Page 7

At exactly twelve there’s a knock on Emerson’s door. It’s open but Jason knocks anyway, giving Emerson that little bit of warning before filling the doorway with his bulk. Like this morning, there’s an easy smile on his face as he leans against the door jamb, crossing his arms over his chest. He’s wearing a Santa Leon High football shirt that stretches just this side of too tight across his chest and a pair of basketball shorts.

“You ready, Mr. Miller?”

“Oh no, you can’t call me that,” Emerson blurts with a firm shake of his head. He grabs his lunch bag off the floor under his desk, crossing the room. It’s not until he’s standing in front of Jason that he realizes how abrupt he was. “I mean, uh, please don’t.”

“No, Mr. Miller?” Jason asks, taking a step back from the doorway so Emerson can sneak through. His expression is hard to read, his eyes studying Emerson, though for what he can’t fathom. “Just Emerson then?”

He nods, unsure how to explain that Mr. Miller is reserved for the students and class time. This is lunch time, and his brain delineates that very differently. If the principal or someone else from the district who was technically his boss called him Mr. Miller, he’s not sure he’d care because that would make sense but Jason is, well, not his boss.

“I know it’s weird,” Emerson mumbles.

“Not weird,” Jason shrugs. “Do all your friends just call you Emerson then?”

“Why?” Emerson asks, eyes darting between the line of Jason’s jaw and the stray students running late to lunch. None of them seem to be paying nearly as much attention to him or Jason as he is to them so he tries to relax. In his classroom it’s easy to fill his role, but once he steps into the hallways with all those teenagers, especially ones who aren’t his students, the little safe lines his brain has drawn are less sturdy.

“Just want to make sure I call you what you like.”

The thoughtfulness catches Emerson off guard, and he has no idea what to do with the rush of feelings swirling inside him. If Jason is like this with everyone, and he must be because Emerson is nothing special, then it’s easy to see why he’s so beloved.

“What, uh, what do your friends call you?” Emerson asks rather than answer that his own friends don’t call him anything because he doesn’t have any.

“Usually just Jason, but I had a handful of nicknames in high school which—we do not need to go into. Do me a favor and don’t ever ask my brothers, especially Andrew. He’s got a memory like a fucking hawk.”

There isn’t a single scenario Emerson can imagine where he might talk to one of Jason’s brothers, but he keeps that thought to himself. There’s something reassuring about the way Jason just offers up tidbits and future scenarios like he simply assumes he and Emerson are going to continue being friends, and this isn’t some kind of strange forced social nicety between coworkers. Even if it is, even if Jason is this nice to all his coworkers, it’s still the closest thing to a friend Emerson has had since, well, ever.

“Everyone just calls me Emerson, you know, back—” he pauses, unable to call it home. It was never home. There was no home after his mom died. Only family that didn’t really want him and a place he never fit. “Where I’m from. I don’t think I ever had a nickname.”

“You never had a nickname?” Jason echoes, stopping in his tracks. He turns to face Emerson, genuine surprise written across his face.

“Um, no? Unless you count like mean ones but I don’t think you meant that kind.”

Jason’s smile fades swiftly. “I fucking hate bullies.”

“Yeah,” Emerson mumbles, not sure why he said that out loud. He hadn’t planned to. Jason probably didn’t wanna know that, and more to the point, Emerson doesn’t want to remember how unkind kids had been, how unkind his own cousin had been.

“This means we’re starting at ground zero,” Jason says. “Just so we’re on the same page, how do you feel about nicknames?”

While Emerson’s brain attempts to process the question, the rest of his body hones in on the warmth at his lower back. It takes Emerson a few seconds to realize that warmth is coming from Jason’s large hand, placed there to make sure Emerson doesn’t take the wrong path when the walkway ahead of them splits, something he’s embarrassed to admit he was about to do. There was definitely a question he’s supposed to be figuring out an answer to, but all Emerson’s brain is capable of doing is focusing on the way he can feel that touch through the cotton of his shirt, on how unexpectedly safe it feels to know Jason isn’t letting him get lost or berating him for almost going the wrong way, like a lot of people would have.

Without preamble or words, he’s ensured Emerson takes the right path.

“Down this way,” Jason announces, hand lingering.

Emerson can’t remember the last time someone touched him. His aunt and uncle weren’t affectionate, and his cousin only touched him to shove him out of the way or mess up his hair, the kind of touches meant to irritate Emerson, not soothe. Back in high school, Landon spread a rumor about Emerson that he had some kind of venereal disease, as if desperate to ensure that no one would ever go near Emerson. Not that he’d needed to, people have never flocked to be his friend, or date him.

When Jason removes his hand a few seconds later, Emerson feels the absence acutely. It’s pathetic how desperate his body is for a bit of touch that’s not demanding or forced.

