noodle. God, he even made slurping sexy.
“Should I have?” Emory twirled his spoon around inside his mug.
“It seems like a quintessential meal for college and graduate students. I assumed you’d tried it at least once.”
“I assumed ‘tour bus special’ was some sort of hypergreen blender concoction for optimal energy and flawless skin.” His eyes scanned Gerard’s acne-less cheeks and his grooveless forehead.
Momentarily, he contemplated what Gerard might look like as an old man.
Once his music career ended—if it ever ended—would he let his hair grow out and his middle go soft and round?
The conjured, more-wrinkled Future Gerard was just as appealing as the vivacious one with broth dotted on his lips sitting before him.
Gerard made a yuck face. “Being here and eating your cooking has been a nice reprieve from the crash diets and protein powders. If my personal trainer could see me now!” Gerard looked like a fish and the noodles like baited worms as he dangled his spoon high above his parted, puffed-out lips.
“Your trainer obviously knows what he’s doing,” Emory said, thankful his eyes were invisible so Gerard wouldn’t know he was raking his gaze up and down those defined arms.
“When they want you to be the best, they hire you the best so you look your best.” Gerard sighed. “I want to skip to the part where I’m not expected to be the best. I can just be.”
“What would you be if you could just be?” Emory asked.
Clouds passed over Gerard’s expression. His spoon spun in his mug. “I’d be someone who would eat everything-but-the-kitchen-sink ramen for every meal.”
“Your poor cholesterol,” Emory teased.
“Thank you for your concern, Dr. Griffin.”
Even in jest, the name made Emory bristle, bringing fresh heat to the skin of his neck. They ate in silence for quite a while as Emory turned over his thoughts one at a time like cards in a memory game.
Getting so close to finishing his PhD and then being laughed out of the institution was traumatic.
He’d spent his entire adolescence dreaming of the day somebody—everybody—would call him Dr. Griffin.
What chance did he have of that now? His reputation was ruined, and he was on the run from the law.
No self-respecting institution was going to give him a pass at this point, unless his big display at the alumni gala changed some important minds.
There was still a small shred of hope that he could be as world-renowned as he’d always imagined if he worked fast and the serum wore off in time.
Lost in his head, he didn’t register Gerard standing over him. “Earth to Emory—are you done?” Gerard pointed at the mostly empty mug.
“Yes. Thank you.”
Gerard smiled sweetly and bent down. “Permission to come in for a landing?” He pursed his lips.
“Permission granted.” Emory led Gerard in by the back of the neck so they could kiss again. It was the kind of kiss that swept his mind clean of regrets and worries.