22. Emory
Emory
Emory had never been stood up before.
Frankly, he’d never allowed himself to be in a position where he could be stood up.
But that night, turkey burgers went bad on a scratched-up pan.
Beside the stove, on the counter, he’d laid out sesame-seed buns, chopped a tomato into perfect, juicy slices, and cut up a head of lettuce.
Condiments created a rainbow all lined up next to each other on the table.
Time ticked by, and the meal grew cold, soft, and wilted.
His heart wilted, too.
Over a missed dinner, it was silly to be this hurt. Their agreement hadn’t stated Gerard needed to be there at exactly 5 PM every night. But 5 PM turned to 5:30, and a sulkiness plagued him. Absence was harder to swallow when he’d gotten used to company. Maybe he shouldn’t have.
After he huffily made himself a plate, sat down at the table, and started eating, his appetite spoiled.
He picked and picked to no avail. What a waste of food.
What a waste of time! His eyes swiveled to his stagnant presentation.
November was right around the corner, and he was still no closer to being ready for the alumni gala.
All this energy siphoned into his pop star roommate when there was work to be done. Real work!
In a fit of petty frustration, Emory tossed what was on his plate along with all the other ingredients unceremoniously in the trash, unseeable skin prickling with irritation.
Fine—if Gerard couldn’t be bothered to tell him that he wasn’t coming home for dinner, then there wouldn’t be dinner to eat when he got back.
Emory hadn’t gone through all that trouble for it to be a reheated, soggy mess.
He wiped his hands on a rag and distracted himself from the clenching discomfort of his own emotions, as he always did, with work.
Wrenching his lab coat off the rack by the door, he nearly tore the collar with his force. He was already stuck waiting for his invisibility serum to wear off; he couldn’t spend his days waiting around on Gerard Wells, too.
Where was Gerard? Why hadn’t he stopped by to at least say he’d be late?
Was this all because Gerard walked in on him jerking off?
Gerard knew to knock now!
And it’s not like he was thinking about Gerard while he did it.
Okay, that was a lie.
He had been thinking about Gerard, but in completely abstract, mostly innocent terms. As he touched himself, his brain—unprompted!—supplied a fantasy of Gerard breaking his golden rule by serenading Emory with that cheesy yet soul-strumming power ballad, “See You Sometime.”
In the imagined scenario, Gerard was naked while he did it, and maybe he was surrounded by hundreds of tiny lit candles, but it was pretty harmless as far as fantasies went.
God, if Gerard could’ve actually seen Emory when he walked in on him. His spring-loaded erection. His flamed-up cheeks. His quick-heaving chest. That would’ve been so much worse.
Mortification plopped down on Emory’s makeshift lab table and refused to budge.
Maybe he should stay invisible forever and ever.
He’d avoid the Iping mob and any impending punishment for his joyriding, that’s for sure.
He’d never have to face Gerard. For the most part, it would be the ideal solution, except for the fact that Gerard would leave eventually.
What then? He’d have no choice but to spree in the nighttime again, an agent of chaos, belonging nowhere, fending for sustenance and safety until this wild concoction of his wore off.
What had been originally fun and freeing had grown stale and tiresome.
That’s what he was: tired.
Around 6:30, the pluck of an unfamiliar instrument that had the ring of a guitar but the airiness of a harp seeped through the floorboards. Emory stopped in his tracks, struck by the sound that seemed to squiggle in the air like a child drawing with marker on the walls. Was that Regina?
Her piano was a beast whose howls ascended through the ductwork with great volume and resolution. This was foreign. He moved toward the far wall, got on his belly, and pressed his ear to the usual vent.
“Like this?” Emory recognized Gerard’s voice instantly.
So that’s where he was. Downstairs the whole time.
A modicum of resentment slipped away. The music he played next was too beautiful to be mad at. Immediately, Emory remembered the food, in the trash, unsalvageable. Guilt raced across the back of his neck.
Since night had fallen and the autumn chill had set in, knowing Gerard would be upstairs eventually, and having churned himself into such a state, Emory cloaked up to go out. He donned the head bandages, a hat, a coat, shoes, sunglasses, and gloves, and slipped out of the house.
Maneuvering in the dark with shades on was less than ideal, but eventually his eyes adjusted. There were plenty of low-traffic places on Iping where he could go. Places where the shore was being rapidly swallowed up, so locals avoided them.
