Page 83 of The Invisible Roommate

Gerard nodded.

“Why?” Garret asked, not sounding the least bit understanding. His eyebrows were knit tightly together.

“Because I love music, but I don’t love performing. I don’t want to be a celebrity.”

“It’s a bit too late for that,” his father huffed. “Besides, families don’t break up.”

“But bands do,” Gerard said. “For the last six years, you’ve treated us more like a band than your sons.” He looked to his brothers, painfully aware that he’d drawn a line in the sand that they might not have wanted to cross with him. Their expressions gave little away aside from exasperation.

“I spent so much time building this career for you like you boys wanted. I’m your manager,” Gary said. “I’m not going to apologize for managing you to success.”

Gerard nodded. He wasn’t heartless. He understood the way his father had acted was out of love and a misguided assumption that this was the only way to show it. “And I’m not going to apologize for not wanting that success anymore.”

“You’re just going to be done with music? Why would you waste your talent like that?” Garret was evidently more confused than furious.

“You’re not listening. I’m not done with music, just like I’m not done with you guys. I love music, and I love you because you’re my family, and I want you to be my family again. Just my family. Because I’m done with We the Wells.” Autism often made him think in black-and-white terms, all-or-nothing. But he’d learned in his time on Iping that loving something didn’t mean he had to love all of it. Believing something didn’t mean he had to believe in all of it. Like music, like religion, like Emory’s pricklier parts. His life and heart could be more balanced if he kept what served him and did away with the rest.

“This is like the tour all over again. You are acting like a diva, Gerard, and I didn’t raise you to be impertinent.” His father wore a scowl that made it seem the musculature of his face might never snap back to neutral. This time, Gerard did not let that deter him.

“I’m not being a diva. I have needs, needs that other people don’t necessarily have…” Writing lyrics was easy; finding the right words to share your diagnosis was hard. “I’m … I’m neurodivergent.”

“You’re what?”

“Autistic, specifically,” he said, puffing up his chest.

“What are you talking about? That’s not true. You’re perfectly normal,” his father said.

Gerard tried not to let the others see him wince.

“Dad,” Gavin said. When had the eldest brother become the levelheaded patriarch they needed?

“I’m just saying,” his father said. “Who told you that?”

“My therapist,” Gerard said.

“Since when have you been seeing a therapist?” his father asked, which made Gerard laugh. They had assistants who kept schedules he had access to. Gerard had a standing appointment every week—sometimes twice a week! Where had his father thought he’d gone to when he was suddenly MIA for an hour during rehearsals?

He addressed his brothers with the rest. “I’m not making excuses for my actions here. All I’m saying is that those breakdowns and silent treatments and lash outs were to keep from falling apart. The tour schedule meant I wasn’t getting enough rest, the stage lights gave me headaches, the crowds made me feel claustrophobic. It was all overwhelming and not conducive to me being healthy.”

Gavin asked, “How long have you known?”

“Since Stockholm.” That felt like another life, sitting in that hotel suite with his therapist on a virtual session, hearing her say ASD for the first time. A light bulb blazing to life over his head. The world suddenly making more sense because it wasn’t made for him, but he could build strategies to help him cope and thrive. If he could just unmask.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Gerard was too busy looking down at his feet to pinpoint who the question came from. Onstage, feigning confidence was second nature. In this apartment, where it felt like his family had clomped all over his carefully constructed oasis, it was less so. “I was scared.”

His thoughts whirled back to what Regina had said about Emory moments before his family arrived. She must’ve had a sixth sense and a soft spot for the walking wounded.

“Scared of what?” Garret asked.

“Being treated differently. There’s a whole group of people out there on the street who have an idea of who I am, what I stand for, who I love…” A heat crept up his neck. If he was tearing off the Band-Aid, he needed to do it quickly, not little by little. “I met someone here on Iping. We’ve been living together here in this apartment.”

“Without an NDA? Gerard, you know how risky that can be. Who is she?” his father asked, as if he planned to whip a blue-suited lawyer out of his back pocket.

Gerard swallowed back any reservations. “His name is Emory.”

The hush was difficult to swallow, perfuming the air like a noxious gas set to make them all faint.