Page 4

Deciding to get into Jason’s truck and doing it prove to be two different things. The damn truck is as large as the man driving it, with lifted wheels and a massive step that Emerson barely manages to get his shoe onto even with his long legs.

“Sorry, it’s kind of big.” Jason laughs. “You need help?”

“I’m good,” Emerson mumbles, using his pitiful amount of noodle arm strength to heft himself into the truck, which is far cleaner than Emerson expects. Not that he gave too much thought to the inside of Jason’s vehicle, but if pressed, he would’ve assumed a football coach would have a car littered with trash and gear and smell like sweaty gym socks. Instead, the car is relatively clean, the cup holder containing a protein shake and a water bottle. His seats are smooth and cool, likely from the air conditioning currently blasting cold air at Emerson’s flushed face.

After the uncomfortable metal bench and hours of rearranging furniture, the inside of Jason’s truck is literally a balm to Emerson’s nervous system. Unable to resist the comfort, he relaxes into the massive bench seat, his entire body slumping while he closes his eyes and lets out a heavy exhale of relief. He’s never actually been in a truck before, but now that he has, he’s not sure how he’s supposed to sit in a regular car again knowing how superior the seating is in here.

“The seats are cooled,” Jason explains when Emerson lets out a little happy sigh again. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

Emerson hums out a noncommittal reply, embarrassed by his unfiltered reaction. Normally he’s a lot more composed around strangers and at least tries to put effort into pretending to be polite, but he’s too done-in right now, more than he even realized before stepping into the truck. His body aches from moving furniture, his muscles unused to any kind of physical labor, and the last thirty minutes spent sitting in the sun waiting for a bus that never came tipped him over the deregulation limit.

“Not gonna lie, that was one reason I splurged on this truck,” Jason continues, undeterred by Emerson’s silence. “The heated seats didn’t appeal too much, can’t say we need those often with our tepid weather here, but cooled seats after hours of practice or a hot summer day? Sign me the fuck up. Seriously worth every penny.”

His rambling is unexpectedly comforting, and Emerson finds himself smiling before he can stop himself, almost immediately trying to force the smile away out of habit. Jason isn’t his cousin, but the idea of giving someone fodder to hold over him makes his stomach turn, ruining whatever flicker of good mood had tried to ignite at Jason’s words. He reminds himself that for all Jason is being friendly, they have nothing in common besides working at the same high school. Once school starts next week, Jason likely won’t interact with Emerson again because there’s no chance they will ever run in the same social circles. Mainly because Emerson has no delusions of being included in anyone’s social circle. Even during the long months of student teaching, he’d been unable to make any friends. It’s a possibility that Emerson is as unlikeable as his cousin and high school bullies always told him he was. It’s equally possible that his desire to avoid being rejected meant he used to hide in the bathroom during his breaks and lunch times, and when you do that, it’s kind of impossible to make friends.

“So, I didn’t get your name,” Jason says, seemingly determined to try and get to know him. Whether this is from genuine curiosity or that he just has good manners and social skills remains unknown. What is clear is that if Jason did get to know him, he would realize how different they are and distance himself the way most people do, but while they’re stuck in his truck together the least Emerson can do is attempt polite conversation.

“Emerson,” he offers, fidgeting with the fabric inside his pocket. He tugs on the loose thread, twisting it between his fingers as dread fills him.

“Emerson, huh? I like it.” Emerson likes it, too. It was something his mom gave him that no one could ever take away from him, one of the few things he was proud of growing up. His name has always felt like him, even before he understood who that was. Unaware of what his off-handed and simple compliment could mean, Jason barrels on. “So Emerson, where are we heading?”

“I live on Paseo del Ocaso,” Emerson says. “The, uh, the apartment building on the corner.”

“No way! I live on Avenida de la Playa.” At Emerson’s silence, Jason explains. “It’s just a few miles from your place. Once you pass your apartment complex you go another half a mile then make a left on State Street. Or if you were coming on the 101 going South, you’d take the Leon exit, then head West, taking you to Mariposa Way which is between both of us.”

“I know you’re speaking English, and yet everything you just said might as well have been in a foreign language,” Emerson says.

Jason laughs softly and Emerson holds his breath, unsure if he’s said something wrong.

“Guess I’m a directions guy like my dad. Sorry,” Jason apologizes. “You’re pretty new to the area, right?”

“That obvious?”

