Page 71 of Make the Play
It occurs to Emerson that the students are going to stare. The other chaperones might talk about him. He’s going to stand out. People are going to look at him.Jasonis looking at him.
“Not too much,” Jason utters softly, his eyes never leaving Emerson’s face. “You look…you look amazing.”
The praise is too much. People don’t look at Emerson like this—like he’s the only thing in the entire world that matters.
“Gives us a spin,” Jason whistles.
When he holds his hand out, it occurs to Emerson that Jason is not joking or playing a prank. Because it’s Jason, Emerson lifts his hand and lays his fingers in Jason’s palm, unsure why his entire body gets dizzy from one single twirl.
“Damn,” Jason whispers. “You look incredible.”
“Denise did the suit,” Emerson mumbles. His face is burning and he’s acutely aware of the way he’s breathing now, hyper-aware of all of his limbs and the shape of his mouth. Is he supposed to cross his arms or put them in his pocket?
“Denise is amazing but you wear it like—” Jason stops, licking his lips. He’s still staring.
“Like what?” Emerson dares to ask.
“Like it was made for you.” Jason clears his throat, the faintest hint of pink spreading across his cheeks. “I uh, I brought you something.”
He holds the plastic container out to Emerson. Entirely unsure what’s happening, he takes the box, popping it open. Nestled inside is a sunflower boutonniere.
Emerson is certain his heart hasn’t actually stopped because he would be dead, and he’s definitely alive, but he can’t feel his own heart beating any longer—the feeling of soft flower petals under his fingertips the only sensation his brain can focus on.
“You brought me flowers.”
“Well, a boutonniere,” Jason corrects, as if the technicality diminishes what it means. “It’s your first dance after all. You should have a boutonniere. Can I put it on you?”
Part of Emerson worries he’s hallucinating. Did Jason really bring him a boutonniere? Is that a thing straight men do with their friends?
“I don’t understand,” Emerson blurts, the weight of Jason’s stare and Denise’s words from yesterday weighing loud and heavy. Jason isn’t cruel, he doesn’t lie or play tricks, but nothing happening right now makes sense. “I thought you brought boutonnieres to your date.”
“You do.” Jason licks his lips. “I uh—shit, can I hug you first?”
“Okay,” Emerson agrees, because nothing makes sense, and he could really use a Jason hug.
“Thank you.”
Making sure not to crush the boutonniere, Jason pulls Emerson into his arms, enveloping his entire body in his larger one. Instinctively, Emerson’s face curls into Jason’s neck. The softness of his freshly shaved skin and the clean scent of his body wash send happy little buzzes of pleasure into Emerson’s brain. Jason always smells so good, and the strength of his embrace settles Emerson’s nerves as Jason gives him a full body squeeze. “Shit, I’ve missed you.”
“You saw me yesterday,” Emerson points out, lips accidentally grazing the side of Jason’s neck.
“Barely,” Jason scoffs. “Between homecoming prep and the game, I feel like I’ve barely seen you all week. It was horrible.”
“Not seeing me is horrible?” Emerson asks, taking another deep breath, as if by doing so he can inhale Jason’s scent and permanently imprint it in his olfactory system. If he could just smell Jason on demand that would be pretty great actually. He’s starting to think he’s addicted to Jason’s musky, clean man smell.
“Of course it is,” Jason answers, the deep timbre of his voice rumbling against Emerson’s chest from where they’re still pressed tightly together. “Emmy, you’re my favorite person.”
“But…Theo,” Emerson protests.
“No buts,” Jason counters. “Theo will always be my best friend but you’re—you’reyou, Emmy.”
The way he says it makes him sound special, important even; as if Emerson being himself is something extraordinary, and not someone to be tolerated or accommodated.
Pulling out of the hug, he lifts his gaze to Jason’s and what he sees there doesn’t help him make sense of anything. Jason is looking at him, like—well, perhaps the way Denise suggested, and it makes Emerson shudder.
“Jason.”
“Emmy.” Jason lifts both hands to Emerson’s face, cradling it in his large palms. “You are so fucking special. I think I’m doing this backwards. No, I know I’m doing it backwards. I feel like I’m sixteen again.”
