Page 59 of The Invisible Roommate

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.”