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11 EMERSON

Emerson follows Denise into the back, hardly paying attention to his surroundings, his own mind processing. Jason warned him the twins could be a little intense, and they were but not in the way Emerson expected. Charlie was a little much, though nice enough. He’d liked Andrew though, with his steady demeanor. He reminded Emerson a bit of Jason, albeit a lot less smiley and open. He had the same calm countenance as Jason though.

Thinking about the twins, it’s impossible not to compare them to Jason. They were both friendly enough, and definitely handsome, although in a much different way. They had the same black hair as Jason, but where Jason’s short hair is always a little messy and wind tousled like he was just playing outside, Andrew’s is perfectly styled, not a hair out of place. Charlie’s got thick waves that look purposely styled in a way that he wants to look messy but is too perfect to actually be so. The twins are tall too, maybe two inches taller than Emerson but not nearly as tall as Jason.

Despite those variances, their relation is clear in the shape of their big brown eyes and the slant of their noses, but the differences are bigger than the similarities. Where Jason is thick, Andrew and Charlie are both lean and lanky. Where Jason’s face is more square, the twins have a sharpness to their features. They’re attractive, undeniably so, yet neither of them can hold a candle to Jason.

Not that Emerson should be thinking about how handsome Jason is with his big smile, big body and even bigger heart. With a resigned sigh, Emerson knows there’s no point stopping his own train of thought. He’s got a crush on Jason. Although that word hardly feels appropriate. A crush is something small, unsubstantiated. By definition, it’s a brief and intense infatuation. Nothing about what he feels for Jason is brief and infatuation implies a shallowness which couldn’t be further from the truth.

What he feels for Jason is more . He likes the way Jason fills the silence with words that are easy to listen to, often not expecting Emerson to join into the conversation but always including him. Then there are the times where Jason manages not to talk because he’s listening, letting Emerson ramble about one of his students or a book he read. Sometimes it’s in person and other times in massive walls of text messages that he always responds to as if he’s actually interested.

Certainly, his looks are eye-catching. Jason is the kind of attractive that everyone around him takes notice of. Emerson might not pick up on a lot of things, but he can’t pretend he doesn’t see the way men and women alike stare. Not that Emerson can blame them. Jason’s absolutely gorgeous. He’s the kind of handsome that makes Emerson curl his hands around himself in bed every night when there’s no one around to bear witness to his secret thoughts. The kind of handsome that makes Emerson ache with desire when he imagines all the things he’d do to Jason, or maybe if he was feeling particularly brave, things he might ask Jason to do to him. That is if he had the chance. Which he knows he won’t, ever. Jason doesn’t like Emerson like that because Jason isn’t gay.

Thankfully his looks are easy enough to ignore, at least most of the time. Emerson’s been attracted to men before. He knows what it’s like to have a physical reaction to someone he has no chance with. The difficulty is, that it’s not Jason’s looks that have Emerson’s heart beating faster and his thoughts dwelling on how warm and safe Jason is in every way.

Jason is Emerson’s favorite person in the entire world. He’s the person he wants to see even when he doesn’t want to be around anyone. Jason is everything good in the world, and Emerson is maybe a little bit in love with him.

“Emerson?”

Startled, Emerson looks up to find Denise watching him.

“Sorry, were you talking?” he asks, waiting for her annoyance. People always get annoyed when he zones out.

“I was just asking what the occasion is. Andrew only mentioned needing it by Saturday, not what it was for.”

“Homecoming,” Emerson answers. “Me and Jason are going together.”

“You two make a very sweet couple.” Denise’s expression softens. “Did you want to match his suit?”

“Couple,” Emerson croaks. “No, we’re not—no. He’s not…he doesn’t…we’re going together. As chaperones. Non-romantic chaperones because Jason is straight, and we’re just friends you see.”

“Sure thing, doll face.” She doesn’t press or prod, but her eyes never leave Emerson’s face, making him squirm. “You look so much like her.”

“Like who?”

“Your mother,” Denise answers. “Beth.”

Goosebumps spring up across both of Emerson’s arms, and it’s all he can do not to collapse against the wall.

