Page 44 of The Invisible Roommate

Gerard had half a mind to trash the solo selection on his way out of the church, but the title of the hymn stopped him. A hazy memory formed of his oldest brother, Gavin, strumming this on his first guitar back when they were kids. In childhood, their bedrooms shared a wall, so in early evenings, Gerard would press his ear up against the navy-blue paint while Gavin was practicing, taking in both the setbacks and the excitements of learning an instrument.

If ever Gerard was home sick from school and the house was empty, he’d sneak into Gavin’s room. Some other younger brothers might have gone looking for love notes or drugs or dirty magazines, but Gerard went right for the guitar. He’d sit by the window and try to replicate Gavin’s playing, assessing how different the sounds and motions were from the organ at the church or the keyboard in the den.

That morning, as he walked toward the Bay Brew café, Gerard decided that he would work out the solo song on his guitar for the fun of it and rerouted to Regina’s after securing another pumpkin spice latte, the flavor of which had still not grown on him.

Quietly, he reentered the apartment, expecting Emory to be asleep with the curtains drawn and the lights out, but instead, he heard what sounded suspiciously like a moan. Not one of those ghostly moans Emory had made when trying to scare Gerard out of the apartment; this was more guttural, more decadent, more …

Oh God. In the few beams of sunlight streaming in through the flaps of the semisheer curtains, the impression of Emory’s long body was well defined on the cream-colored fitted sheet that hugged the sagging mattress. The outline of his middle indented deeper a few times as another moan broke out.

Gerard lost his grip on the door handle, and the door thudded back into its frame.

“Sorry!” Gerard yelped, covering his eyes even though he clearly couldn’t see anything. Hot coffee splashed onto his exposed hands and onto the floor.

“What are you doing back already?!” Emory shouted with an edge to his voice. Gerard peered through a crack between his fingers. The clothes haphazardly balled on the floor were airborne now, being tugged back on.

“Sorry!” Gerard repeated. “I had choir practice this morning and came back to grab my guitar. I didn’t realize you’d be—”

“This is my time as per your roommate agreement,” he snapped, nothing at all like the guy from the night before during the lesson. What Emory failed to realize, Gerard thought, was that he’d have been better off staying naked, because as soon as Emory put on those thin gray sweatpants without any underwear, he inadvertently made his raging boner visible.

Highly visible.

Largely visible.

“You’re right,” Gerard croaked, trying not to think about the sheer size and shape of Emory’s dick.

With a hand still over his eyes, he set his coffee cup down and felt his way toward the kitchen. He grabbed a towel and cleaned up as best he could.

“You could’ve knocked!” Emory growled, though the growl was undercut by audible embarrassment.

“I’ll knock next time,” Gerard said. He banged his shin because he wasn’t watching where he was going. Slightly hurt, he bent down to retrieve his guitar case. “I’ll leave you to it. Not it as in—Uh, just … have a good afternoon!”

He bolted out of there at a speed even his personal trainer couldn’t keep stride with. It wasn’t until he hit the dock that he realized he’d left the rest of his pumpkin spice latte behind.

On the public beach steps from the house, Gerard spent the rest of the day learning the solo song, and definitely not thinking about Emory Griffin’s very real yet very invisible dick.

There was a hell of a lot of cognitive dissonance needed to sing the lyrics “Blest are the pure in heart, for they shall see our God” while seeing, in his mind’s eye, a pair of scandalous sweats hugging a slender, unseeable frame.

No, he felt more like the “lowly soul” in the third verse of the song.

Sand shifted and seaweed squelched behind him. He stopped playing and spun around. Regina wore plum-colored capris, a trucker hat, and an IPING ISLAND sweatshirt surely from the souvenir shop near the dock.

“Oh joy! I was hoping you’d take the hint,” she said, smiling at him, wind whipping her short hair against her cheeks.

“What hint was that?” he asked.

“That you should take the solo,” she said. She took a long time to sit down beside him. Her bones creaked and cracked. “I purposefully printed the sheet music with the guitar chords on it, hoping to inspire you. I heard you playing last night.”

“I wasn’t play—” He cut himself off before he divulged anything about Emory. “I don’t plan on auditioning,” he said, setting his guitar down in the case beside him.

“Why not?” she asked, almost sounding offended.

“Because I’m new to the choir. I’m sure there are plenty of deserving longtime members who would love to sing this,” he said, snatching the sheet music off his striped towel before it blew away.

“Perhaps, but I think all good longtime members want what’s best for the group, and what’s best for the group is the person who is best for the song.” Her pragmatism struck him in a sore spot. When in the recording studio, We the Wells never worked that way. Some label exec decided years ago that Garret was the de facto lead singer. Lines and harmonies got doled out to Gerard and Gavin as if they were afterthoughts and not integral parts of the sonic experience of the song.

But of course, equality in a band was next to impossible. Besides, if he took the lead on a studio recording, he’d be expected to sing lead for that song on tour, which meant a reorganization of their perfect triangle of microphone stands. Gerard was the rear left point. He was comfortable back there.

“I don’t think I’m the best person,” he said to Regina, eyes cast out on the water. People with more money and better suits than him had told him so.