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Emerson quickens his steps, desperate to get far enough away to avoid further conversation. He passes a few other teachers, plastering on a mask of indifference and offering them a curt nod and what he can only hope passes for a polite smile. At the earliest opportunity, he slips into the shadows behind the tall building he now knows is the library, trying to hide from any potential social interactions.

It takes a solid minute for his heart rate to slow enough that he can catch his breath, but even then his heart continues to thrum erratically in his chest. With a heavy sigh, he closes his eyes, tipping his head back against the brick wall to try to calm his breathing. It doesn’t work well, though considering the interaction he just had it’s possible nothing could calm him down right now.

It’s just Emerson’s luck that when he finally gets himself to California and on campus to start his new job, the second person he meets and insults is the football coach. This is exactly why Emerson avoids small talk. He’s terrible at it. So terrible, in fact, that he tried to avoid the guy to begin with, possessing just enough self-awareness to know his growing anxiety about everything being new and different was going to make him rude.

All Emerson wanted was to find his classroom and get things set up so he might feel a modicum of control, which might in turn help regulate his nervous system. It’s currently screaming at him about all the changes he’s endured in the last twenty-four hours. Emerson hates change.

Fate is not on Emerson’s side today, or ever, judging by the unfortunate circumstances of most of his life. The damn man—Jason, he’d said his name was—had not been put off by Emerson’s attitude or tone, and instead of leaving him alone like most people did when he made a bad first impression, he followed him. In response to this unexpected turn of events, Emerson snapped at him and offered an unsolicited statistic about donuts before insulting organized sports. All in all, things couldn’t have been worse. Or so he thought. Then a student in a football jersey called Jason “Coach”, giving enough contextual information for even Emerson to conclude who Jason must be. It was at that point he chose Jason’s distraction to make his escape, leaving him where he is now, hiding behind a building, still unsure where his classroom is and afraid he’s ruined his chances of fitting in here before the school year even starts.

There’s an uncomfortable warmth in his cheeks, but whether from running or anxiety, he has no idea. His brain can’t tell the difference between being overheated and his life being in danger. Either way, it’s an unwanted sensation that leaves Emerson unsure if he wants to cry or lay face down on the ground. Probably the first since Emerson doesn’t like the way grass feels on his bare skin, and the cement is too hot to touch.

If things had gone according to plan, Emerson would have been in Santa Leon well over a week ago. He had a solid plan for this move. If he’d been here when he wanted to be, then he would’ve had enough time to settle into his new studio apartment. He would have had time to walk around and get to know the lay of the campus without the pressure of also getting his classroom ready. He would’ve been able to act normal when he met one of his fellow staff instead of running away from them and potentially ostracizing himself before the school year even begins.

Unfortunately, things had not gone according to Emerson’s plans. Instead of being here when he wanted to a week ago, there’d been an issue with the moving company that required him to stay an extra day and make sure his belongings actually made it across the country. This small delay meant he missed his flight, leaving him unable to get another one that he could afford for almost another week. That second delay was the worst because it meant Emerson missed the new staff orientation meeting the principal set up for him, and as a result his chance to get to know anyone on campus before the school year started, leaving him lost and confused.

Unease mounts while Emerson taps his fingers against his palm, willing himself to relax. He can do this. He wants to do this. If only his brain would get the memo and stop jumping into fight or flight mode every time his routine gets messed up.

“Are you sure this won’t be too much for you, Emerson? You know how bad you are with change. Maybe you should stay home and work here so you don’t, well, you know. Your uncle can always get you a part-time job someplace where you won’t have to be around too many people.”

The words ring in his head, a harsh reminder of exactly why he needed to get away. His aunt wasn’t trying to be cruel, but then again, she never was on purpose. Most people weren’t. Only…Emerson didn’t need to constantly be reminded he wasn’t like other people, or that he wasn’t good at the things most people were good at, like being a person. His aunt always seemed determined to remind him he’d fail before he even tried.

As far as Emerson is concerned, the only thing that matters is that he wants this, that he’s wanted this for years. Even if it doesn’t always make sense. High school had been a hellscape for Emerson, and he’d wanted to disappear nearly every day. It doesn’t matter if no one else understands how Emerson can want to be a high school teacher when some of his worst memories were born during that time. It had also been where he’d finally gotten the words to understand himself. He’d been so tired of feeling like an alien, unsure why he couldn’t just be like everyone else no matter how hard he tried. Then Mrs. Monroe, his sophomore English teacher, had come along, saw through all his masking and got him the resources he needed to get diagnosed. It had given him the foundation to accept the other things about himself, like being gay. Even if he hadn’t bothered coming out to anyone until after high school, having that label for himself had made all the difference.

Now he’s here, twenty-six-hundred miles away from everything and everyone he knows, with the chance to start over. He’s not here to be someone new, or different, just to be the version of himself no one else ever seemed to want him to be.