“You knew my mom?”

“Sure did. I was a senior when she was a freshman. You can imagine I wasn't too popular back then. I didn’t fit into what a girl was supposed to look like, especially in high school. I’ve always been butch and loved menswear. Your mom though, she was an angel. Always sat with me at lunch even when no one else would. The second you walked into the store I knew. You look exactly like her.”

Giving in to the weakness, he slumps against the wall, the words hardly processing. He’d known it was possible to meet people who knew his mom coming back to her hometown, but so far he’d not had much luck. Mabel was the only person who had worked at the school when his mom was there and she didn’t remember his mom. He knows because he asked.

“I was sorry to hear about her passing,” Denise says, guiding Emerson over to a small seating area. “I never saw her again after she graduated. Last I heard, she got pregnant and moved to the east coast somewhere.”

“Pennsylvania,” Emerson offers. He spins his ring while trying to ignore the tears he feels pooling at the corners of his eyes. His aunt and uncle never talked about his mom after she died. Sometimes, it felt as if they thought they could will away Emerson’s grief by pretending she never existed at all. He wondered sometimes if his aunt even missed her sister, or if having to raise Emerson was just a reminder of the sibling she would’ve been happier to forget.

“What was she like?” Emerson asks, desperate for a memory of her that isn’t his own. He was so young when she died that sometimes he’s not sure if the things he remembers about her are real or simply things he wishes had been true.

“She was like sunshine,” Denise answers, lowering herself into the chair opposite Emerson. “She was the kind of person who helped everyone, even when she didn’t have the time or resources. She was always smiling too, made you feel like she actually wanted you around, you know?”

“Yeah,” Emerson whispers, finding it easier to remember her now. She’d always made Emerson feel so loved, as if the things he liked and did and needed were okay.

His mother always smelled like roses. She had red hair and Emerson’s nose and eyes. She had a loud laugh and liked dresses. These are the things he knows are true.

“I might have a photo of us somewhere in my garage. I could look for it, if you’d like,” Denise offers.

The depth of desire this invokes is boundless. How desperately he wanted to see photos of his mother growing up, his own paltry few photos hidden away in his room, where his aunt and uncle couldn't shove them away in the attic like she never existed, were never enough to sustain the longing.

Lost for words, the most Emerson can manage is nod.

Denise smiles in return, and it softens her features. “I’ll let Andrew know if I find it.”

Emerson’s heartbeat seems too fast for his body, every thud of it inside his chest uncomfortable. Sometimes he becomes aware of his own pulse in a way that makes it feel like he’s on the verge of a panic attack. It’s difficult to explain to other people the way he can randomly become so aware of the seams on his socks or his own heartbeat that he quite literally wishes he could take his own skin off, or maybe lay on the floor and become one with the carpet.

Closing his eyes and breathing deep, he waits. Any second Denise is going to push for more conversation, to ask questions Emerson can’t answer about his mother or the suit. He’s too flustered to think about what she might ask to script a response, which only makes his heart rate increase. To his surprise, all that happens is the soft background noise of classical music. When he opens his eyes, it’s to find the lighting has been dimmed, somehow making him feel less exposed.

“Andrew likes it like this, thought you might too,” she says in explanation. “I left a portfolio on that table in front of you if you wanna flip through and see if any of the styles catch your eye. I just remembered an important email I forgot to send, but I won’t be more than fifteen minutes, if you’ll excuse me.”

It’s not until the door to the office on her left has clicked shut that Emerson reaches for the black portfolio on the table, hefting it into his lap. His fingers draw back and forth over the spine in a rhythmic pattern until he’s calmed his breathing. Several more moments pass before he opens the book to reveal an array of suits in various cuts and styles. The first few are simple, reminiscent of the stuffy, traditional ones his aunt always forced him into. He continues to flip the pages, hardly paying attention when his gaze lands on something different. His first and only thought is being picked up by Jason in this, how it might feel to have those warm, kind eyes directed his way in something like this. It’s silly he knows. Jason isn’t actually his date, but Emerson’s never even been on a real one. Never dressed up for a guy, or even himself, and the idea of doing it makes unexpected butterflies flutter in his belly.

