13
By the following Monday night, Emory’s apartment was in shambles.
The floor was littered with energy-bar wrappers, used-up pens, and water bottles he’d drunk and then refilled with urine because he refused to take his eyes off the cage for a second, even as they grew dry, and he tested the limits of his worn-down body.
Obsession held him to the spot. If he slept, it was only for minutes and entirely against his will.
After Anderson came through with every supply Emory needed to make his blood substitute, he threw himself entirely into the project. Lost in a deep haze of science and retribution, he worked fitfully.
He remained inside the stuffy, dim chamber of the upstairs apartment with the unseeable company of Marvel Jr. in his cage, the only witness to his unfolding, continuous brilliance.
When Joe told Regina that Emory hadn’t shown up for work that morning, she came knocking several times to ask if everything was all right.
Everything was better than all right, because three days gone and he’d done it.
In his hands he held the phantom weight of Marvel Jr., except Marvel Jr. wasn’t a phantom at all. He was invisible. Totally, completely invisible.
No matter if he held him near the lamp or the window, light passed right through Marvel Jr. as he breathed and bathed himself. The blood substitute had taken nicely.
Emory Griffin may not have been a true doctor, but that day, as he furiously wrote up his findings, he declared himself a genius.
A genius who would finally get his moment in the spotlight along with the world renown he craved and now rightfully deserved.
On Tuesday night, Emory cleaned himself up and raced down to Christine’s to meet Anderson, who waited for him at the same picnic table. “You’re smiling. I assume that means you bring good news.”
Emory barely touched his meal as he detailed the intricate invention of this miracle protein and the successful transfusion. The excitement Anderson displayed invigorated Emory. Finally, someone who saw him and his work.
After their plates were cleared and Anderson picked up the check without contestation, he popped a fragrant peppermint candy into his mouth and asked pointedly, “Do I get to meet him?”
“Who?” Emory asked, distracted by Anderson’s bobbing Adam’s apple. Discovery had his emotions twisted all the way up to a ten, including his lust.
“Marvel the marvelous disappearing mouse…”
Introducing Anderson to Marvel Jr. meant inviting Anderson back to his apartment, meant being alone in a room together.
A room with a bed! The idea excited and terrified Emory so much that his knees knocked a little under the table.
Anderson flashed the keys to his uncle’s golf cart. “Happy to drive.”
Emory agreed.
At the door to the apartment, Emory paused. “Do you mind if I go in first and tidy up?”
“By all means,” Anderson said, the shining example of perfect bedside manner. Emory imagined where Anderson worked on the mainland and all the patients at his office who left with both an arm sling and a raging crush.
Inside the apartment, Emory flung dirty clothes under the bed and tucked his research into the bedside table.
“Don’t embarrass me, okay?” he whispered to Marvel Jr. Emory glanced into the mirror in the bathroom and fixed his white-blond hair, which he’d washed but which had grown lifeless in the heat of the day.
Anderson looked up from his phone when the door opened. Backlit by the sun, he gave the impression of some sort of heaven-sent angel, if Emory believed at all in religion.
In the shabby apartment with Anderson, the walls felt exceedingly close, like one wrong step and they could be in each other’s breathing space. Not that Emory would’ve minded.
Anderson moved with a directness over to the desk, where he hunched down to inspect Marvel Jr. Emory had no idea how to feel. Sharing his research was as vulnerable as being naked.
“This is incredible,” Anderson said.
“But credible, right? You’re seeing it with your own two eyes.” After so many nights alone, Emory started to second-guess his faculties despite Marvel Jr. as tangible evidence.
“Right,” Anderson said, eyes shifting sideways toward Emory’s face. Emory’s cheeks scorched to a temperature he hadn’t thought was humanly possible. “This was a subcutaneous serum injection?”
“Yes,” Emory said.
“Made of?”
Emory’s eyes unconsciously flicked over to the nightstand. Nothing was proprietary or published yet. While he trusted Anderson, he still had to be careful with what he divulged. “I think we should get to know each other better before I tell you.” Belatedly, he realized how that sounded.
Something other than scientific intrigue clouded Anderson’s blue eyes. “I wouldn’t mind that.”
A thrill raced through Emory as Anderson stepped closer and pressed their lips together. Tension snapped like a twig underfoot. Emory was being kissed for the very first time on a disappearing island in front of an invisible mouse.
Emory should have been elated, but all he thought about were the onions in the dish he’d had for dinner. He was not expecting this. Any of this. Even if he’d hoped. So he pulled back a tad, pointed to the bathroom, and asked, “Do you mind if I, uh…”
“Tidy up?” Anderson finished for him.
Emory let out an awkward laugh before dipping into the bathroom.
As he brushed his teeth, he took in his reflection again.
Often, in childhood, he’d looked into mirrors and wished, like a vampire, that he didn’t appear.
It certainly would’ve made being left behind and overlooked easier—at least there’d have been a proven reason as to why.
But there was this tall, gorgeous doctor saying his work was incredible and wanting to kiss him, and he just about died from the exhilaration of sharing this. Coming of age came late, but it came just the same.
Once he’d gargled and reapplied deodorant, he took a breath and stepped back into the room.
The silent room.
The empty room.
Not even Marvel Jr. made a noise.
Because Marvel Jr. was gone.
So, too, was Anderson.
Emory’s chest was an unexpected avalanche, crumbling and freezing and demolishing everything in its path. Rushing past the desk where he’d left Anderson and Marvel Jr., he flung open the bedside drawer. His most recent notebook was missing.
Emory took off like a shot, descending the stairs two at a time, but Anderson’s golf cart was already gone.
Dr. Cuss was an appropriate name because Emory thought of a few choice cusswords he’d like to fling at the thief.
He gripped his hair and rued the day he was born.
He considered rushing into the main house to use Regina’s phone, but who was he going to call?
The police? The island had a single sergeant.
What would he even say? That their saintly doctor’s nephew stole his invisible mouse?
They certainly wouldn’t take Emory’s side if they even believed him at all.
The only saving grace was that after the Marcus Marvel incident, he’d wised up and notated differently.
Italian phrases. Backward numbers. Convoluted punctuation.
He was a modern-day Da Vinci, and nobody should’ve been able to crack his code, but Anderson was a doctor; he was smart. Smart enough to charm and disarm him.
A cake cost Emory his degree, but a kiss could’ve cost him everything.