Page 60 of The Invisible Roommate

“This is silly in a different way. The song is going to be about my research. Actually, it’s not about my research; it is my research.” Emory twiddled his thumbs, though Gerard couldn’t see that. At least his nervous habits stayed hidden while he was invisible.

“Oh, okay.” Gerard scrunched up his face at the paper. “I’ve never even heard of half these words. Is the bridge just … an equation?”

Emory softened his voice. “You mentioned how pop music has a way of making people listen, and I want them to listen to this.”

“There’s nothing silly about that,” Gerard said encouragingly.

Emory’s confidence cobbled itself back together. “I want my former classmates and professors to hear that I accomplished exactly what I always believed was possible. I want to write the catchiest song they’ve ever heard so they can never get it out of their heads.”

“You want to write an earworm,” Gerard said, a smile blooming.

“An earworm! Exactly. I want that earworm to burrow deep into their brains as if they were apples.” The macabre thought devilishly delighted Emory.

“Gross.” Gerard hit him with a withering look.

“Sorry.” Emory registered how easily he’d proffered that apology. The look on Gerard’s face suggested that he was surprised, too. “I was looking for a distraction and wasted time on this. I got carried away.”

“Honestly, I kind of love the idea of you setting your research to music,” Gerard said. “It’s creative. Nobody is doing it.”

Bolstered by the comment, Emory uncharacteristically chirped, “Really?”

“I think we might need to work on some strumming patterns first before you can really get cooking on this,” he said, voice alight. “Up for another lesson?”

Upon Emory’s assent, Gerard rounded the table and plopped down next to him. Emory’d never been so acutely aware of another human being before, his presence both a shock to the system and a quiet comfort.

Gerard spoke of bars of music and how there were typically four beats in a bar in pop songs. He played a track, instructing Emory to strum on every first beat in the bar.

Learning from Gerard lit up a dormant center in Emory’s brain. He was used to muddling through lectures on autopilot as professors reiterated lessons he’d already learned, broke down chapters in textbooks he’d already memorized.

He had to pay close attention to what Gerard was saying or risk missing something important. He refused, on principle, to miss a single word Gerard Wells said, because music was foreign to him. So, too, were his newfound fizzy feelings.

Would they kiss again? Should they talk about it?

He was so unpracticed at the art of flirtation and the modern modes of seduction. Blindfolded and earplugged, he could run an entire lab-safety seminar for a group of first years, but he couldn’t for the life of him evaluate his wants and desires with clearheadedness.

“Done for the day?” Gerard asked.

Emory had blinked, and an hour and some change had passed. His fingers moved despite his thoughts being preoccupied. Maybe that theory of his that he had two brains worked in other scenarios beyond science.

“I’m getting a little hungry. I’ll start dinner.” Without thinking, Emory popped up off the couch.

Pascal fell forward. Gerard caught the guitar before it smashed against the table. “You seem … distracted,” Gerard said.

“I…” He couldn’t finish his sentence or even form words. If he tried to cook in this condition, he was certain he’d set the entire house ablaze. Giving in to his impulses, he grabbed Gerard by the shoulders and leaned down. With Pascal sandwiched between them, he kissed Gerard.

It was as good as, if not better than, the kisses the previous night.

“Just for that … I’ll help with dinner,” Gerard said when he broke off the kiss. He stood and then led them into the kitchen.

“I’m going to need a lot of help.” Emory fumbled around in the fridge. “We’re out of most ingredients.”

Clearly hungry himself, Gerard quickly opened a cabinet. He pulled down a packet of ramen, grabbed the cheese from the fridge, and copped a measuring cup from the drawer. “Tour bus specialty, coming right up.”

In two mugs usually reserved for heavy pours of coffee, Gerard cooked the ramen and then added some leftover carrots from the previous night’s dinner and boiled eggs from that morning’s breakfast. From crusty bottles, he tapped in drops of soy sauce and a hint of sriracha before stirring and serving each with a teaspoon. The whole while, he regaled Emory with tales of late nights on a shaky bus rumbling through who knows where. He detailed everything from the smells (sweaty show clothes tossed into baskets along with stinging alcohol from passed-around shot glasses) to the sights (his bandmates flopped onto couches tinkering with instruments or scrolling on their phones while others played cards at the small booth). It all sounded less glamorous than Emory’s imagination might’ve supplied.

After his first bite of ramen, Emory said, “This is surprisingly good.”

“You’ve never had everything-but-the-kitchen-sink ramen?” Gerard slurped up a skinny, swirly noodle. God, he even made slurping sexy.