Sure, Jason won’t be looking at him with attraction, but he still might like how Emerson looks. He’s always complimenting Emerson when he wears green, or telling him he’s handsome. While Emerson is sure it’s just something Jason does with all his friends, it still makes him feel good. After a lifetime of having his shortcomings and flaws pointed out, Jason’s freely given compliments and praise feel like the first rays of sunshine after a harsh winter.

Suddenly, it’s all Emerson can do not to hide his face in his hands and scream, unable to distract himself from his thoughts of Jason. Would Jason like the color? The fit? Would he tell Emerson he looked nice? Maybe even that he looked pretty? Hearing Charlie say it had made Emerson feel squirmy and awkward. But it doesn’t feel like that when Jason says it, and it’s kind of embarrassing how bad he wants to find a reason for him to do so.

Emerson swallows around a rush of emotions too complicated and messy to differentiate. Longing, confusion, grief, and most of all Jason himself. Drawing his fingers over the photo he finds it impossible to pretend this isn’t what he wants. He stares at it for so long Denise returns to the room, hovering near Emerson for long seconds before she finally speaks.

“Find something you like, sweetheart?”

He holds his breath, weighing his options. This is the kind of suit that will make people look at him. He won’t be able to hide in the background, but he’s done that for so long. Maybe it’s alright now. Maybe it’s safe to stop hiding. Besides, he won’t be alone. Jason will be there, and that makes Emerson feel brave enough to answer honestly.

“Yes.”

* * *

An hour later, Emerson is quite certain he doesn’t want to ever be measured for a suit again. Andrew was right that Denise was patient and accommodating, but Emerson quickly realized that while he’s often desperate to be touched, it’s only when that touch comes from Jason that it’s soothing. Jason’s touch is firm, grounding. He always gives Emerson’s neck or shoulder a deep pressure squeeze that makes his body buzz with happy feelings. In stark contrast, Denise’s touches had been light, probably in an attempt to be respectful. While appreciated, it made it feel like feathers were ghosting across his skin in the worst way possible.

By the time Emerson emerges into the front sitting room, he’s all kinds of cranky. Between being touched too much and crying over his mom, he feels like someone scrubbed his insides over with sandpaper. All he wants to do is go home and burrow on his couch under his weighted blanket for a few hours with Lord of the Rings on in the background.

Bracing himself for a bunch of people staring at him, he’s surprised to find the front sitting room empty aside from Jason.

“Where are your brothers?”

Jason almost drops his phone, fumbling it between his big hands as he stares at Emerson. His cheeks are flushed red, almost as if he’s overheated, and Emerson wonders if he’s hot.

“I uh, sent them home,” Jason says, twisting his phone in his hands. “Fuckers were driving me nuts.”

Relief makes Emerson’s shoulders sag. “Oh good, I don’t wanna be around anyone. Wait, that's rude.”

Jason barks out a laugh. “It’s honest, which for the record I like.”

“Okay,” Emerson says, relief heavy in his chest.

“Why don’t I get you home,” Jason offers. “Get me out of your hair too so you don’t have to people.”

“You’re not people,” Emerson blurts.

“I’m not?” Emerson shakes his head. “What exactly am I then?”

“You’re…Jason.”

“And Jason is excluded from people?”

“Uh-huh,” Emerson confirms, seeing no point in pretending now. He’s said it. It’s out there. Besides it wouldn’t be the boldest or most awkward thing he’s ever said to Jason yet.

“Well then I’m honored,” Jason grins, somehow always, managing to say the right thing. “So do you wanna get food and watch Lord of the Rings?”

“We watched it last weekend,” Emerson points out. “Besides, don't you have pizza night with Theo?”

“Not this week. He and Alec went up north for the weekend to a cabin for a belated birthday celebration for Theo. Besides, I like hanging out with you.”

“We could watch something else if you’d rather,” Emerson offers since he knows Jason only put his favorite movie on last week for his benefit. “Something you want.”

“I’m good with anything,” Jason shrugs. “If you’re happy, I’m happy.”