“So nicknames?” Jason prompts. He doesn’t look annoyed or frustrated about having to draw Emerson’s attention back to the conversation and that too soothes something in Emerson, so used to feeling a step out of line with other people in conversations. So often he has to work extra hard at thinking ahead for how to answer, or practicing the right amount of eye contact, or getting distracted by other thoughts that he ends up losing the thread of conversation. Other times he gets too excited and dominates, forgetting to let the other person talk, though this is rare, since Emerson learned to tamp down his desire to infodump and keeps most of his thoughts safely inside his own head.

Only, when Jason offers him an easy smile, Emerson forgets why it's safer to keep his truths hidden and answers honestly. “I don’t know how I feel about them to be honest.”

“Guess we’ll have to find out, eh, Red.”

Emerson scrunches up his nose, earning him one of Jason’s laughs. “Alright, not Red. First option knocked out. Came up with that one on the fly. Give me some time to think, and I’ll come up with something better.”

“You don’t have to,” Emerson points out.

“I know,” Jason says, “but I want to. Unless you don’t want me to.”

He’s so used to telling people what they want to hear, it’s a little startling to realize that he doesn’t feel that way with Jason. Somehow, despite barely knowing him, he doesn’t feel like he needs to lie. Maybe it’s the fact that Jason has already seen him at his worst more than once, or maybe it’s that he offered him fidgets and seems to care what he wants to be called, or maybe it’s that talking to Jason doesn’t feel exhausting like it does with other people. Whatever the reason, something about Jason makes him want things he’s never ever let himself want before. He knows he can’t have them, not with Jason, but maybe if he tried, friendship might be on the table.

“You could, um, try,” Emerson hedges. He twists his fingers, hoping he doesn’t look quite as nervous as he feels. “If it makes you happy.”

“You’re a good sport, Emerson.” Jason swings an arm around his shoulder, about to say something when he pulls back. “Shit, sorry. I’m kind of…a touchy guy. You might’ve noticed, but that doesn’t mean it’s okay to do it without permission. Maybe you hate being touched or something.”

“I don’t hate being touched,” Emerson mumbles.

“No? Good.” Jason reaches out again, and though he doesn’t loop his arm all the way around Emerson’s shoulder again, he does give it a squeeze. The touch is fleeting but firm. It’s a deep pressure that has Emerson exhaling the ball of tension in his chest. “Here’s me. My office is through the gym in the back corner.”

“You can fit all the kids in there?”

“Nah, usually I just pull out a bunch of gym mats, and people eat there or sit on the bleachers. Sometimes it’s only one or two kids, other times it’s two dozen. That gets loud which I don’t mind as much as when they steal my chips.”

“I don’t want anyone to steal my Doritos,” Emerson snaps, tightening his grip on his lunch bag. Landon always stole his food, even though he would eat anything, because it gave him some kind of power trip to take the few safe foods Emerson had. He can recognize that he’s maybe a little defensive about the prospect, but there’s no taking that little outburst back now. Thankfully, Jason seems unfazed by it.

“Luckily there’s no students in here today, but I promise if a time comes where someone tries to steal your Doritos—” Jason interrupts that thought with his next question. “What kind do you have anyway?”

“Ranch,” Emerson answers softly, unable to take his eyes off Jason’s expressive face. Maybe that’s part of what makes him easy to be around. His expressions and moods are so exaggerated that Emerson finds him easy to read,a far cry from how he feels around most people.

“Solid fucking choice,” Jason replies.

“Is there a choice you wouldn’t like?” Emerson asks, sensing that Jason might be happy with anything and everything.

“Not really,” Jason answers, confirming his suspicions with a smile so over the top that Emerson can’t help but return it. It is perhaps the first genuine smile he’s experienced since moving to Santa Leon. He’s gotten so used to masking, to pretending to have everything together all the time so no one questions what he can handle, that he forgot what it felt like to be relaxed and happy.

“So, you wanna eat in my office or out in the gym?” Jason asks.

Emerson looks around, slightly overwhelmed by the massive room with its echoing acoustics and too many windows. Gym was kind of a nightmare for him in high school on so many levels, and while he’s not a student any longer, he’s still not sure he’s up for this place yet. “Your office.”

“Office it is,” Jason says, taking a step forward. “Follow me.”

Emerson does, trailing after Jason towards the corner of the gym where there's a door tucked just off to the side behind a metal cage filled with basketballs. Jason reaches for the door handle, drawing Emerson’s attention to the rainbow sticker with the words ‘you are safe here’ stuck there at eye level where no one can miss it.

Safe .

What an elusive yet desired promise. So few things in Emerson’s life—places, people, food—are ever truly safe. To some people, it’s probably nothing more than a sticker, but for Emerson it’s so much more. He reads it again, the tightness he carries inside loosening imperceptibly.

Stepping inside Jason’s office reveals a room, both in size and design, much like he might have expected. There’s a desk with two chairs in front of it and the wall behind it adorned with Jason’s degrees and various trophies and awards from coaching. That’s where the expected ends. Opposite Jason’s desk are more awards and trophies, but the surprising thing is what’s above them, the upper half of the wall covered in pride flags. The kind Emerson never got to see growing up. The kind that would’ve made him feel so much safer if anyone at his old school had one. The kind that makes it clear the sticker on Jason’s office door isn’t there by accident or for show.

