Page 68 of The Invisible Roommate

“In theory, yes.” Emory worried Gerard might not like what he saw. Maybe his torso was too slim or his ass was too flat or his knees were too knobby. But everything was already in motion. And he wanted to be bold.

“Won’t this,” Gerard said, “get in our way?”

“I was thinking you’d only wear it if I…” Try as he might, he still couldn’t bring himself to say the words. Getting this far—initiating sex—was enough of a challenge.

“Topped me,” Gerard finished for him. If Gerard had already donned the helmet, Emory knew his head would’ve turned the deepest shade of red the thermogram could display.

“Only if you still want to.” Emory’s words were shaky.

“Oh, I want to,” Gerard said. He gave Emory a delicious kiss before disappearing into the bathroom to ready himself for what would be a pivotal experience in Emory’s life.

Hours later, laughter from outside woke Emory with a frantic start.

He hadn’t slept that deeply in years. Sex tuckered him out.

Being inside Gerard had sent his body into a heavenly tailspin, and the comedown made him crash straight into the pillows, energy sapped from every muscle in his body. Lights out.

A vivid dream had materialized right away. Most nights, he’d dreamed about Gerard. That night, instead, he saw hair clips, asphalt littered with crushed candy wrappers, and his own cold, shaking hands. They weren’t kid hands like they had been before. They were his adult hands, newly calloused from playing guitar and scratched up at the backs from overwork.

Awake, the laughter—closer now—was followed by a bang, a splat, and a low, nearly inaudible thud. Any chance at remembering his dream fully evaded him as worry pinged through the room.

Is someone trying to break in?

He blinked the crusties from his eyes and checked the bedside clock. It was a little before midnight. His stomach roiled even as he stayed stuck in bed. Still naked, Gerard slept peacefully beside him, blithely unaware of the approaching chaos.

A firm but muted knock came from the front door. Inhabiting that groggy space between dream and reality, and with some protective instinct kicking in, Emory slipped on his robe and tiptoed to the door to inspect. Sex-drunk and sleep-addled, when the knock sounded again, he opened the door quietly so as not to wake Gerard.

Below the landing, in the yard beside Regina’s house, he could just barely make out movement. The moon reflecting off the bay lent the only light to the scene of toilet paper dangling from tree branches and a shockingly white carton that appeared to be floating midair.

At first, Emory worried this was Anderson—he’d replicated his serum and come to gloat of his achievement—until the carton came closer. There were at least four people out there. The reason they couldn’t be seen was because they blended in, clad all in black. Ski masks, gloves, turtlenecks. The figures weren’t tall, and their laughter was high-pitched, so they couldn’t have been more than young teenagers.

“Gotcha, mister!” came a shout from the steps to his right.

The first thing Emory saw when he turned was a speckled brown egg sailing through the air before it collided with his cheek. The second thing he saw were the frightened eyes of a teenager framed by a woolen mask.

The egg guts dripped down Emory’s yelping face.

Emory’s yelping face that couldn’t be seen.

Stumbling back inside, he slammed and locked the door.

Finally, Gerard stirred. “What’s wrong? What’s happening?” His voice bobbed in a sea of sleepiness.

Emory wasn’t sure what was worse: the sting of the yolk in his eye or the fact that he’d unwittingly revealed his invisibility to a prankster. “I’ve been hit.”

“Hit?” Gerard sprang up and turned on a light. His initial panic visibly subsided when he marched into the kitchen and must have realized that the liquid on Emory’s face was egg and not blood. “Who did this?”

“Some teenagers were vandalizing the house,” Emory said, breath still wedged up in his chest. “I think … I think one of them saw me.”

“You and I both know that’s impossible.” To remove the drying residue, Gerard ran a warm, damp paper towel over Emory’s face.

“I wasn’t thinking when I answered the door.” Emory remained undeterred by Gerard’s attempt at reassurance. “You can see my robe. You can see the egg. The kid saw it, too. Dripping down an invisible face.”

“It’s dark out. The kid probably didn’t know what he was seeing. He’s running on adrenaline and preholiday candy. I’m sure it’s fine.”

Emory let those words sink in and sat himself at the kitchen table. “But why did they come here dressed like that?”

“Because it’s mischief night.” Since the first paper towel didn’t complete the job, Gerard wet a second at the sink. “Well, it was. It’s after midnight now.”