The most incredible thing is, he knows Jason means it. The first time he said it, Emerson had been so certain it was one of those weird expressions or things people say but don’t mean, and he needed to try and parse the true meaning for himself. But no, whatever Jason says he means. He is an open book. Honest, easy to read and for whatever reason, seemingly happy to spend time with Emerson, regardless of what they do.

“What do you want to watch, Emmy?” Jason asks.

“Lord of the Rings,” Emerson mumbles, unsure why he still feels embarrassed even though Jason clearly knows. It’s hard to shake that voice in his head from his family, always giving him shit for his narrow interests. Especially Landon, who’d taken any opportunity to remind him he’d never find a boyfriend who would spend every weekend watching the same movie over and over. He might not have a boyfriend, but he has a Jason, and that’s even better.

“Since we did Fellowship last week, we doing Two Towers this week? I wanna see what happens with Aragorn and Gimli.”

The fact that Jason—a man who barely understood Tolkien when they met—now knows the names of the movies, including in the correct order, and some of the characters, makes Emerson stupidly giddy.

“What?” Jason scrubs his large hand over the side of his jaw, highlighting the light stubble that wasn’t there just the day before. “Is there something on my face?”

“No,” Emerson answers, unable to believe he got caught staring. He’s usually better at pretending Jason isn’t the nicest thing in the entire world to look at. “Just thinking.”

“You’re probably hungry,” Jason muses, moving into Emerson’s personal space the way he always does, like he belongs there. He drapes an arm around Emerson’s shoulder, the weight of it an immediate balm to Emerson’s taxed nervous system. “What are you in the mood for?”

Emerson shrugs, far too low on spoons to make decisions.

“We could order takeout or—” Jason pauses, guiding Emerson towards the front door, pausing in thought as he holds it open.

“Or?”

“I’ve got a loaf of bread and some peanut butter at home. I could make us sandwiches.”

Moving without consciously deciding to do so, Emerson wraps his arms around Jason, relieved when the embrace is returned without fanfare or question. They stand there in the doorway, stuck halfway between the quiet of the tailor and the bustling activity out on the street.

The rise and fall of Jason’s chest steadies him, as does the large hand that smooths up and down his back. As always, Jason intuitively senses that words would be too much and doesn’t question the impromptu hug or the fact that Emerson, who always waits for Jason to touch first, was the one to initiate this one. All he does is hold Emerson close. He might not have much experience with hugs, but he’s certain Jason’s are the best in the entire world, his entire body surrounding Emerson.

When Emerson pulls back from the embrace, his mind is calm in ways it rarely is, his filter apparently gone because what he blurts next is, “Did I ever tell you that Aragorn is descended from Elros Tar-Minyatur making him the last descendant of Anárion?”

The smile that spreads across Jason’s face is wide, his obvious pleasure at Emerson’s unprompted infodumping as soothing to Emerson as the hug had been, albeit in a different way.

“You did not. Why don’t we head to the truck and you can tell me more.”

Emerson smiles, a real smile that he feels all the way in his gut. “Okay, Jason.”

* * *

“What are you wearing?”

“You like it?” Jason grins, defying all odds and somehow managing to make the monstrosity of an outfit he’s got on attractive. It’s actually an anomaly Emerson might mull over later when he’s not standing on the sidewalk with half the people at the bus stop staring at them. “I’m confused,” Emerson answers, unable to stop staring. There’s so much neon and all of it is very tight in ways that remind Emerson he’s very gay and very, very much attracted to Jason. Maybe not usually in spandex, but then again, he’s developing a Pavlovian response to Jason in gray sweats and his team hoodies, also something he wasn’t objectively attracted to before. So it’s quite possible he’s just turned on by anything Jason wears.

The outfit is objectively kind of hideous, but Jason’s thighs are so thick that the lime green spandex stretches tight, highlighting where the very short pink running shorts he’s wearing over the leggings have bunched up. The shirt is equally bright, though more of a highlighter yellow. It’s hard to focus on the color when the sleeves have been cut off revealing Jason’s massive biceps and highlighting all that corded muscle in his forearms dusted with dark hair. The shirt also appears to be just short enough that if he lifted his arms, it might show off his stomach, and it’s all Emerson can do not to turn around and run back to his apartment to hide in bed all day. He resists, if only because calling in with an incurable case of horniness for your fellow teacher is probably not an approved use of sick pay.

