Page 42 of The Invisible Roommate

“Be careful where you point that thing, or I might pull a rock star and smash it,” Emory said, not quite nailing the tone he was going for. It came out a dash too foreboding, too serious.

Gerard chuckled. “Hey. Be careful what you do. Remember, I know where you live.” He knocked their shoulders together as they both sat down on the love seat. “Let’s see if you can surpass that monkey with a ukulele.”

After Emory removed his gloves, Gerard carefully passed the guitar to him. “This means a lot to you. Are you sure you want me fooling around with it?”

“He is not an ‘it,’ and his name is Pascal,” said Gerard of his guitar. “And a second ago, you threatened to Jimi Hendrix him, so let’s split the difference, unless you have your own guitar lying around.” Gerard’s eyebrows rose in challenge. “Didn’t think so.” He reached over and plucked the pick from where it was nestled in the strings.

Scooting in, Gerard explained that each metal ridge on the guitar was called a fret and that the strings were numbered from bottom to top. At first, Emory struggled with the finger placement on the G chord. Not only couldn’t he see where he was placing his fingers, but they required a much firmer press than he’d assumed. The rough strings cut into his finger pads as he strummed the six strings to varying effect, the noise coming out choppy and wrong. He swore the painted chameleon on the body flicked its mouth into a frown.

“Can’t you just play a song on here for me instead?” Emory asked, growing agitated with himself.

Gerard shook his head. “I refuse to be that guy.”

“What guy?” he asked.

“The guy who plays their guitar and sings at people. I don’t serenade. There’s nothing more awkward than serenading,” he said. “Here, move up on the cushion.”

Through some finagling, Gerard wedged himself between Emory’s back and the back of the couch. Emory froze in place as Gerard’s chest skimmed his shoulders and Gerard’s arms framed his own. Gerard fumbled a bit, clearly searching for Emory’s hand on the fretboard, but Emory wasn’t about to give him any hints when this closeness was so appealing. “Move both top fingers down a string and your index finger to the second string on the first fret. Strum only the lower five.”

Emory failed and groaned and failed and groaned again louder, all the while pressing into their points of contact. “This is excruciating,” he said. But it was also nice. Too nice.

“This is learning,” Gerard said.

In fairness, it had been a while since Emory had even broached a new field of interest. He gave himself a little grace.

Without care, he kept his fingers to the fretboard and strummed wildly. The resulting sound was nearly angelic.

“That was it! A C chord!” Gerard said excitedly and a tad too loudly in Emory’s ear. Still, that voice, that close? The hairs on Emory’s neck stood at attention.

“I wasn’t even trying that time!” Emory exclaimed.

“Sometimes that’s all it takes! Getting out of your own head. Try it again.”

Emory strummed. The C chord rang out and emboldened him. He strummed once more. Another C rang out, and his heart leapt. And again, with enthusiasm this time—

“Okay, too hard. Too hard. Be gentle with my baby. I don’t know where I’d get a replacement string around here,” Gerard said with a laugh. “Stick with me. I’ve got one more for you.” He instructed Emory on another chord.

“I think I’ve got it.”

“Strum the bottom four.”

Emory got it on the very first try!

“You’re a natural,” Gerard said, jostling Emory’s shoulders in a gesture of pride.

“Hardly.”

Gerard moved back to the other side of the love seat. Should Emory have pretended to be worse so Gerard would’ve stayed behind him longer? His body already missed the proximal heat.

Gerard said, “You could write a song now.”

“I will not be doing that,” Emory said.

“Suit yourself.” Gerard looked at him for a long, rich moment, face screwed up in contemplation. Emory’s heart twirled for a second, until Gerard said, “Tomorrow night, let’s skip the bandage head wrap.”

“I look too much like a mummy?” Emory said.

“I usually hate making direct eye contact with people, but it’s a little uncanny to see darkness where your eyes should be.” Gerard paused. “What color are your eyes, anyway?”