“Are you alright, dear?”

Emerson blinks, opening his eyes and coming face to face with the older woman from the front office who gave him the map this morning. She’d been on the phone when he arrived at the office, and Emerson had been anxious to find his classroom and unsure exactly how long it was socially appropriate to hang around. So, he’d departed as quickly as possible, which had turned out to not be the wisest choice.

“I’m fine,” Emerson tries, so used to lying about his own mental state he’s not sure he would know how to be honest with anyone if he tried. He twists the fidget ring on his finger, spinning it as fast as he can while trying to keep the rest of his body still. “I didn't catch your name back at the office, my apologies.”

“I’m Ms. Farwell, but you can just call me Mabel.” She smiles, the wrinkles on her face exaggerated with the action. She reminds Emerson of someone’s grandma, not that he’d known his own.

“Alright, Mabel.”

“Come on then, Mr. Miller,” Mabel says. “Let’s get you settled. I think you’re going to love Santa Leon High.”

The tightness in Emerson’s chest loosens when she reaches for his arm. Sure, he probably won’t make a lot—or any—friends, but after years of dreaming of making it to California, here he is, finally in his mom’s hometown. Not just here, but with an apartment of his own and an actual teaching job. All the things his family was certain he’d never manage. He can do this. He has to do this.

Emerson has waited too long and worked too hard to let his own brain fuck things up for him now.

* * *

With Mabel’s help, Emerson finally finds his classroom. While Mabel talks, he mentally rehearses what he might say if she asks why he couldn’t find it, unsure how much he wants to reveal. During his zoom interviews the principal had seemed impressed by Emerson’s attention to detail and passion for English. The truth was, his attention to detail was born out of a compulsive need to plan and be in control. Whereas his passion for English and desire to teach was influenced by reading, his lifelong hyperfocus. Being autistic offered him a specific skill set he knew could be an asset, but he’d still shied away from offering up his diagnosis, unsure how neuro-affirming Santa Leon High is.

The voice of his family, always reminding him how difficult and particular he is, seems to haunt him every time he thinks about getting to know new people. Would they see his quirks and personality as a positive, or view everything about him in a deficit model like his aunt and uncle do?

“Just this way, dear,” Mabel says, her voice dragging Emerson back to the present.

“I’m going to get lost on Monday,” Emerson sighs, hating himself for voicing that fear out loud. He twists his ring, rubbing his thumb over the engraving to try and ground himself.

“You’ll get the hang of it in no time. Give it one day and you’ll know this entire place like the back of your hand,” Mabel assures him. Before Emerson can get a chance to point out how unlikely that is given his propensity to get lost anywhere and everywhere she laughs. “You know what? I have a wonderful idea! It’ll be perfect. Just perfect.”

Emerson remains silent, unsure if he’s supposed to ask her what she’s talking about or wait. Thankfully he’s spared having to play the ‘ what is the socially acceptable response right now’ guessing game by Mabel speaking.

“I’ll let you settle into your classroom. If you need anything, just call the office or come see me. We take care of our own here, Mr. Miller. We’re all glad to have you here.”

A lump forms in Emerson’s throat at those words. The last person to say something like that to him was his mom. She’d always been happy to have Emerson around, but she’d been gone a long time now. Long enough to forget what it was like to have people want you around.

“Thank you,” Emerson whispers.

It’s not until she’s gone, leaving him standing outside the door to his classroom that he realizes he never did find out what her great idea was.

That unknown fades into the background as he settles on focusing all his attention on where he’s going to spend the majority of his days from now on. It’s a far cry from the drab brick buildings he’s used to. The English building, like most on this campus, is a single story building. Each one is spread out across the sprawling campus and even has its own door to the outside. Emerson’s room is the one right at the end, giving his room a full view of the grassy quad. Everywhere he looks is green grass and swaying palm trees with white buildings blending into the picturesque scenery.

It almost feels like a dream, and Emerson has to remind himself that this is real. It’s not some elaborate scenario he conjured up in his room while unable to sleep, but his actual life. He’s really here, living on his own and making things happen for himself. It might not have been easy, and yeah, Emerson’s insides are churning uncomfortably with all the newness as everything in him tries to slot this new life into orderly boxes and predictable routines. But for all the discomfort, there’s relief, too. After a lifetime of restrictions and rules of other people’s making, he’s finally on his own. It is as terrifying as it is exciting.

Entering his classroom for the first time does nothing to settle the excitement or apprehension. Both war within him in equal measure. Just as they’d promised, the classroom has everything he could need—rows of desks lined up in the center, bookshelves lining the walls ready to be filled, and a desk in the corner for Emerson. One of his own choosing. Not somewhere he’s being put because the teachers wanted him close by to avoid distractions when other kids picked on him, but a desk he earned.