“It’s homecoming week.” Jason’s tone is cheerful, as if this explains why everything he’s wearing is so tight and bright. “Didn’t you see the email?”

“I don’t remember,” he answers, tearing his eyes away from Jason’s neon green thighs. He’s far too embarrassed to admit his brain is currently not functioning enough to remember what was in his work email recently. There was definitely something about homecoming, but he’d been very frazzled about chaperoning. Then the business with getting a suit and the subsequent weekend, hanging out with Jason all night Saturday which had somehow led to them hanging out again Sunday. Jason reviewed game tapes on his ipad while Emerson sat next to him on the couch grading. Jason had been wearing a pair of basketball shorts that rode up his thighs showing off the dark hair there, and now he’s thinking about Jason’s hairy thighs again and has lost the vein of the conversation entirely. Something about spirit week he thinks.

“They did spirit week at your old high school, right?” Jason asks. “I loved it when I was still in school.”

While Emerson is very happy that Jason had such an incredible time in high school, his own memories are fraught, and a lot of them he’s blocked out, some intentionally and others not. He has a vague memory of the lead up to homecoming, all the cheerleaders and sports teams wearing their uniforms daily. Which incidentally led to an increase of taunting from Landon and his teammates. The excess of school spirit and inability to avoid jocks meant Emerson hid in the library, racking up detention slips in order to avoid being in class. He definitely doesn’t remember any of his teachers partaking so enthusiastically though. Then again, none of his teachers looked like Jason either.

“Wait, was I supposed to dress up?” Emerson wonders, panicking, his blood running cold. Did he miss an email? Or worse, was there some kind of expectation that teachers partake in spirit week, and he was just supposed to know without being told? He looks down at his brown pants and short-sleeve green button up. He looks like a tree, and Jason looks like a wet dream out of an eighties workout video.

“It’s optional, don’t worry,” Jason assures him, clearly reading Emerson’s mood. He tips sideways, the loose neckline of his shirt fluttering open to reveal a chest dusted in the same dark hair as Jason’s thighs and forearms.

Maybe he should take that sick day after all.

“You getting in?” Jason asks.

Emerson hums, passing his bag to Jason before willing his pathetic heart and overactive imagination to calm down as he climbs into the truck. Just because Jason was extra tactile over the weekend, even for him, doesn’t mean Emerson can start daydreaming about being held all the time. And sure, those daydreams sprung from reality because he’d fallen asleep halfway through the movie on Saturday, waking up cradled in Jason’s arms. But Jason was just a good friend who didn’t push Emerson off even when he fell asleep in inappropriate places, like his straight friend’s arms.

His crush on Jason is getting entirely out of hand, which is dangerous, not because Jason would hate him. No, Jason is too damn nice for that, but because Emerson already has more than he ever dreamed, and he’s not stupid enough to want more.

Not even in his wildest fantasies did he ever imagine when he moved to Southern California that he might not just survive, but thrive. Sure the days are long and often overstimulating, but they’re satisfying in a way that makes it bearable. He also loves being a teacher. Somehow despite his own horrible high school experience, he still loves teenagers because they lack a filter and are brutally honest, which makes it easier for him to navigate intentions. He’s also in the position of power, making him feel a hell of a lot safer. Imagining that his very straight new friend—best friend, favorite person in the entire world if he’s being honest—might wake up one day and decide he has feelings for Emerson is just fanciful and outlandish.

If Emerson isn’t careful, he’s going to do something very stupid and fall in love with Jason.

“Emmy?”

Emerson exhales a heavy breath, turning to face Jason and oh, what beautiful torture that is. Jason’s got that concerned look on his face, his attention honed in on Emerson like he cares because he does.

