Page 23 of The Invisible Roommate

“Can I help you?”

Emory turned to see a tall, young, conventionally handsome man with freckled skin and close-cropped dirty-blond hair in a medical coat looking him over with confusion. An involuntary jolt of attraction shot through Emory, which was inconvenient, given he’d been caught breaking and entering.

“I was, uh, looking for the doctor,” Emory lied, hiding his gloved hands behind his back.

“Well, you found him.”

“You’re Dr. Cuss?” The island only had one primary physician, whom the health center was named after. The professional flew in from the mainland on his private plane twice a week. Every time someone spoke of him, Emory pictured an early-sixties man with a collection of funky ties and a bucket of colorful lollipops for the kids.

“I’m one of the Dr. Cusses,” the man said, flicking on another light, which Emory flinched at almost vampirically. “I’m Dr. Humphrey Cuss’s nephew, Dr. Anderson Cuss. The original Dr. Cuss is on vacation for the next two weeks, so I’m covering his caseload as a favor.” Oh great. Nepotism wins again, Emory thought. “What seems to be the problem?”

“The problem?” Emory asked, throat suddenly dry with nerves.

“Most times when someone is looking for a doctor, there’s a problem.”

Right. Emory faked pain in his temples. The young Dr. Cuss brought him into the sole exam room, rolled out a new sheet of sanitary paper, and played like this was a real appointment, but Emory could tell the doctor knew he was faking. How far is he going to take this? And why had Emory not exactly wanted him to stop?

Dr. Cuss checked his pulse and his blood pressure, shined a light in his ears and down his throat. The nearness of this handsome man caused goose bumps to appear on Emory’s skin, which was tantamount to bodily betrayal, making visible something he’d rather have kept concealed. “Just as I suspected,” Dr. Cuss said, “it’s a headache.” He prescribed two aspirin and some rest, even going so far as to write it down on his official blue pad.

Just as Emory was about to leave, resigned that he’d once again be at a loss, Dr. Cuss said, “Oh, there’s one more thing I need for your chart. Occupation?” He held a pen over his waiting clipboard.

“Part-time waterman, full-time scientific researcher,” Emory said, unsure why he added that second part, except that maybe he wanted to impress this man with the stethoscope around his neck.

“I thought so.” He clicked his pen and set it back in his coat pocket. “Regina was in earlier. She was going on about the man with the mouse living above her. She said you’re doing a secretive and extremely important project in pharmacology.”

“It can’t be very secretive if she’s going around blabbing about it to anyone who will listen,” Emory said, realizing that maybe an island as small as Iping was the worst place he could’ve come to. Everybody knew everybody else’s business, which was novel to him, given he was used to slipping well under the radar.

Dr. Cuss smirked. “The way my uncle talks, this island doesn’t get many scholars on it. Color me intrigued. Where did you study?”

“University College of Medicine & Health Sciences,” Emory said without thinking.

“Interesting. I have some friends who went there. So you’re also a doctor?”

“Yes,” he said, knowing it was a lie but feeling he deserved the title regardless. Think of all he’d accomplished! It was more than most would in their lifetimes.

“Can I get a hint about what this research is?”

“No. It’s not ready.”

Dr. Cuss held up his hands. “Fair enough. That’s too bad, though. If I knew what the research was and thought it was scientifically and medically worthwhile, I could probably donate some of the ample supplies that we have here at the center.” Dr. Cuss’s arresting blue eyes swerved past Emory and toward the closet Emory had tried to loot earlier.

“I’ll be back on Thursday to see more patients,” said Dr. Cuss. “If you change your mind, I’ll be at Christine’s at 5:15 PM before I fly back to the mainland. You’re welcome to join me.”

On Thursday, Dr. Cuss—though he insisted on being called Anderson—ordered them two soft-shell-crab platters, which they ate across from one another at a picnic table under the cover of Christine’s shoddy patio awning.

When asked what he wanted to drink, Emory said he was fine with water, but then he gulped his entire glass down quickly, feeling parched from both nervousness and revived attraction to the handsome doctor he desperately needed …

For his research!

This meeting was only about his research, but his body responded to Anderson’s presence in an unexpected way; his pits dampened, and goose bumps dotted up the back of his neck.

Puberty hit around ninth grade, and that’s when Emory realized he wasn’t attracted to girls, but he knocked any such thoughts to the back of his mind, preferring to throw himself into his studies and remain sexless.

Yes, Emory Griffin was a twenty-seven-year-old virgin, and he’d never even considered changing that status until Anderson caught him about to steal from the health center.

Pleased with Anderson’s generosity and heartened that he didn’t speak a word about Emory breaking and entering, Emory decided he needed to trust Anderson with the intricacies of his invisibility project if he had any hope of meeting his November deadline.

Once he was finished detailing it, their parallel thinking on Marvel Jr.’s case was immediate. The way they volleyed thoughts was almost arousing. Rarely was Emory’s intellect matched with such enthusiasm.