“A little,” Jason laughs. Though he doesn’t seem to be laughing at Emerson, the little knot of tension in his chest doesn’t fade. He’s never been able to relax around other people, not even his own family. The last person he felt comfortable enough around to just be himself was his mom and she’s been gone so long he can hardly remember what it felt like not to hide. “So where are you from, Emerson?”

“Pennsylvania,” Emerson answers, turning his eyes out the passenger window, a far safer thing to look at than the man sitting beside him with the mile-wide smile and chin dimple. It is deeply inconvenient to notice how big and handsome Jason is, while also having the urge to jump out of the moving car to avoid feeling awkward around him because he’s a stranger. Not that Emerson thinks he’d be less awkward if he wasn’t a stranger. There are people he’s known for years he’s still awkward around, but that’s kind of just his default at this point. It’s why Emerson doesn’t have friends back home, and why he really never dates, ever. Most of the time he retreats into his books and avoids social interactions, not wanting to be perceived too deeply. It’s easier to keep people at a distance, or avoid them entirely. Then he won’t have to spend all his time exhausted by the effort of trying to fit in.

The other glaring issue in all of this is that Jason probably isn't gay or queer. The label wouldn’t matter to Emerson, especially not since even if he was, there’s no way he would be interested in Emerson anyway.

“Can’t say I’ve ever been there,” Jason continues. Emerson wonders if he always talks this much. “Actually, I don’t know anything about Pennsylvania. What’s it like there? Is there anything you miss? Did you like it?”

There are too many questions for him to answer them all, but they make Emerson think about how flat the landscape where he grew up compared to the mountains that border Santa Leon. He thinks about the city full of skyscrapers and cars and buses he was raised in, about the sweltering humidity and bugs. He thinks about his bedroom that shared a wall with his cousin Landon who was the same age as Emerson and spent his entire life resenting that Emerson came to live with them, and made sure Emerson knew it. About the lack of privacy and constant overstimulation from his music and his friends and his teasing. He thinks about the way his aunt and uncle’s apartment had never felt like home. How nothing had felt like home since the day his mom died.

“No,” Emerson answers quietly, not even sure which question he’s answering. All of them, perhaps.

Just because Jason is making small talk on their drive, doesn’t mean he’s actually trying to get to know Emerson. He’s probably just being polite. Emerson has to remind himself not to be too honest. People don’t usually want that. Like when they ask how you are and you’re supposed to say fine or good, even when it's not true.

“I’ll make sure and scratch it off my travel list,” Jason laughs, making a show of scratching something off an imaginary list midair. “Speaking of travel lists. You know where I wanted to go really bad as a kid?”

Emerson has no idea if this is a rhetorical question but he answers anyway just to be safe. “No.”

“The Hershey chocolate factory. I guess that makes me a liar because it’s in Pennsylvania, which means at some point I did want to go there. I was convinced it was like the chocolate factory in Willy Wonka, but like without the Oompa-loompas and stuff. Or that creepy tunnel during the boat ride.” Jason shudders dramatically. “That tunnel gave me nightmares. I did like that room with edible flowers. I always wondered what it would taste like. Did you ever want to eat one of those?”

Unsure how they went from small talk about Emerson’s place of origin to eating Willy Wonka flowers, Emerson can do nothing but turn and stare at Jason while trying to make sense of the giant, rambling man beside him. He knows he’s not that great at understanding most people, but this is beyond that. He can’t comprehend how someone who looks like Jason—so big and handsome, a quintessential jock—is also so nice to him for seemingly no reason. Well, there’s got to be a reason. There’s always a reason. It occurs to Emerson that maybe someone at the school put him up to it.

The silence stretches on, but Emerson finds himself unable to contribute to the conversation. He has no idea what to say and is very preoccupied by trying to figure out what Jason wants from him, so he continues to stare.

Seemingly unaffected by Emerson’s intense eye contact and inability to uphold his side of the conversation, Jason continues to talk. “Oh come on, don’t tell me you weren’t also freaked out by that tunnel.”

“I was not a fan of the movie,” Emerson offers, surprised at his admission.

“Was it the tunnel? It was the tunnel, right?”

“No.” Emerson how honest he should be. “I, uh—I don’t like chocolate, so the idea of an entire factory full of it makes me gag.”

Thinking about it at all makes Emerson shudder with a visceral revulsion. The only thing worse than solid chocolate is liquid chocolate. The smell and texture alone is such a sensory ick.

“Emerson, you’re killing me,” Jason groans. “First you don’t like donuts and now you don’t like chocolate? Are you even human?”