“Yeah?” Emerson whispers, unsure why Jason’s gaze feels heavier today. Maybe it’s his imagination. Maybe he’s already got one foot over the cliff, ready to fall whether he wants to or not and is seeing what he wants to see. He’s always had good pattern recognition, been good at noticing what other people didn’t. But at the same time, the disconnect between understanding the more nuanced meanings in what he notices is sometimes lost on him. This feels like one of those times.

It feels like he’s missing something, only Emerson has no idea what.

“You ready?”

Nodding, Emerson buckles his seatbelt. “Are you gonna dress up every day or—” but the rest of his sentence cuts off when Jason’s engine rumbles to life and the speakers blare. It’s not music that blasts through in surround sound but an audiobook. One Emerson knows by heart.

“Shit, sorry,” Jason mumbles, jabbing the radio off with an uncharacteristic amount of awkwardness. “You texted you’d be a few minutes, so I shut my engine off and forgot I was listening to that.”

“Jason.”

“It’s so loud too,” Jason continues, his cheeks absolutely beet red. It occurs to Emerson that aside from last weekend at the tailor, he’s never seen Jason blush, and certainly not like this. “I had it loud because the windows were down. I like some fresh air in the mornings.”

“Jason.”

Jason inhales, pressing on the gas pedal with a bit too much force, so Emerson is jerked backward, and both of their seat belts lock up. Jason curses under his breath, his cheeks red as a tomato now as he mumbles to himself and merges into the flow of traffic.

Utterly confused, Emerson also feels like he might cry because he very strongly suspects he knows why Jason might have been listening to this particular audiobook. He stares at the road, too emotional to look at Jason.

For a few long seconds, neither of them say a word, then Jason is rambling again.

“There was no student. I only let you think that because I was kind of embarrassed. I heard you that first day when I dropped your books off, telling your kids audiobooks were reading. Only no one had, well, no one had ever told me that. I’ve never been very good at reading. Theo had to tutor me all through high school so I could stay on the team. I’m not smart like Andrew, and I wasn’t an art prodigy like Charlie. I was decent enough at football to be on varsity though, at least in high school, but my grades were shitty. Especially in English. Mr. Caldwell fucking hated me, and he hated that Theo helped me pass, and he’s kind of the reason I just hated reading.”

Jason is barely taking in a breath, his eyes never leaving the road and his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles go white.

“I know it’s stupid because I’m a grown man, and a teacher myself now, but sometimes I still hear him in my head telling me, maybe I’m not that smart, you know? But then you were there, day one, telling your kids that all books counted as reading. I knew objectively, but it was amazing hearing you tell them what I wish I could’ve heard when I was their age.”

Jason’s hands shift on the steering wheel as he breathes, and Emerson wishes he were better with words, with feelings. He hates that anyone ever made Jason feel dumb, or that he might be embarrassed about listening to an audiobook for whatever reason. Most of the time, Emerson isn’t the biggest fan of people, but he really hates anyone who has ever hurt Jason.

“There’s also the way you talk about books, Emmy. I thought—” Jason pauses, filling his cheeks with air and holding it like a chipmunk before blowing it out. “I wanted to see if maybe I could experience a book the way you do. I know I’m not a reader, and I won’t ever be, but I thought maybe I could try this one and we could…we could talk about it.”

It is quite possibly the kindest thing anyone has ever done for Emerson. Not sending him to therapy or classes to learn to be flexible or like other people. Not hoping he might magically have a different brain. But rather, finding a way to bridge the gap to understand Emerson’s special interest.

“Jason,” Emerson whispers, unsure how his heart can feel so small yet so big.

“I wanted to share it with you because it makes you so happy.”

Right there. Explicit confirmation. Jason is listening to Lord of the Rings because of Emerson. For Emerson.

“Jason,” he tries again.

“Fucking traffic, it’s only a Monday,” Jason mutters nervously. Emerson has never seen him nervous before.

“Jason.” He uses his teacher voice, something he’s never done on anyone above the age of eighteen, but it works because Jason turns to him and there, beneath the flushed cheeks and the labored breathing, is the hint of a smile from the Jason he knows and loves.

Loves .

