Page 32 of The Invisible Roommate

“I would never pose for one of those inane souvenirs of scholarship.”

“Not even a single selfie?” Gerard sounded exasperated.

Emory shook his head.

“You are really off the grid, huh?” Gerard said.

“I’m not even sure the grid knows about me.” He took a certain pride in that. His priorities had never aligned with those of the common man. He wanted the first picture he posed for to be the headshot that would accompany the lauded publication of his invisibility findings.

Gerard chuckled. “Guess your face will have to remain a mystery.” He cleared his plate, set it in the sink, and went over to the rocking chair, which gave a slight scrape on the wood floor as he turned it away from the table. “You may now eat in peace.”

Grateful, Emory dug in, uncaring that the food was barely even warm. “If the offer still stands, I’d like to be your roommate.”

“Really, now?” Gerard asked.

“It’s not every day you get the opportunity to have a celebrity as your roommate,” Emory joked to lighten the mood, though he was out of practice and Gerard didn’t laugh.

“I don’t think anyone in history has ever had an invisible roommate,” Gerard said.

“There’s a first time for everything,” Emory said, glancing over at the back of Gerard’s head, which was somehow just as handsome as every other part of him. Emory’s mind broke loose with thoughts of other types of first times, but he shut those down immediately. The last time he’d allowed hormones to cloud his thinking, he’d let his life’s work get burgled right out from under his nose.

He vowed, Never ever again.

17Gerard

A few days later, the mail boat swanned in carrying people, freight, and a first feel of autumnal weather.

A chilly breeze blew off the bay, and the temperature hovered south of seventy degrees for the first time since Gerard had arrived on the island. Even in the unclouded Saturday sunshine, Gerard longed for a cozy cable-knit sweater to curl up in, but he couldn’t go back to the apartment to get one while Emory slept. They’d agreed on a schedule, and Gerard wouldn’t break it so soon.

Gerard stopped into the tiny Bay Brew café. The barista was a tall Asian woman with bangs and a black bob whose greeting was overpowered by a loud Halloween-sounds CD playing from a nearby ancient-looking boom box. Between creaks, thunderclaps, and maniacal laughter, Gerard attempted to order a small vanilla latte with oat milk, only to be interrupted by the sound of a real live scream. It came from the barista herself, who rushed to the door when she saw the postman coming up the steps.

“Pumpkin spice syrup!” she shouted, hoisting a package into the air when she returned. “Do you know how long ago I ordered this? Spooky season can finally start! Shall we make that a small pumpkin spice latte instead?”

Gerard began to decline until he noticed the sparkle dim in her eyes. He acquiesced. Even though his coffee tasted like melted decorative-candle wax, he was happy to have shared in someone else’s excitement.

Later in his amble, he found himself lured back to the church. Notes played on a grand organ curled out the open doors and down the front steps, beckoning him like God’s all-powerful finger as painted by Michelangelo on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

Vibrations filled Gerard’s hands as he recalled organ lessons at his childhood church. During his first lesson with the choir director, Mr. Bud—an older, single man whose flashy outfits and interesting jewelry were often talked about behind his back—Gerard was shocked by the robustness of the sound the instrument could make up close. As his fingers pressed down on the black-and-white keys, he’d felt powerful beyond his boyish strength. Having never shined on a field or on a court, in church, sitting at that instrument, he could command an entire room with his stylings.

Nearly on tiptoe, he crept inside the church, imagining himself as a furry, solitary mouse poking out from a hidey-hole. If he kept himself small and quiet, maybe nobody would notice him lurking, and he could bask in the music and the memories of a simpler time when playing instruments was only for fun and sexuality was a term they hadn’t yet gotten to in health class.

The organ placement and a creaking floorboard shot his fantasy in the foot. At the threshold to the nave, Regina caught his eye over the small, unshowy light brown organ. The instrument paled sharply in comparison to the grandiose pipe organ Gerard had learned to play on. Mr. Bud treated the organ as if it were a deity all its own. Gerard was required to thoroughly wash his hands before even touching the instrument, and he had to change into special, narrow leather shoes, which were never to be worn outside, to operate the foot pedals. The routine of it made his brain happy.

Regina’s voice wrenched him back into the present. “Come in, James.”

Once again, he fumbled by turning over his shoulder, assuming someone named James stood behind him. Being called by his middle name was an adjustment he still hadn’t quite mastered. “Sorry to interrupt.”

“It’s okay. I was warming up before choir practice,” she said. She stopped playing and began reorganizing her chaotically strewn sheet music. “Would you care to join us?”

Her offer called to mind warm, candlelit Christmas masses as a tween, being one small voice rising up during “Silent Night” under Mr. Bud’s waving hands. Despite the fondness he felt for those days and this talented woman, he said, “No, thank you.”

Joining them would require stepping fully inside, and while he didn’t expect to burst into flames, he did not want old emotions to swarm him without due cause. If he joined them for practice, that meant he’d have to sing at masses, and attending a mass was a rope bridge over violent rapids. He couldn’t risk getting swept up.

“That’s a shame. I’ve heard you singing down on the beach at low tide with that gorgeous guitar of yours. You have a sweet voice,” she said, standing and then moving toward him so she wasn’t shouting over ten rows of pews. “We could use a boost in our tenor section.”

“I couldn’t possibly,” he said quickly. “I’m too busy. I was just on my way to—Yeah, I’m busy.” Lifelike Jesus up on the crucifix presiding over the altar stopped Gerard from lying further. If his fame and sexuality weren’t enough, lying in a house of worship would certainly open a trapdoor underfoot that slid him right to hell.

Gerard made like he was off someplace else in a hurry, but he ended up circling the church and nesting in the graveyard next door with his journal open in his lap.