“They tell me I am,” Emerson sighs, waiting for Jason to say something unkind in response. His cousin and the rest of his teammates on the football team never had a shortage of barbs about Emerson’s preferences, his personality, or anything about him really. He’d learned early on not to let people know anything about him, trying to bury himself in his books to avoid being perceived and ridiculed. Not that it really helped much. Especially not when he had the tendency to hyperfocus on whatever books he was reading to the point he zoned out around other people or info-dumped on them, both of which made him an easier target. He’d hoped becoming an English teacher might offer a cover. If books became his job, it might be safer, more expected from others, for him to be so intense about them.

To Emerson’s surprise, there’s no unkind remark, only the echoing sound of Jason’s laugh. It makes his cheeks burn and his chest ache. He should be used to being laughed at but if he’s learned anything, it’s that sometimes there’s no getting used to a world that isn’t designed for you. Maybe no matter how hard he tries, he’s always going to stand out in all the wrong ways.

“You’re funny, Emerson.”

The words stop Emerson’s train of thought. The warmth in his face doesn’t fade but his heart slows a beat. Oh. Jason was laughing at him, but not at him. That’s…new.

A lump forms in Emerson’s throat, a rush of heat spreading through his body. He has no idea how to respond to Jason’s words. Thankfully, he’s spared from having to when someone behind lays on their horn, clearly unhappy with Jason not gunning it through the intersection.

“I’m going, I’m going,” Jason mutters to himself. “Honestly, that’s the one thing I hate about drivers here, impatient fuckers.”

While Jason continues to talk about the local drivers, Emerson’s attention wanders to their surroundings. Street names and cardinal directions might be impossible for him to follow, but he’s pretty decent at memorizing random landmarks. Or he tries to be, anyway. It’s a necessary skill when considering how often he’s gotten lost, even in places he’s been before. He doesn’t want that to happen here, not when he doesn’t even have anyone he could call to help him. At least back home his uncle would come get him, albeit with a lecture that always left Emerson feeling full of shame and embarrassment.

Doing his best to try and memorize the landmarks, he tracks them all trying to gauge how far away they might be from his apartment. So far he’s been too anxious about things while on the bus to really focus on the surroundings, but with Jason now silent and the inside of the truck blissfully quiet and cool, he’s able to focus his attention on things that might help him orient his location if he ever does go the wrong way.

Leaning his elbow on the door, he rests his chin on his upturned palm while his eyes track the surroundings. The problem for Emerson is that until he has some kind of frame of reference for something—visiting a location, making up a story about what might’ve gone on there, his brain refuses to hold on to the information. It’d gotten him in so much trouble at school and from his aunt and uncle who seemed determined to believe the worst of Emerson, that he just didn’t pay attention. He tries to pay attention now, but all his brain keeps doing is focusing on the sound of Jason’s breathing and wondering if he’s going to speak again, and if so what might he ask Emerson? He tries to rehearse what he might say if Jason asks him a basic question about work or moving, so he’ll be prepared just in case.

To his relief, Jason doesn’t engage him in any more uncomfortable small talk. Rather, he offers the exact information that Emerson desires but hasn't yet mustered up the ability to verbalize.

“I’m not sure how used to the area you are yet, but it’s just a couple miles further to your place,” Jason says. Whether he can tell Emerson is antsy or this is just another example of his propensity to talk, Emerson has no idea, but it’s appreciated either way. “Luckily the traffic isn’t too bad this time of day. If it were even half an hour earlier, we’d be crawling right now. Which reminds me, I wanted to warn you. Don’t ever leave between five-thirty and six, unless you just wanna be sitting on Via Princesa for forty minutes with all the people who commute inland trying to get back home. Don’t even get me started on what the traffic does to the bus being on time. You’re gonna wanna leave right on time or stay later past your classes, maybe do a little grading on campus so you don’t have to take it home.”

“How do you know I’ll have grading?” Emerson asks, realizing he never did tell him that he was the new teacher. Then again, given how personable Jason is there’s no shortage of people who could’ve told Jason all about him. He wonders what they said. He tried to tell them as little about himself as possible during his interviews. And the only people he’s met besides the principal and vice principal is the nice older woman who works in the front office, though Emerson can’t remember her name.

“Used my impressive powers of deduction after you disappeared to figure you out.”

“Oh.” Emerson wonders what he figured out, spinning his ring rapidly.