He should probably feel more panic about that thought. He’s never loved anyone besides his mother and loving her sometimes feels like a dream. Rather than upend Emerson’s life, this realization makes all the loose puzzle pieces in his brain slot into place. He loves Jason.

“Sorry, Emmy,” Jason sighs, tapping his hands on the steering wheel. “It’s been a weird morning. Not because of you, but you know.”

Emerson does not know. He has no idea what Jason is talking about, but Jason’s smiling, and that makes everything feel right in the world, or at least in Emerson’s world.

“Did you eat breakfast, Jason?”

Jason laughs then shakes his head. “I uh, no.”

“Skipping breakfast can cause mood swings and impaired concentration,” Emerson points out, popping open the glove compartment and digging out a protein bar he rips open before passing to Jason.

“Thanks,” Jason mumbles, taking half the bar in one bite. He returns his eyes to the road, merging into the turn lane now that they’re directly in front of the school.

“For the record, I think you’re very smart, Jason. Anyone who ever made you feel differently deserves, well—I won’t say what they deserve.”

Jason swallows, sparing a glance at Emerson before his attention returns to the hot mess of cars all trying to get into the school parking lot.

“Thanks, Emmy.”

“And Jason.”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you,” Emerson whispers, sliding his hand further across the console to rest on Jason’s leg. He has no idea what the hell he’s doing, but he gives it a squeeze the same way Jason does when he’s upset. His bravery is rewarded by Jason’s shuddering exhale and blinding smile.

“Emmy,” Jason starts, pausing to mutter under his breath when someone cuts him off before he turns into the parking lot. He’s quiet until he’s parked, turning the engine off and focusing his attention on Emerson. “There’s uh, one other thing that I think I should tell you. It’s uh, well, the thing is?—”

“Isn’t that one of your players?” Emerson interrupts, distracted by the hulking figure standing at the front of the truck staring.

“Yeah,” Jason frowns, his expression pinched. “What’s he doing?”

“You should check on him.”

“Yeah,” Jason agrees, grabbing his cooler bag and exiting the truck. Emerson has no idea if he’s supposed to wait or leave them be, but before he can try and guess, Jason hurries around to his side of the truck, same as he does every morning, opening the door and offering him a hand down. At this point, Emerson is used to getting in and out of the truck and doesn’t really need the help anymore. But when he’d pointed that out to Jason, he’d mumbled something unintelligible so Emerson hasn’t brought it up since. Besides, it's not like he’s ever going to complain about Jason touching him, or paying attention to him, or spending a few extra seconds with him.

Before he can make an escape, the kid in question has moved towards them still staring but hovering an awkward two feet away. Emerson recognizes him now as Jason’s star player, the one always smiling. Except he isn’t smiling now. He rocks back and forth from foot to foot, his usual confidence and swagger nowhere to be found. He’s dressed in a similar get up to Jason, almost as if the entire football team planned it, but where Jason wears it with confidence, Matty appears to be shrinking in on himself.

“Morning, Matty,” Jason says.

“Morning, Coach,” Matty mumbles, scrubbing a hand through his hair. He looks terrible, his face all red, almost like he’s been crying.

It’s clear Jason has come to a similar conclusion because the worry rippling off him is palpable. “Matty?”

“So uh, funny story, Coach.” Matty tugs on the strings of his backpack. “I might get banned from the homecoming game.”

Jason goes very still. “What?”

“Banned from the game,” Matty repeats again in a rush. He looks like he might be sick and while Emerson feels very sorry for him, he also takes a step back, vaguely uncomfortable. “Well I think the word Mr. Caldwell used on Friday was academic freeze.”

“Mr. Caldwell,” Jason echoes in a tone that Emerson has never heard him use before. “Why?”

“I have a book report, Coach. And uh, I tried to do it, but with practice and my job and helping my mom around the house I was tired. You know I’m not so good with English class, the words get all jumbled, and when I’m tired it’s hard to focus. It was due last week, so I begged Mr. Caldwell for an extension, but he told me Friday if it wasn’t on his desk by the end of today I wasn’t playing in the game.” Matty’s twisting his hands now, looking like he might be sick. “I spent all weekend trying, Coach. I swear I did.”

