Page 62 of The Invisible Roommate

Later, the keyboardist would be out back smoking a cigarette while Gerard was getting some air, and she’d posit, “Is God even real?” While he knew it was a rhetorical question, Gerard always fought this nagging urge to answer it, to dig for evidence and find proof one way or another, the way he and his brothers used to set “traps” for Santa Claus on Christmas Eve until their parents told them that if they kept that up, they’d be permanently put on the naughty list.

“We are not to judge the veracity of gifts. The clergy takes the lead on deciphering miracles, and witnesses observed these miraculous gifts. Is that not enough to warrant belief?”

Father Daniels hadn’t sounded like he was expecting further resistance, but Gerard couldn’t help himself. “I guess I’m wondering how some of these people were deemed holy and others were burned at the stake?”

Sometimes, the media made him feel like he was being tied up and lit ablaze. Back before he learned better, he would Google himself and was shocked to discover countless uncredited conspiracies, blogs, and groups of people claiming We the Wells was part of the Illuminati and that all pop music was satanic, which caused a severe crisis of conscience until, with the help of his therapist, he untangled the sticky emotions.

“Catholic mysticism is about direct communion with God, not the devil. That’s the difference.” The statement was a firm rap like a judge banging a gavel.

“But how could they tell?” Rapidly, he sensed he was losing his audience, which he was used to, given his penchant for a thousand questions that led to a thousand more. Nevertheless, it always discouraged him. Being curious shouldn’t have been a bad thing.

“The confessional, my son, is for hearing confessions, the time for which has passed. Come and see me in the parish office another time. My door is always open,” he said, leaving Gerard in the wooden box that could’ve burst from the stress of his ballooning inquiries.

“Let’s start with scales today,” Gerard said that evening after dinner, still trying to shake the uneasiness from Father Daniels’s abrupt departure from the confessional that morning.

As Emory skillfully performed scales on Pascal, Gerard marveled at how quickly Emory caught on. While he considered himself a good student, he’d never picked up a new instrument this fast; however, teaching Emory illuminated the shadowy cavern where he’d banished his musical enthusiasm.

When first learning any instrument, Gerard was eager to hear songs in the disjointed sounds he was making. Any hint of recognizable melody turned him into a canteen of hope, powering through the pain of practice to get to the good stuff, so he taught Emory “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” by Bob Dylan.

“You’re really getting the hang of this,” Gerard said during Emory’s first attempt, murmuring the down-up-down-up-down strumming pattern under his breath. If he could’ve seen Emory’s face, he imagined focus lines etched around his mouth smoothing out into a smile.

Emory fumbled a chord after the compliment, sighing and sagging back into the couch. “You’re just saying that so I don’t give up. This is hard work. I wish I could force my neurons to work faster. My coordination since becoming invisible has taken a sharp downturn. I never considered that drawback.” He pivoted to a notebook he kept stationed on the arm of the love seat and scribbled something entirely unintelligible to Gerard.

“I try not to give out compliments when I don’t mean them,” Gerard said. His general fondness for Emory might’ve been skewing his reactions, but his encouragement was genuine.

Emory seemed to not hear him. “If only there were a way to speed up myelin production in my brain. You know what? Let’s start eating more fish. I’m also going to add nuts and seeds to our grocery list. Not much I can do by way of my vitamin D intake, given I’m stuck inside all day, though.”

“Once the weather gets warm next year, you could always take up nude sunbathing.” Immediately after saying it, he flushed.

The night before, as they made out, they’d knotted the sheets by rolling around so much, switching up who was on top. While Emory sat on his lap, it was impossible not to notice Emory’s hard length stretching over his stomach. Similarly, there was no way he was hiding his own erection inside the thin fabric of his boxer shorts. Yet any time he considered moving a hand from the small of Emory’s back to the unseen yet surely impressive tent at Emory’s front, his arms seized up. A phantom pen squirmed in between his fingers; a ghostly stack of papers dropped from his father’s hand and thudded onto the bedside table.

Boner gone. Mind abuzz. Moment lost.

His body went static, and not in a good way.

Was he forever going to be neurotic about sex?

“The dopamine levels in my brain rise every time you teach me. So there’s good in here, too. Are there any other easy songs we could play together?” Emory asked. “Maybe with you on the dulcimer? Or something you know that you could sing?”

“Probably. Why?” Gerard asked.

“Making music together releases oxytocin, which reduces stress and anxiety. It also helps with memory. I think it might aid me in keeping my chords straight. Also…”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“Tell me.”

“Oxytocin is a building block of social bonding.” A sheepishness made Emory’s voice wobble.

“Why didn’t you want to say that?” Gerard asked.

“Because I have a hypothesis, but it’s untested, so I don’t think it’s right to share.”

“It’s not right to harbor an invisible fugitive, either, Louise, but here I am, so spill.”

“Oxytocin born of playing music together creates group cohesion,” he explained. “You said nobody in the band knows about your sexuality or your neurodivergence, right?”