Walking to it, he skirts his fingers over the wooden edge. Like everything else at Santa Leon High, it looks nearly new, and it’s not lost on Emerson how much nicer this place is than the school he went to, not just in topography but in resources. Then again, he supposes, that’s what happens when you’re a high school in an affluent beach town with a state championship football team. There’s definitely no lack of financial resources here, and while Emerson might have no connection to the alumni, locals or sports teams, his little classroom will reap the benefits all the same.

Emerson makes his way to the windows next, opening the blinds further to let in more light. The wall of windows looks out into the open quad, an expanse of tables, grass and trees meeting his view. Emerson didn’t even know this many palm trees in one place was possible but as he takes them all in he can’t help but smile. He might’ve grown up with his nose in a book, but his imagination was filled with the kinds of trees that might have been found in the Shire, not a palm tree-dotted coastline. Yet he can’t deny that the sight of so much earth and green has his chest loosening all the same. Emerson has always loved nature, though he’s not sure even a tree-lined view will be enough to make this adjustment easy on him.

Despite this being his dream move and dream job, Emerson has an itch under his skin—overcome by the desire right now to run away and escape, not because he doesn't want it but because the task of settling in and figuring out new routines feels almost insurmountable. He hadn’t been able to voice any of that to his family though. They’d never understand how he could struggle with things he wanted to do. Then again, they never understood him at all.

Reaching into his pocket, Emerson fidgets with the loose threads while he looks around and tries to picture where everything will go. The more he imagines, the lighter he feels inside. He mutters to himself as he paces the room and plots. Within the hour, he’s got the entire thing laid out in his mind, the perfect picture of where it might all go. He spends the next hour rearranging the furniture so the bookshelves flank the window and the student’s desks form a circle instead of a row. He finds a few spare cushions shoved into the closet which he tosses into the middle of the room for flexible seating before he sets about taking stock of the supplies left for him and what he might need. It turns out it is not nearly as much as he was assuming, all things considered. The hardest part is going to be figuring out how to get the rest of his books and plants from his apartment to his classroom without a car. The idea of taking them on the bus and having other people touch them has him shuddering in displeasure. He makes a mental note to check Uber prices before rising to stand.

It’s not until he’s walking out his classroom door, arms stretched out overhead to get rid of the stiffness from rearranging furniture all day, that it occurs to him how late he’s stayed. He pulls out his phone to check the time, frowning when he realizes he missed his alarm for dinner. Despite the late hour the sun still sits high on the horizon line, the pale blue sky dotted with clouds. The sight momentarily renders Emerson speechless because he’s pretty sure the sky doesn't look like this in Pennsylvania. His mom used to talk about the big skies in Southern California, about missing the smell of the salt in the air and the feeling of the sea breeze on her cheeks. She’d been born and raised here, moving away for college where she ended up pregnant with Emerson and dropped out. After that it’d just been the two of them and there’d never been enough money to move back. At least, that’s what she used to tell him so he didn’t feel bad. She’s not here to remind him, though, and a pang of guilt hits him. Maybe if he’d handled change better they could’ve moved back here. Then his mom wouldn’t have gotten into that accident, and he wouldn’t have been forced to grow up with people who never wanted him.

Blowing out a heavy breath, Emerson rocks on his heels. There’s still so much left he wants to do in his classroom, but he probably should try and get the bus back home before it gets dark. He can make a couple Eggo waffles and a long to-do list. Then tomorrow, he can get started.

* * *

Twenty-seven minutes. That’s how late the bus is. He knows because he checked the bus schedule twice this morning, and it said right there on the website in bold print that the last bus from this specific stop would arrive at five after seven, which is exactly why Emerson all but raced across campus to the bus stop to ensure he wouldn’t be late. He made it on time, but so far the bus hasn’t.

With every car that passes by his unease rises. He hates when things don’t stick to the schedule.

Sighing heavily, Emerson drops down onto the bench next to the bus stop sign, lowering his face into his hands. He needs to formulate a new plan, but he’s tired and overstimulated. He should be at home right now getting into his nightly shower so he can put on his home clothes and decompress. He should not be sitting on a bench waiting for a bus that is definitely not coming.

Walking is out of the question, not because he’s opposed to the act itself but because Emerson would absolutely get himself lost. Maybe in a few months when he knows the area better he could swing the four mile walk, but right now he has no doubt he’d take a wrong turn and end up somewhere other than his own apartment complex. Which means his only option is to get an Uber. Even knowing this is what he’s going to do, he hesitates to pull out his phone and open the app. He hates getting in cars with strangers. Sometimes they have the radio on to music he doesn’t like, the volume outside of his control. Then there’s the fact that he can’t predict whether he’ll get a silent driver who just wants to do their job and get paid or one of the ones who makes small talk with Emerson. He hates small talk.