“Matty,” Jason tries, softening his tone.

“The words just get so messed up going from my brain to the paper, and the book was confusing and—” Matty takes a very deep breath, “I’m not going to have it for him, Coach. I’m so fucking sorry. I let you down. I let the team down. I understand if you want to kick me off.”

“No one is kicking anyone off any teams,” Jason says firmly, tugging Matty into a hug. Matty falls against him, his shoulders shaking like maybe he’s crying. The first bell rings, students around them starting to head to class, but none of them move. Not even Emerson. When Matty pulls back, his eyes are red rimmed, and he scrubs his hands over his face looking so very young.

“I’m so sorry, Coach.”

“We’ll figure this out, Matty.”

“I can help,” Emerson blurts.

Matty turns his red rimmed eyes on Emerson. “Mr. Miller?”

A plan takes shape, one he’s certain he can execute if Jason will agree.

“I’ve got time after class today. I’m sure if your coach will excuse you from practice we can get your book report done in a few hours.”

“You don’t even know what book it is,” Matty protests.

“I’ve read all the books,” Emerson tells him, confident he’s read anything Mr. Caldwell might have assigned. “I can help you.”

Matty frowns. “I can’t miss practice.”

“You can and you will,” Jason challenges. “I don’t want to see you anywhere near that field today. You’re going to meet Em—Mr. Miller after class and work on that report until it’s done, then you’re going to walk it to Mr. Caldwell with a smile because you’re going to be able to play in the game this Friday.”

Matty sighs. “What if I can’t?”

Looking at Matty, it’s hard not to think about Jason, about what he’d just confessed in the truck on the way here. Was this him over a decade ago? It could have been if he hadn’t had a best friend like Theo tutoring him. Emerson makes his mind up; he will not let Matty fail, not over this book report or anything else. He won’t let any of the kids fail. Not if he can help it, which he can.

He’s not some awkward kid anymore, struggling to know his needs or being bullied, and he isn’t going to let some stick in the mud teacher with antiquated, judgmental ideas about how kids should learn make anyone else’s life miserable.

“You can and you will,” Emerson asserts, surprised by the confidence in his tone. “There’s not a single book being used in the English curriculum for any grade this year I haven’t read. I have absolutely no doubt we can get your report done today. You will play in that game this weekend, Matty.”

To his immense surprise, Matty throws himself forward, wrapping Emerson in a hug that has him tumbling back.

“Easy, Matty.”

“Sorry, Coach,” Matty laughs, pulling back. “Sorry, Mr. Miller, I’m just—thank you.”

The two-minute warning bell rings, and Matty laughs, the heavy air around him lifting like the sun peeking out through the clouds after a storm. It makes Emerson feel good, reminds him exactly what it is that he loves about teaching, about his life in Santa Leon. It’s not just the literal sun that’s always out around here, it’s the people too, that make life here feel warm and bright.

“Get to class before you’re late,” Jason grins. “We don’t need you getting detention today.”

“Yes, Coach,” Matty says, stumbling over his feet in his haste to move. “I’ll see you later, Mr. Miller!”

He’s gone before Emerson can reply, sprinting across the quad with all the grace and speed of a star footballer.

“That was damn nice of you, Emmy. You didn’t have to do that, but I’m really fucking grateful you did.”

“I know how much football means to you.”

“Yeah, sure the game means a lot, but it’s the kids. Kids like Matty who never felt confident until they stepped on a field. You’re giving him a shot to prove to Mr. Caldwell, but mostly to himself, that he can do other things, too. You’re exactly the kind of teacher these kids deserve.”

Pride wells up in Emerson, making him feel ten feet tall. There’d been so much doubt when he’d chosen this career. So many people along the way, some well-intentioned and some not, questioning if he’d be able to handle it. At times, his own self-doubt had been the loudest critic of all. Now here he is, proving all of them wrong. Proving himself wrong.

When Jason slips an arm around his shoulder, pulling him close, it’s the easiest thing in the world to lean into the embrace.

“Ready to kick today’s ass, Emmy?”

“I’m ready,” Emerson smiles, meaning every word.