Page 61 of The Invisible Roommate

“Should I have?” Emory twirled his spoon around inside his mug.

“It seems like a quintessential meal for college and graduate students. I assumed you’d tried it at least once.”

“I assumed ‘tour bus special’ was some sort of hypergreen blender concoction for optimal energy and flawless skin.” His eyes scanned Gerard’s acne-less cheeks and his grooveless forehead. Momentarily, he contemplated what Gerard might look like as an old man. Once his music career ended—if it ever ended—would he let his hair grow out and his middle go soft and round? The conjured, more-wrinkled Future Gerard was just as appealing as the vivacious one with broth dotted on his lips sitting before him.

Gerard made a yuck face. “Being here and eating your cooking has been a nice reprieve from the crash diets and protein powders. If my personal trainer could see me now!” Gerard looked like a fish and the noodles like baited worms as he dangled his spoon high above his parted, puffed-out lips.

“Your trainer obviously knows what he’s doing,” Emory said, thankful his eyes were invisible so Gerard wouldn’t know he was raking his gaze up and down those defined arms.

“When they want you to be the best, they hire you the best so you look your best.” Gerard sighed. “I want to skip to the part where I’m not expected to be the best. I can just be.”

“What would you be if you could just be?” Emory asked.

Clouds passed over Gerard’s expression. His spoon spun in his mug. “I’d be someone who would eat everything-but-the-kitchen-sink ramen for every meal.”

“Your poor cholesterol,” Emory teased.

“Thank you for your concern, Dr. Griffin.”

Even in jest, the name made Emory bristle, bringing fresh heat to the skin of his neck. They ate in silence for quite a while as Emory turned over his thoughts one at a time like cards in a memory game.

Getting so close to finishing his PhD and then being laughed out of the institution was traumatic. He’d spent his entire adolescence dreaming of the day somebody—everybody—would call him Dr. Griffin. What chance did he have of that now? His reputation was ruined, and he was on the run from the law. No self-respecting institution was going to give him a pass at this point, unless his big display at the alumni gala changed some important minds.

There was still a small shred of hope that he could be as world-renowned as he’d always imagined if he worked fast and the serum wore off in time.

Lost in his head, he didn’t register Gerard standing over him. “Earth to Emory—are you done?” Gerard pointed at the mostly empty mug.

“Yes. Thank you.”

Gerard smiled sweetly and bent down. “Permission to come in for a landing?” He pursed his lips.

“Permission granted.” Emory led Gerard in by the back of the neck so they could kiss again. It was the kind of kiss that swept his mind clean of regrets and worries.

28Gerard

Back in the stuffy confessional, after the obligatory song and dance of “Bless me, Father,” Gerard launched into the real reason he was back. “I did some research. On Saint Gerard. Like you told me to.” His words came out halting, like the screech of old car brakes in stop-and-go traffic.

“Did you run here?” Father Daniels asked.

He’d had a couple of Emory’s books to covertly return to the library, and while he was there, he wanted to fulfill the final part of his penance. Bouncing from book to computer, he absorbed as much as he could about Saint Gerard until he glimpsed the time and bolted.

Theoretically, afterward, he could’ve asked to see Father Daniels in his office but this was more comfortable with the illusion of privacy the box and latticework window provided. Besides, after almost a month away from the gym and his training regimen, the cardio did him good, especially given how sweaty and out of breath he was. “I jogged.”

“Very well. What did you learn?” Father Daniels asked.

It felt a lot like he was about to give a book report. “Beyond the Italian impoverished upbringing and his devotion to joining a monastery, all the reports of him claim he had ties to mystic powers.”

“Are you referring to the handkerchief Saint Gerard gave to a young girl who later in life laid it on herself in childbirth and it abated her pain?” Father Daniels asked.

Gerard shook his head until he recalled the wall between them. This must’ve been what Emory experienced often, like there was a partition between them all the time unless they were touching. “No. I’m not even referring to the miraculous wheat supply for the hungry farmers or the boy who fell from the cliff that he prayed back to life. Those are in line with all the water-into-wine stuff in the Bible. I’m talking about the levitation and bilocation.”

There was shuffling on the other side of the wall, as if Father Daniels was preparing himself to finish for the day. “What about it?”

“Isn’t that … I don’t know … too pagan or magic that’s unfit for the church?” he asked, thinking about Emory’s invisibility and how he’d assumed it was supernatural at first.

“Those gifts are bestowed by the Spirit and are shining examples of holiness and sainthood. They serve as reminders of the divine goodness that can come from living in servitude to God.”

“How do we know these gifts are … real?” Certainly, it was easier to ask this than the other question he’d heard flung around by their tour musicians. Before a show, Gerard’s dad would make everyone participate in a “nondenominational” prayer circle. As they held hands, he’d say things like, “May He bless us with strength, safety, and the energy to put on the best show possible.”