Emory shuffled through the inky expanse, emotions like shackles.
The beach access was fenced off when he arrived. A NO TRESPASSING sign snapped at him as he struggled over the yellow chain links. Too many rules had been broken by then; starting to follow new ones would’ve been a gross reinterpretation of his character.
When had he started thinking of himself as a character?
Perhaps when he chose to evade the consequences of his actions, when he decided it would be easier to have others fear him like a monster than understand him. Physicalizing the worm-rot inside him meant he couldn’t be hurt or othered or turned away from. Didn’t it?
The moon dangled in the sky, and the impressive glow spotlighted the water. Small, easy waves splatted onto the shore. Harsher wind gusts left water beads speckling the lenses of his glasses.
Still, Emory had made the trek, crossed the line—no returning now, even if he’d have to go back and face the music(ian) sometime.
Apology burbled in his mostly empty belly as he sat for an hour or more with his discomfort.
He had that hard-and-fast rule about apologies, which he’d clung to for so long, not wanting to give the foster system and its beneficiaries any more credit than they deserved.
However, the more he considered it, the more obvious it was that Gerard deserved an apology from him.
Their agreement was by no means set in stone, but trashing dinner—what if Gerard hadn’t eaten?
Were there any leftovers from last night in the fridge for him?
Lashing out as a tormented child he could forgive himself for, but thirty wasn’t that far off.
He’d made a major scientific breakthrough, which meant if he planned to share his invisibility serum with the world, he would need to work with others to test its efficacy, defend its ethicality, and get it to market for global good.
Flying off the handle was out of the question when he wanted to be seen as a professional. Wanted to be seen.
Sitting in the damp, gritty sand, reeds popping out of the ground and swiping across his vision, he concluded that tantrums were not cute, and running away was simply not effective.
“Hey, who’s out there?!” came a gruff voice from behind Emory. One he placed as Sergeant Adye.
A flashlight beam spliced through the darkness. Emory barely flinched. He’d been invisible for so long that it didn’t even register that the sergeant could be referring to him, but when he looked around, he remembered he was alone and done up in his visible-person drag.
“Shit,” he muttered to himself. He rose slowly with his arms raised in surrender.
“What are you doin’ out there? It’s not safe to be on the beach tonight with bad weather comin’ in. Can’t you read the sign? Turn ’round while I’m talkin’ to you,” Sergeant Adye called.
Emory did as he was told but sidestepped the light’s reach.
Quickly—and perhaps foolishly—he tossed the hat, the coat, and his shoes into the bay to his right.
Sergeant Adye was expectedly diverted by the ensuing splash.
Emory sprinted off in the opposite direction.
As he ran, he shed his sunglasses and shirt in one place and his pants in another.
The bandages were the last to go, proving difficult to unwrap.
He zigzagged his way back to Regina’s, so that while being pursued, the tangible evidence of his loitering wouldn’t lead to her door.
Did he want to be streaking through the streets of Iping that late at night in fifty-five-degree weather? No. But what choice did he have? He hoped the crunch of fallen leaves underfoot wouldn’t give him away as he dashed.
Eventually, he found a small, unlocked shed that he ducked into for cover.
He sat atop a deflated blow-up pool catching his breath, the cloud of which he could see thanks to the chill in the air.
The door to the shed provided a good cover for when Sergeant Adye ran past several moments later, still in hot pursuit.
For what felt like hours, Sergeant Adye sniffed around for clues. Emory held his breath and closed his eyes. When Sergeant Adye finally called it quits, Emory stayed behind for a while longer, just to be safe. To be certain the sergeant wasn’t hiding somewhere nearby ready to surprise him.
By the time Emory made it back to the apartment, Gerard was tucked into bed. Emory shuffled quietly inside.
“Emory, is that you?” Gerard stirred up to sitting and turned on a light. His eyes were sleep-dusted.
“It’s me,” Emory croaked out.
“What happened to you?” Gerard asked, concern audible. “And why aren’t you wearing any clothes?”
“I went out for a walk,” he said, trying to make it sound casual when it was anything but.
“In the nude?” Gerard asked. “It’s windy and cold out there, and it’s only going to get colder. It’s not the summer anymore. You’ll get sick.”
Emory’s skin was heat slicked yet frozen. His heart still whirred on overdrive. It was strange to have somebody care about his health and wellness. “There was a bit of an incident,” he admitted.
