That made it sound like I was angry at him, which, holy panic, Batman. “I feel bad when people are upset. I feel with them. I’m sorry. I can’t turn it off.”
Emmet stared at me—or near me, above my head—then touched my face with his fingers. “You don’t have to turn it off. But you can’t run away.”
Some of the shadows in my mind lifted. “Okay.”
He pulled his hand from my face but stayed close to me. “I’m sorry I got angry about the toaster. I wanted my first day of being independent to go well. I didn’t mean to make you feel my anger so loudly.”
I nodded, feeling better all the time. Except I still felt heavy and foggy and more than a little on edge.
“You two.” Tammy’s voice was beautiful, like a song, every word a note. “I want to hug you to pieces. But I think instead we’re going to go inside, I’m going to make you breakfast, get Jeremey his Ativan, and we’re going to have a casual get-to-know-you chat. We’re going to be good friends, the three of us. I can already tell.”
A month ago I would have felt this speech was pandering, social worker garbage for babies. Right then and there, I felt more helpless than a baby, and I didn’t mind her soothing tone at all. In fact, Tammy seemed like a lifeline I’d been seeking my whole life.
The first week at The Roosevelt was very much a roller coaster, but whenever Dr. North asked how I was doing, I told him I was good, and I meant it. It was scary to be on my own, even with Tammy and Sally downstairs, but it really was okay. Living in an apartment was like being in my room all the time, except my mom never bugged me, there was more space and a fridge.
And Emmet.
Emmet had a harder time adjusting to independent living. While I’d appreciated how particular he was since I’d met him, I learned that first week at The Roosevelt it was something else entirely to live in the same space with Emmet’s fussiness. He had so many odd little rules about how the handles should turn on mugs in the cupboard, what went on what shelf in the fridge and where I could leave my shoes. I couldn’t possibly remember everything, which made me panic. But we couldn’t melt down, because Tammy caught us before we figured out we were falling.
“Emmet,” she began at one of our morning meetings, “we need to talk about how many rules you’re giving Jeremey to remember about the apartment.”
The way she said it made it sound as if I’d complained to her, and I freaked out. “It’s fine. His rules are fine.”
She caught my hand and laced our fingers together, soothing me. Tammy touched me all the time, hugging me and smiling. It always mesmerized me, and it did now too.
Emmet rocked slightly in his seat as he stared at the tabletop. “Rules are important. Consistency is important.”
“I know, honey, but you have to remember Jeremey’s brain isn’t the same as yours. He overwhelms easily, and he’s not going to tell you when it’s too much. Jeremey is working on vocalizing his needs, but for now I’m going to be his voice. He doesn’t have a camera brain for information. He reads emotion. Which means while he can’t remember the angle you wanted him to leave the couch at, he can relay all the emotions you had yesterday and the day before.”
I read emotion? I thought about what she said. I couldn’t remember what I’d eaten for breakfast, but yes, I knew Emmet had woken up slightly grumpy, got happy when the train passed, got horny when he asked me to come into his room for sex. He was relaxed after, but too keyed up until I went to take a shower so he could be alone.
I blinked. Wow. Yeah. I totally read emotions.
Right now I was pretty sure anybody in the world could read Emmet—he was highly agitated. “I need order and rules.”
“I can try to learn them.” I hated how upset I was making him. I couldn’t learn, though, and I hunched my shoulders.
Tammy rubbed the one she could reach from her chair. “We need to find a modification that works for the two of you.”
“I could write down the rules.” Emmet’s rocking turned softer, more controlled. He was focusing, thinking. “I could make a manual.”
“That’s a good start, but you’re still thinking as if his brain is like yours. You’re assuming once it’s written down and Jeremey sees the words, he’ll remember forever.”
I started to object, but I stopped as I read Emmet’s face, realizing yes, he did assume that. Holy crap. Is that what he could do?
Tammy tapped the top of the table gently with a fingertip. “Come on, Emmet. You’re a smart guy. If Jeremey needs to see your rules, needs to be able to remember them, how do we teach memory? How can you modify a rule book so he doesn’t have to remember?”
Emmet clearly had no idea, and honestly neither did I. I have a horrible memory for stuff like that. I mean, maybe if it was on a hook over the top of my head, dangling in my face. But even then it would have to turn itself to the right page. I wondered if Google glasses did that. What if you could look through your glasses at the cupboard, and it would write on the cupboard door that Emmet wanted the mugs to be a certain way?
I sat upright, gasping as it all clicked in my head. “Oh.” When Tammy and Emmet glanced at me—well, Emmet glanced near me—I explained. “We could write the instructions on the door of the cupboard. And on the fridge, and the bathroom mirror. And by the front door. That way I wouldn’t have to remember. I could just read.”
Emmet grinned. His gaze was on my shoulder, but I knew he was looking right at me, so it made me feel warm and good. “That’s a smart idea. I could make the signs. I could type them and print them up. You could pick the font so it’s nice to your eyes.” He rocked back and forth, humming for a second before continuing. “I can use different colored paper depending on how important the rule is.”
Tammy’s laugh was warm like honey. “Look at the two of you when you work together. What an excellent couple you are.”