Everything about Jason is a dichotomy. His job as the physical education teacher and head coach along with his very visible jock aesthetic would indicate someone cocky and domineering, yet there’s a gentleness in his demeanor that is entirely unexpected. Jason has an easy countenance that is at odds with everything Emerson has ever known about jocks and now this. Is he queer too? Or an ally? It shouldn’t matter, but Emerson desperately wants to understand.

“That’s a lot of flags,” Emerson says, unsure how else to broach the conversation.

“I wanted to get one of each, but I ran out of wall space, you know? I got as many as I could though. My younger brother Alec helped me pick them out. That’s him here,” Jason says, stepping around Emerson and pointing to a photo of Jason with what he can only assume is his family. He taps his finger against the picture, pointing out the youngest person there, someone with a freckle faced smile and unruly curls. He couldn’t look more different than Jason aside from their wide smiles. “Then these two handsome assholes are my older brothers—that’s Charlie on the left and Andrew on the right. Twins, obviously. And then there are my parents between us and here next to Alec is Theo.”

“Theo is the uh, the one dating your brother?” Emerson says, hoping he got it right.

“Yup,” Jason confirms. “Weird as hell at first, partly because Alec is the baby of the family and had never actually dated anyone but also because Theo’s been my best friend since we were seven, so just meshing those together took awhile for my brain to handle. But you know how it is.”

Emerson does not in fact, have any idea how it is, but he stays quiet while Jason hums to himself, squatting down to open a small fridge next to the bookshelf. He pulls out a foil wrapped sandwich, a can of Coke and two containers of what appears to be butter spread. Confused, he watches Jason set them both down beside his sandwich along with the can of soda. Unable to bite his tongue at what he’s seeing, Emerson leans forward, elbows on his knees.

“Are you eating butter for lunch?” he asks.

“Butter,” Jason echoes, looking down at the desk before laughing. Jason peels back the plastic lid to reveal the contents inside, bright green grapes in one and chunks of cut up honeydew melon in the other. “No butter here. Just fruit.”

“Oh,” Emerson says, feeling a little silly and a lot embarrassed.

“My abuela and dad did it, so now me and my brothers all do it too. Even though it drives my mom nuts when she’s looking for actual butter and all she finds is leftover rice or fruit. But it’s a waste to throw away perfectly good containers, you know?”

“Sure,” Emerson agrees, unable to stop thinking about Theo and Jason’s brother. He’s never had a brother or a best friend, but if he did, he’s not sure he’d want them dating. It feels messy, and Emerson doesn’t like messy things. “Does it bother you?”

“Does what bother me?” Jason asks, holding out the container of grapes to Emerson, who does not actually like grapes but isn’t sure if it would be rude to say no. He accepts one, almost putting it in his mouth to be polite then feeling revulsion rise at the idea of the skin on the grapes in his mouth. He ends up passing it back and forth between his fingers.

“Your uh, your brother and your friend dating.” At this point, Emerson isn’t sure if it's rude to bring the conversation back up but he’s curious, and also very bad at small talk. Turning it around on Jason is so much safer than having him ask Emerson questions about himself, questions that he probably wouldn’t know how to answer without being too honest or lying, both of which are apparently socially unacceptable.

“It did at first. A little bit. Or a lot if I’m being honest.” Jason drops down into one of the chairs, using his foot to not at all subtly turn the other chair towards Emerson before peeling back the foil on his sandwich. “Not so much now. They’re both happy as hell now which is all that really matters. I love them, and if they’re happier together then that’s all that matters.”

He shrugs, taking a massive bite of his sandwich and leaving Emerson reeling.

There’s so much to unpack in just a few sentences. Jason’s ease with saying he loves his best friend and family and the way he so clearly only wants the best for them. It makes Emerson’s gut ache in the kind of way where he can’t tell if it means he’s emotional or hungry—a sort of pinging emptiness.

“You want some?” He asks, offering the container with honeydew melon now. “I always pack a bunch in these containers at the start of the week and end up hitting the vending machines instead. Then come Friday, I realize I didn’t eat any fruits or vegetables all week,” he says, half-laughing at himself like he’s said something funny.

Never in his life has Emerson met anyone whose baseline temperament seems to just be happy. Jason’s is, and it has the ache in his chest throbbing. What must it be like to be so relaxed and at ease with yourself? He can’t even imagine.

Sometimes Emerson wishes he were like a character in a novel, the kind who knew his own feelings and what to do with them, and not someone who has a screenshot of an emotions wheel on his phone because indigestion and anxiety feel exactly the same. Whatever he’s feeling now is confusing and overwhelming, and Emerson plops himself into the chair opposite Jason. He opens his lunch bag, hiding his uneaten grape in the bottom before unpacking his own food, desperate for the opportunity to focus on something more familiar.