Page 54 of The Invisible Roommate

Beep. “Go with your gut! Porcelain, soft ivory, or buff bisque? Over.”

Bzzt. “My gut is telling me to plead the Fifth. Over.”

Beep. “Just trust me…”

There was a long pause in which Gerard feared he’d scared Emory off before he realized he forgot to say “over.” It didn’t matter, though.

Bzzt. “Porcelain. I have the complexion of a haunted doll. There, are you happy? Over.” Hogging the aisle, Gerard blushed and laughed, imagining Emory as this dapper, fragile, Victorian plaything with rosy cheeks and big round eyes wearing a fancy suit. It shouldn’t have tickled him nearly as much as it did. “Very happy, thank you,” he reported back.

That night, on the coffee table, beside the iPod Touch and the makeshift cup speaker, Gerard laid out a series of off-brand cosmetics he’d procured from the drugstore. In order, from left to right, it went moisturizer, primer, full-coverage “porcelain” foundation, concealer, an eyebrow pencil, eye shadow, a sensible blush, a bottle of setting spray, and a subtle lipstick. He felt he should’ve been smiling behind the Clinique counter at one of the department stores in the busy malls of his childhood.

“I knew I should’ve never answered your question.” Presumably inspecting the products lined up like dominoes, Emory groaned.

“Hey, I stole all those books for you!” Gerard pointed to the stack of overused library titles he’d ferried back to the apartment, which had been difficult, given he and Edna, the librarian, were in choir together, so she wanted to follow him around and chat. Two of the books already had bookmarks sticking out of them.

“Please tell me you’re not about to do some makeover montage on me,” Emory said, extreme apprehension heavy in his voice. The bottle of foundation lifted into the air. Emory must’ve been reading the label, which Gerard had examined before purchase, though maybe not as judiciously as Emory, since he had less understanding of the ingredients.

“This is not a makeover. It’s a make-visible,” Gerard corrected.

For the prior few nights, the phantom weight of Emory beside him in bed had been a fast-acting psychostimulant. Gerard couldn’t even keep his eyes shut for more than a second or two. The last time he’d shared a bed with someone outside of his family, he was with Toby. Back then, sleeplessness was expected. They were either having multiple rounds of sex well into the morning or Toby was sleeping like a baby while Gerard lay awake and wondered what would happen if anyone found them like that, naked and entangled. Would there be punishments—tangible, spiritual, cosmic?

Out here, in the middle of the bay, with Emory’s nose whistling a bit with each sleepy exhale, there was little chance of being caught, no story to be sold, no tabloid to alert or family to answer to. Staring at the ceiling entirely consumed by the heat of another body under the sheets, he could simply enjoy the moment.

Emory snorted, which tugged Gerard out of his thoughts and into the room again.

“The bandages were a bad idea,” Gerard said. “Plus, you lost them, anyway. This, at least, I mean, you have skin still, even though we can’t see it. This will adhere to it.”

“I’m not arguing with you—”

“There’s a surprise.” Gerard mimicked Emory’s snort.

A smirk shined in Emory’s voice. “I don’t see how this is going to look any better than the bandages.”

“It might not! It’s an experiment,” Gerard said, selling it as best he could. “I thought scientists liked experiments.”

The avalanche of Emory’s resolve was practically audible. “Fine. Go ahead. Slather me in questionable goo.”

Gleefully, Gerard rolled his eyes and unpacked the brushes he’d bought. “Don’t engineers make all these products? Chemists, or whatever? Our go-to makeup artist for photo shoots and videos, Ravina, is always exploring new products with different formulas and ceramides and hyloron—”

“Hyaluronic acids,” Emory finished for him.

“Yes, that. Thank you.” Gerard’s cheeks heated, and he was sure they were as pink as the rosy blush in the compact he popped open. Emory’s intelligence had a way of making his skin buzz.

“It’s all of that plus biology, math, statistics—you name it. I’m not discrediting anyone’s work. I just think there are more important problems for scientific minds to solve than artificial beauty,” Emory said.

“Doesn’t the way we look influence how we feel?” Gerard asked.

Emory didn’t respond. Gerard sensed he must’ve struck a nerve. It had been weeks since Emory had seen himself at all. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want,” Gerard offered, understanding that maybe this was too big of an ask.

“I’m willing,” Emory said after a beat. “I don’t want all of this makeup to go to waste.”

Perhaps he was referencing the thrown-away food from the other night. Perhaps he was needing a little distance from whatever was going on inside that head of his. Either way, Gerard took him at his word.

“I’m going to start with moisturizer and then add primer,” Gerard said, holding up two bottles to show Emory, as if he were doing a tutorial for YouTube. He squirted some out into his palm. Rubbing his hands together, he warmed the cream before reaching randomly toward Emory’s head. “Oh—I guess I didn’t think this through.” His fingers collided with the edge of Emory’s jaw, then Emory’s cheek, then slashed over Emory’s nose. “Sorry.”

“Take your hands away. Hold still. No, you’ll need to be more still than that.”

Gerard fought hard to stop and not have the moisturizer go sliding onto his lap.