He’s also still haunted by the Uber he had to take from the airport to his apartment this week where the car smelled like someone dumped a bottle of fabric softener in it. The smell had been so strong he’d nearly jumped out of the moving car. It’d only been his utter exhaustion from the long day of travel and his anxiety at the prospect of having to figure out a different driver that had kept him in the car.

Frustrated, Emerson pulls on his hair. The tinge of pain stops him, and he forces his hands into his lap, fidgeting with his ring instead.

This is exactly why he should get a car and drive. Except, Emerson doesn’t drive. Technically he can, but only because his aunt and uncle had insisted on him getting his license when he turned twenty-one. He never could understand why other people were so bothered about whether he could drive or not. He knew how to take the bus. What did it matter if he could drive a car? It hadn’t been worth the argument, though, so Emerson had allowed his aunt and uncle to bully him into driving lessons that had been absolutely horrible and made Emerson physically sick with anxiety. He passed his test, got the license and then promptly refused to use it, despite the fact his aunt and uncle both saw it as a failure. Then again, they saw most things about him as one.

When he got the teaching job here, he debated getting himself a car. He’d read it was more of necessity in Southern California than the area he was from because of city development and underfunded public transit, but he’d ultimately decided against it. The last thing he needed after upending his entire life was more unease. What he ended up doing was renting a small studio apartment that was located on a bus line. Something that is clearly not doing him any good since the bus isn’t here.

He didn’t budget having to take an Uber today. It’s already going to be a tight squeeze with his savings since he won’t get paid until the end of the week. Incidentally, that is also when the second and final payment for the movers is due if he doesn’t want finance charges, which he absolutely doesn’t. He spent a small fortune moving his stuff across the country, probably more than it was worth, but Emerson couldn’t bear to part with or replace any of his favorite things regardless of cost, which is why he needs to stick to his budget now.

Resigned to the unfortunate truth that he actually has no options, he pulls out his phone and opens the Uber app. His hand hovers over the app when someone speaks.

“Hey, you.”

Emerson’s eyes shoot up from his phone to the street, met with the sight of a familiar smiling face. Parked at the curb directly in front of him is Jason, his smile relaxed and easy as he leans across the passenger seat towards the window he’s put down. Unlike Emerson who feels like a ball of nothing but anxiety and stress, Jason looks utterly relaxed and happy. Maybe he’s picking someone up. Emerson turns around to look behind him but there’s no one there.

“Do you need some help?” Jason questions.

Emerson blinks. Okay, he’s definitely talking to him, then. Though why, Emerson can’t imagine.

“I’m waiting for the bus.”

Jason whistles. “This route is pretty unpredictable. Especially in summer.”

A sigh falls from Emerson’s lips. The confirmation isn’t unexpected but it is unwelcome. He’d been warned the bus lines might be less reliable in the suburbs, but the well organized online schedule had been so promising.

“Where are you going? I can give you a ride.”

“Are you an Uber driver?”

“Me?” Jason shakes his head. “Definitely not.”

“Then why are you offering me a ride?”

“Because you need one, obviously. Unless you’d rather get an Uber.” Whatever face Emerson makes must answer the question because Jason actually laughs. “I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then. Come on, get in and I’ll give you a lift.”

Despite the generosity of the offer, Emerson hesitates. This would solve his problem and save him money he doesn’t have right now, but it will also put him in close proximity to the man he half-insulted earlier before running away. Not that Jason looks remotely bothered by their earlier exchange. That smile on his face is still there, unwavering and wide, like finding some random guy you don’t know on the side of the road is a good thing. Or maybe it’s one of those fake, polite smiles people paste on their faces when they’re actually not in a good mood. So many people smile even when they don’t mean it, making it frankly exhausting to try and parse through. Or maybe Jason has the opposite of a resting bitch face, and he has a resting happy face.

“Is there someone you want to call instead?” Jason asks. “If your phone is dead, you could borrow mine or?—”

“There’s no one,” Emerson finishes.

The expression on Jason’s face is impossible to make out, his smile shuttering for only a moment before reappearing, though not in full. Emerson can’t imagine why he cares. “Why don’t you let me give you a ride home. I’m sure you’ve had a long day.”

“Do you use air freshener?” Emerson blurts.

“Air freshener,” he repeats, glancing around the inside of his truck like he’s not sure what he’s looking for. “Uh, no, I don’t.”

Decision made, Emerson stalks towards the truck. If he’s got to get in a car with a stranger, at least this one has been vetted by the school district and is unlikely to be dangerous, aside from being exactly the kind of guy Emerson would normally avoid under any circumstances, that is. Emotional discomfort is something Emerson is well-versed in handling at this point, and something he can deal with if it means he can get back to his apartment in one piece and without spending money.