Page 11 of Make the Play
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.
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?”