“An incident?” Gerard asked, immediately getting up.
Emory cobbled together enough words to sketch the scene and relay the chase.
“Are you okay?” Gerard asked when he finished.
“Just a little overexcited.” Adrenaline was the only thing keeping him upright in that moment.
“Did something happen before that?” Gerard asked.
His gaze flicked to the kitchen. The scene of the shafted burgers.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I wouldn’t be here for dinner.
Regina ran into me on the beach and insisted I come by for casserole and pie, then we got to talking about music, so she was showing me this instrument she used back in the ’70s.
Did you know she used to be pretty famous? ”
“No,” Emory said.
Gerard visibly pivoted. “I would’ve come up first, but Regina wasn’t having any of my excuses. I didn’t mean to stand you up, but I could’ve been more insistent and I’m sorry.”
How did Gerard say he was sorry so easily? Emory would have to Heimlich an apology out, but he’d do it. He’d throw himself over the back of the kitchen chair if he had to. “I’m…” Was he sweating again? God, this was impossible. “Sorry, too.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Gerard asked. “You sound like you’re in pain.”
His stubbornness was screwing this all up.
“I’m fine. I…” Here it goes again. “I’m sorry.
When you didn’t show … the food I made …
my appetite … I wasn’t … No, I didn’t feel like…
” His mind was a complex circus act gone horribly wrong, but his mouth was operating under the show must go on conditions. “I heard you … but I…”
“Emory.” Gerard was close now, reaching where he clearly assumed Emory’s arm might be. Emory stepped into the contact. The simple touch sent ease billowing throughout his body. “Please take a breath.”
Upset with himself for botching this, he huffed. “I’m bad at apologizing.”
“I think you can only be bad at apologizing if you don’t apologize at all,” said Gerard. “Or you’re one of those dicks who says things like, ‘I’m sorry you took it that way.’”
“It’s…” Emory paused. “I’m out of practice.”
“Practice makes … well, not perfect. I don’t believe in perfect. Not really. Practice makes … possible?” Gerard’s voice was still sheeted by sleep, crinkly like balling-up paper. It was endearing to see this man who commanded stages across the globe so unwound.
“Practice makes possible. I like that,” Emory said, relaxing a bit. “I…” His mouth and mind hovered over finishing with like you, but he swallowed that back. “Am sorry. Truly. I threw out the food because I thought you stood me up. It was silly of me.”
Gerard looked at him, and for the first time, it didn’t feel like Gerard was looking at the place where Emory’s eyes should be.
It was as if he knew exactly where they were to lock in.
As if there were some cosmic tether between them.
“It’s okay. I’ve eaten, and I can buy more food.
I’m just glad you’re all right. I was worried you ran off because of… ”
Flashbacks to earlier in the day reminded him that he was still standing there naked. He trotted over to retrieve clothes from the wardrobe. “I’ll hang a sock next time,” he half-heartedly joked, recalling what his college classmates used to do when keeping their roommates out during hookups.
“You sound tired,” Gerard said.
“I did a lot of running.”
“Do you need to rest?”
“If I do, I’ll curl up on the love seat.”
“You can use the bed.”
“It’s not my turn to sleep.”
“We can share.”
“It’s not that big,” Emory replied, a different kind of tension mounting in his chest.
“It’s plenty big enough.” The words were void of expectation.
“I might get up in the middle of the night and work,” Emory said.
Gerard shrugged and stepped closer. “You won’t wake me. If I could sleep like a baby on our tiny first tour bus, I can sleep through anything.”
Convinced and sagging, Emory crept slowly toward the bed and lay down, keeping to one side. Seconds after he closed his eyes, Gerard shook him. “Drink this,” Gerard said, holding out a small glass of water to him. “The last thing you want to do is wake up dehydrated and with a headache.”
It took every ounce of energy he had left to sit up and sip, but the water quenched a thirst he didn’t know he’d had, and Gerard’s care filled a void he’d never acknowledged. He wiped his wet mouth on the back of his hand and asked, “Can we listen to your last album tomorrow night?”
“Of course. Whatever you want, Emory,” Gerard said in a way that suggested he might reach out and caress Emory’s face if he could see it. Part of Emory truly wished he could, so Gerard could see in his peaceful expression all that he couldn’t bring himself to say.