We were a great couple. We worked together on the signs—Emmet made me pick the font, which at first I said didn’t matter. He insisted it mattered a lot. “You’ll read the notes all the time. Pick a font that makes you happy.” He had a huge font collection on his computer, several he’d designed himself, though those were all very mathematical.
I ended up choosing one called Aire Roman Pro, and Emmet changed it somehow so some of the letters swirled and curled. He printed the signs carefully, posted them in all the appropriate places, and he was right, I loved seeing the notes with that font. I smiled at the mugs as I adjusted them, felt easy and less stressed as I moved the couch inside of the tape lines Emmet had put on the floor. I didn’t have to remember, and I didn’t accidentally upset Emmet.
Emmet has a sense of humor, though, and he can also get a little carried away. He started putting notes everywhere, and sometimes they were deliberately silly. I found Time to smile inside my box of cereal one morning, the T all swirly and pretty. I tucked that note into my pocket, and I smiled every time I touched the paper. I also kept the one that said Emmet and Jeremey Forever with half the letters all swirled and beautiful. He left notes inside my towel, my shoes and inside my favorite DVDs. Usually they were reminders of how he wanted the apartment kept and nudges to be happy.
Every now and again, though, they were something else.
We had sex every day, often in the morning. He woke early, at breakfast, watched a train, did some coding, and then he would wake me up, send me to brush my teeth, and then we’d have sex. Usually there would be a note about it on the bathroom mirror. Come to my room and take off your pants, sexy was one he reused a lot. Sometimes he got a little steamy. Meet me in your room, naked. I want to touch your body.
Three days into the note adventure, though, he added a new request to his repertoire. Come suck my cock.
Emmet had been unsure about oral sex. “Penises are too sweaty,” he kept saying. I couldn’t understand his objection. I liked the smell of his cock, especially when he was aroused. I w
anted his cock in my mouth. So one day I got brave enough to tell him I wanted to try. He sat on his bed, legs spread, and I knelt and took it in my mouth. He jerked, cried out, but he put his hand on the back of my head, holding on tight to my hair. I sucked harder, my skin breaking out in goose bumps as he pulled. When he thrust into my mouth, something inside me unbuckled. I forgot to be self-conscious and nervous, and I focused on sucking and drowning in the feel of his cock sliding over my tongue. When he jerked and shot, I was surprised. It tasted a little funny, but the idea that he’d come in my mouth made me so crazy I moaned as I swallowed.
I was self-conscious after, my head laying on his leg, my own cock hard, his semen dripping out of my mouth. He held still for a while, his hand on my hair.
Then he nudged me onto my back, spread my legs and kissed my chest.
I have a thing about my nipples being played with, and Emmet knows all about it. I started to object he needed alone time after coming, but then he sucked on my right nipple, and I cried out instead. He says he loves it when I make noise, so I don’t ever hold back. Usually when we have sex, he starts with my nipples to make me really crazy. He likes best when I go all soft for him, he says. He loves that I let him do whatever he wants with my body. It’s true, I do. I love being able to just feel.
That day he worked me up the way he always does, until I felt like I was only feeling and breathing. He teased my cock with one hand, toying with a nipple with the other. I gripped the bed, trying to lie quiet for him, knowing he was going to make me crazier before he was done, and I couldn’t wait.
When his mouth closed over the tip of my cock, I gasped and almost sat up.
He pushed me down and sucked my cock in deeper.
I don’t know that we were incredible at blow jobs compared to the mainstream gay population, but I don’t think either one of us gave a shit. It felt so good, so hot and wet. I kept wanting to push up into his mouth, but he held my hips down so I couldn’t, and honestly that was almost as good as his mouth. He didn’t swallow me the way I did him, but that he blew me at all was more than I ever expected from him. When he could tell I was close, he pulled off and finished me with his hand.
I ended up napping for a bit after, but that night as we cuddled on the couch after dinner, I worked up the courage to ask him about it.
“I was surprised you did that. Blew me, I mean.”
I had my head on his shoulder, so I couldn’t see his face, but I could feel his smile. “It felt good. I wanted to try, for you, so you could feel it too. It wasn’t as sweaty as I thought. I like the taste of your skin after a shower, and your cock feels good in my mouth.”
It did feel good. I got stiff thinking about it. I stroked his leg meaningfully—but with a careful amount of pressure. “I’d do it anytime. Suck you, I mean. Or…anything.”
Emmet turned my face up to his and kissed me—and moved my hand to his groin.
I ended up sucking him off then. We started in the living room, but Emmet gets fussy about sex anywhere but a bedroom, so we moved to my room. I blew him again, he teased my nipples, kissed me—we played around, mostly. That’s how sex always was with us. Nobody penetrated anybody anywhere with anything, which sometimes disappointed me, but it was kind of a relief too, that we were taking sex slowly. I wanted to do everything with Emmet, but I wanted to do it right.
I don’t think most people believed we actually were having sex, or if they did, they thought we were cute while we did it or something. People saw us walking down the street to the grocery store or wandering the aisles of Wheatsfield and acted as if we were escapees from the Island of Adorable, puppies dressed up in people clothes. Like we weren’t really boyfriends, like we were fake.