“Nah, I’m just shitting you, I don't have any powers of deduction.” Jason laughs, as if he’s said something very funny. “Between you and me, my observational skills are not always the best, but people like to talk. And when I had lunch with Mabel, she mentioned showing the new English teacher to his class, so it wasn’t very hard to put two and two together. Not too many lost guys wandering campus before the semester starts.”

“The campus is really big,” Emerson retorts.

“It is,” Jason agrees, taking Emerson’s brusk tone in stride. “I mean, I went there so I already knew it like the back of my hand before I started teaching, but I can see how it might not be as easy to navigate if you didn’t, especially based on what you said about your own high school. We’re lucky to have such a beautiful campus, but some of the buildings are not close together. And it’s really not laid out in a logical manner, which can be a nightmare for some of the students and staff. Thankfully a few years back, right before I started teaching, they repaved all the pathways and fixed the ramps for the older buildings, but it was definitely designed by people who didn’t think about the implications for accessibility. And don’t get me started on why freshman English is near the library but the senior English building is across the quad near the gym. Or why half the science classes are on the East side of campus, but for some reason the labs are down near the new auditorium. None of it makes any sense. Seriously, you wouldn’t believe how many freshmen I’ve found near tears during the first week of school because they get lost and are too embarrassed or overwhelmed to tell anyone.”

Emerson blinks, entirely surprised to hear such thoughtful observations.

“Here’s your place,” Jason continues, like he didn’t just drop a mouthful of conscientious observations Emerson’s way. “Did you want me to drop you off at the front gates on Saratoga or pull around the back? I’m not sure exactly where your apartment is or which would be easier for you.”

Honestly Emerson has no idea which way is better. The first day he got here he’d navigated his way to his apartment from the back because that’s where the Uber took him straight from the airport. Which means it's now the only way he’s ever entered and exited the apartment building now that his brain has cemented it as the way in. Logically he knows he should explore the complex and check out the other entrance but Emerson is not really a fan of having multiple options for things. He likes to find one that works and stick with it.

“Back entrance,” he answers, the feeling of being put on the spot making him sound sharper than Jason deserves.

“You got it,” Jason says, flipping on his turn signal and merging into the left lane to enter the parking lot for Emerson’s complex. Jason easily navigates his way to the gated entrance in the back, at which point Emerson has perfectly rehearsed what to say, but all of it goes out the window when Jason turns to him and smiles in a way that reveals dimples—one in each cheek—and a warm smile. “It was really nice meeting you, Emerson. I’ll see you at school.”

All his perfectly practiced dialogue is nowhere to be found, his brain nothing more than a highlight reel of Jason’s dimpled smile and friendly face. Emerson might be very gay, but he’s not sure he’s ever been as attracted to anyone as he is to Jason. Has anyone else ever had such pretty brown eyes or a nicer smile? Emerson can’t imagine they have. Or maybe it’s just that Jason being nice to him is causing his brain to malfunction. Most of the people he’s found attractive in the past lost their aesthetic appeal when he realized he didn’t like them as a person. This entire situation would be so much easier if Jason was a jerk.

“Emerson?” Jason prompts, because of course he does. Emerson isn’t saying anything, is just staring at Jason without getting out of the car or thanking him for the ride home. Both things he should do. Somehow what comes out of his mouth is not a thanks though.

“You’ll see me Monday,” Emerson blurts.

“I will,” Jason agrees, his easy smile still firmly in place like he doesn’t mind the idea. “No running away from me this time.”

“I can’t make any promises,” Emerson replies honestly, surprised when Jason laughs.

“I like you, Emerson.”

That weird feeling in his chest intensifies, and Emerson has no idea if it’s unease, or hunger, or if the weird rushing in his ears is because he didn’t drink enough water today. Emerson hasn’t been sleeping well, not yet used to his new place, even if he did pay a small fortune to have his old pillow and mattress delivered across the country just so it would feel the same. Being tired always fucks with Emerson’s ability to regulate his emotions. As does being hungry. Or being around people too long.

“I’m going to leave now,” Emerson says.

Jason’s smile doesn’t falter. “Alright.”

With an embarrassing grunt, Emerson flings the truck door open, half-falling out of it as he stumbles down the step. Jason’s earnest ‘are you okay?’ echoes in his ears as he all but runs from him for the second time, not even turning around to wave. Emerson just needs to get to his apartment, put on his pajamas, tuck himself into his weighted blanket, and eat an Eggo waffle. Then maybe everything will make more sense.