Page 39 of Make the Play
“Uh, she likes her tummy rubbed.” To prove his point, he strokes Stella’s tummy, delighting in how easy dogs are to read. She’s happy and lets Emerson know it. No platitudes or fake niceties. Maybe one day if he’s lucky, he can have his own dog.
“I know, just—she’s not like this. I mean with me, yeah. But no one else. Not even Alec.” Jason squats down, staring at Stella. He reaches out, smoothing his palm over her side in time with Emerson’s strokes. They continue like that for long seconds, each of them petting Stella, separate but together. It’s nice in the kind of way Emerson never would’ve expected.
“I like your dog,” he says after what feels like a very long amount of silence.
The smile that spreads across Jason’s face is familiar, comforting, and it startles Emerson to realize how used to it being aimed his way he’s getting. He has no right craving that soft affection directed towards him, yet he does, and there is no one to blame but himself. Well, except maybe Jason and his damn big smile.
“Clearly the feeling is mutual,” Jason says, lowering himself to the floor. Unlike Emerson who’s sitting cross-legged, Jason stretches out his long limbs so they’re bracketing Emerson and Stella. The material of his gray sweats pulls obscenely tight over his thick thighs.
“Don’t move.”
Emerson freezes, fingers curled in Stella’s thick fur as his heart immediately lodges itself in his throat.
“Don’t panic either,” Jason says in a soothing tone. “I just see Freddie peeking around the back of the couch. He’s watching you.”
“What do I do?” Emerson asks.
“Just wait for him to come,” Jason says. “Pet Stella again. I think he’s jealous. When he realizes you’ll pet him too, he’s gonna come out.”
“Alright,” Emerson whispers, afraid to even breathe too loudly and risk scaring Freddie off.
Despite Jason’s instructions, he doesn’t move his hand. He’s supposed to, he knows, but he’s frozen, afraid of messing up and scaring off Freddie.
“Breathe,” Jason reminds him. Emerson takes a steadying breath but still doesn’t move. Not until Jason lowers his hand over Emerson’s, guiding both of them in a soothing motion over Stella’s back. “This okay?”
Okay. What a vague word. So easy to lie, so impossible to judge. Emerson has been okay for most of his life but what does that even mean? He was okay when his mom died, okay when he moved into a home where he was unwanted, okay when he was bullied, okay when he was diagnosed. Emerson has always been okay.
So no, he’s not okay right now. He’s something else. Something he doesn’t understand. Here on the floor of Jason’s house, Emerson feels more welcome than he ever did in his own home.
“Emmy?”
Emerson’s heart gets stuck in his throat. Every time Jason suggested a nickname before, his instant reaction was no. They’d felt wrong, like the too itchy shirts his aunt used to buy him. This nickname is like soft cotton, no tags, perfect fit. It feels like him in a way that makes his jaw wobble.
“Guess that's another fail,” Jason says with soft laughter, misreading Emerson’s silence.
If Emerson could talk, he might scream. It’s not a no. He wants to hear it again. Needs to hear it again. If only his brain didn’t paralyze him sometimes, rendering him unable to talk even as his brain works overtime. Going nonverbal is the strangest feeling. Because he knows he’s capable of speaking, yet the words simply won’t come out, no matter how hard he tries.
“Emerson?”
He opens his mouth but a reply won’t come. It’s embarrassing how much that makes him want to cry, makes him feel like a child again ready to be chastised for being antisocial or too shy even though he’d tried explaining he didn’t stop talking on purpose.
Jason’s gaze isn’t full of exasperation or annoyance, making the words somehow lodge themselves so firmly in Emerson’s throat he might as well be choking on them. If he doesn’t get it out now, he knows he won’t ever get the nerve to do it later, but the plea is stuck on the tip of his tongue.Please, he wants to beg.Please.
Slowly Jason scoots closer, his thighs bracketing Emerson’s knees while Stella chuffs for attention.
“You with me?” Jason asks.
The smallest of nods is the most Emerson can manage, but it earns him one of Jason’s smiles, loosening the knot of tension around his chest. He’s not mad, or calling Emerson rude or weird. He’s just smiling at him like, well—like Emerson is okay just how he is.
“Was the nickname that bad?”
Tell him. Tell him.
The words won’t come. Being able to contextualize his thoughts but not being able to give voice to them is like being trapped, and the spiral of frustration and shame only makes those words slip through his fingertips like grains of sand. He knows exactly what he should say, what he wants to say, but he simply can’t.
The air in his lungs doesn’t seem to register, and every lub-dub of his heart is grating and overstimulating. It’s not fair. He’s not even unhappy and—someone is texting him. No one texts him. No one but Jason. Startled, Emerson’s attention is drawn to Jason who is holding his own phone between his large hands. He taps out a message, and Emerson’s phone buzzes again.
Emerson breathes in deep. Once, twice. All the while Jason’s eyes stay on his phone, waiting. Waiting for Emerson to take his phone out of his pocket. Somehow, despite knowing whose name will be on the screen, he’s not prepared when he swipes it open and reads the messages.