No wonder I feel alienated. They’re the ones telling me I’m not like everyone else. It doesn’t matter how normal I am, somebody’s ready to tell me I’m different.
Maybe I’m different, but I have custom font invitations on my bathroom mirror to have good-morning sex. I bet all the people who think Emmet and I are trained dogs don’t have anything as awesome as that.
Chapter Seventeen
Emmet
Jeremey and I were the first residents to move into The Roosevelt, which was nice because we had the place to ourselves. It took me a little while to get used to the new rhythm, but once we had the notes set up, everything was fine with Jeremey and me. It was better for me too once the regular school year started again, as I like a schedule. Living at The Roosevelt actually meant I was closer to the bus stop, which was nice.
In our apartment, Jeremey and I had a good pattern. The notes helped us with organization, and our Saturday morning meetings with Sally and Tammy helped us learn how to make sure we didn’t have any problems we needed to work out. We made a schedule of what days we would go shopping, when we’d do laundry. Jeremey went with me to Wheatsfield, but he still wasn’t ready to go to Target. Sometimes he could go to the small drugstore downtown, but sometimes they announced things over the PA system and startled him too much.
Jeremey was happy, he said, but he was having a harder time than me. He was frustrated and sad sometimes, because he couldn’t find a job that was right for him. Sally had made a list of possible places for him to work, and so far three of them hadn’t been very good. Wheatsfield was okay until a customer cornered him by the green peppers and demanded to know what the differences in the mushrooms were. The produce manager rescued him quickly, but Jeremey still had a panic attack and had to come home and didn’t want to work there after. The library was slightly better, and Darren watched out for him, but Jeremey had the same problem with patrons asking him questions in a rude way.
Dr. North suggested Jeremey help around The Roosevelt once the others moved in, assisting the first-floor residents with laundry, and cooking with Tammy and Sally. I thought it sounded like a good idea, but Jeremey got sad that night. Instead of having sex, I held him on the bed. He told me when I held him it was better than any medicine he took to fight depression.
I didn’t like how sad Jeremey was, but I was feeling pretty proud of how well I could comfort him. I was doing well all over the place, actually. I’d made the transition to independent living pretty easily, and I lived with my boyfriend. All I needed now was to finish college, get a job, and I’d be all set.
Then on September first the other residents moved in, and I wasn’t doing so well anymore.
Mom had warned me, but I learned I absolutely didn’t enjoy living with lots of people at once. Our apartment was soundproofed, but sometimes I could still hear people talking in the halls, people I didn’t know, and it upset me. Bob did his best to make things easy for me and everyone at The Roosevelt. All the autistic people lived on the top floor, except for a girl who didn’t like being up high, and she lived near Sally and Tammy’s apartment. The first floor was for people who needed extra care—most lived in more of a dorm situation, and they ate meals in the community area. They were loud, the first-floor people, but they weren’t jerks. One of the guys named Stuart played a lot of Pharrell Williams music, but he was nice and would put on headphones if you asked. The first-floor people yelled instead of talked. Yelling was talking for them. I understood they couldn’t help it and this was their disability, but it bothered my disability.
The loud people and the strangers weren’t the real issue for me, though. There was one more resident on the first floor. David Loris. Bob’s son.
I hated David.
David wasn’t mentally challenged at all, and in fact most of his life he would have been the last guy in the world to live in a place like The Roosevelt. But then he was in a car accident, and now he was the most disabled person in the building. I should have liked David more since he was the reason Bob had bought The Roosevelt and converted it into an assisted living establishment. But David wasn’t a person like me, or even Jeremey.
Carly Fleischmann talks about being a prisoner in he
r body. David was definitely more of a prisoner of his physical body than me, but I still think I’m more like Carly than he is, since both our brains keep us from interacting the way we want. Not David. His spine might have been injured, but his brain is perfectly fine. His mouth works too well, and whenever I saw him, he reminded me a lot of the guys on campus who teased me. His body wasn’t buff and bulky anymore, since it had been two years since his accident, but I could tell he used to be a bruiser. He looked like his dad, big and strong. David talked about playing football and having girlfriends. He couldn’t walk, could only move his head and a little bit of his left arm, but he drove his chair around the same way annoying bullies drove their cars.
I was the only person who didn’t like him, though. The day he moved in, everyone acted as if a movie star had come to stay. Even Stuart, who never talked to anybody, came out of his room to see Bob’s son arrive. There were eleven of us living at The Roosevelt, and he was the last to move in, number twelve.
He rolled up the ramp wearing sunglasses and a black T-shirt that said ATTITUDE PROBLEM. Bob and his wife were with him, and a tall black man. Bob waved to us, and the black man smiled and waved when some of the residents greeted him. Stuart asked the man who he was.
“Jimmy.” The man smiled at Stuart and stuck out his hand, but Stuart didn’t take it because he doesn’t care for touch at all. Jimmy pulled his hand back. “I’m one of David’s aides. What’s your name?”
Stuart hummed and turned away to face the wall. That was pretty much Stuart.
David murmured something we weren’t supposed to hear, but I did. He said, “Welcome to the freak house.”
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