41. Emory
Emory
Emory’s photosensitive eyes took a moment to get used to the rapid-fire pop of the flashbulbs. Shouts of “Over here!” disoriented him. Which way am I supposed to be looking?
Fussing over his appearance had been wasteful to him even before he became invisible, but now, a week after going back to being opaque, it was entirely foreign. The attention from the dedicated team that went at him with blotters and brushes had him feeling pampered yet still unprepared.
Most of his instincts roared for him to turn back to the comfort of the limo, which had sat interminably in line to pass the barricade that led to the lit-up Manhattan arena hosting the awards show.
But the waiting was made better with Gerard at his side.
The conversation volleyed between the Wells family.
Aside from Mr. Wells, who wore all black and seemed to be mourning the inevitable death of We the Wells, everyone included Emory in the conversation, asking him questions and folding him into their inside jokes.
By the time it was their turn to get out and walk the carpet—which wasn’t red, much to his disappointment—he hadn’t wanted to leave the warm bubble they’d created.
Outside, microphones were thrust in his direction.
Publicist Randi directed him onward and out of the way of the true celebrities.
Gerard, Garret, and Gavin created a triangle pose and pouted for the photographers.
Months ago, Emory would’ve found this all silly and frivolous.
In the moment, his inner Wellie bubbled up.
Once the brothers had finished taking group shots, the media asked for solo shots. Gerard, clearly having premeditated this, pulled Emory into the fray.
Above the shouts and the squeals of both excitement and despair came a single question. “Who is this man on your arm?”
At first, he assumed Gerard would ignore the question like their haughty publicist had told him to back at the hotel.
When Gerard had introduced him as his boyfriend to Randi, she’d smiled on the outside, but in her eyes, there was practically flashing ticker tape that said, You’re the reason the band is breaking up.
Emory wasn’t. He knew he wasn’t. Gerard had made that very clear.
In a letter to fans posted to their social media accounts the previous night, We the Wells (via their highly editorial representatives) said:
To our Wellies:
What a ride it’s been! Over six years, three albums, countless concerts, a handful of music videos, and three Nomey nominations, we have loved sharing every single second with you.
When we began We the Wells, it was a project to buoy us through a dark time in our lives, and when we signed to Road Rock Records, we agreed to three albums. That’s how long we thought we needed to say everything we wanted to say as a band of brothers.
Now, we’re ready to go back to being just brothers and chase new ventures.
The guys had wanted to cushion the blow for their fans by teasing Garret’s solo album, which the label was all too eager to agree to, and Gavin’s potential job scoring an influential director’s next big movie—some three-hour-plus epic he could compose from home while starting his family in earnest with his wife, Jen.
But all the suits told them not to make promises they couldn’t cash checks on.
Freshly arrived, Emory had sat in the corner of the common room in their suite, swiveling his gaze from the view of New York City to the people with their eyes cast squarely on ever-chirping tablets. He didn’t understand half the things they were saying, but Gerard’s smile said it all.
Freedom. Independence. Their relationship. His health. One more day, and it was all his.
All theirs.
We understand this may come as a shock to many of you, especially since rumors started flying about our fourth album being in the works, but we promise, there’s no bad blood here. Only love. For each other. For you. For the memories we’ve made and the ones we’ll make in these next chapters.
All we can say for now is that we’re grateful to you, and we hope you’ll tune in to the live Nomeys broadcast tomorrow night for a surprise.
The comments the post racked up ranged from irate to understanding to devastated, but through it all, the three of them remained firm that this was the right decision.
Not just for Gerard, but for all of them.
They’d ridden the train together as far as the line would take them, and it was time to exit at the next station. At least for a bit.
Now, Gerard flashed his stage smile to the journalist who’d asked the question about Emory’s identity. Gerard stepped up to the microphone. Emory’s breath caught, unsure what was about to happen.
Gerard spoke evenly and eloquently. “This is Emory Griffin. He’s an incredible scientist and the cowriter of the new song We the Wells will be premiering tonight. Don’t miss it.”
How many people were watching? Millions? Tens of millions? Emory’s heart bobbed into his throat. All around the world, people heard his name from the mouth of a megacelebrity. A megacelebrity he had kissed and cuddled and confided in and staked his heart on.
It had been an obvious yes when Gerard asked if We the Wells could do a mash-up that included “The Invisibility Song” at the Nomeys.
Back in the jail cell on Iping, he’d given up on the fool’s errand that was riding his high horse into an alumni reception he was unwanted at.
Dr. Cuss had been right. Glory had never been the right goal.
He wanted to help people, and at least in the world as it was, his discovery was too dangerous to become a mere token of retribution.
One day, maybe he’d find a safe way to share his invisibility serum, ensure it was guarded and used only for good, but until that day, until he could be certain, the secret would stay embedded inside the song, diluted to a fourth-grade reading level, never to be taken seriously.
After the airing of the Nomeys, people would go on to Google “Emory Griffin” and find nothing they didn’t already know.
No major scientific publications. No social media profiles to stalk.
No school photos to pass around in fan forums. All they’d see was Emory Griffin is the credited cowriter of We the Wells’s last single, “The Invisibility Song.”
This should’ve upset him, but it never did.
For the longest time, he’d wanted the world to know his name immediately upon seeing his face.
He wanted people to read about his achievement in newspapers and textbooks and regret the way they had mistreated him, to gape in awe at his genius and contributions to science.
But right then, as Gerard walked back to him in that fetching green suit across the not-red carpet for a final photo, hazel eyes bright with affection, he understood that life was not about having everyone notice you; it was about finding the one person who would see you and love you even when you were at your most invisible.