Chapter Six
Jeremey
By the end of July, I was registered for classes at Iowa State, and my parents and I fought all the time.
I felt as if everything they asked me to do was impossible, but even when I did it anyway, my efforts were never enough. I let them register me for classes, but I got in trouble for not taking initiative in getting school supplies or furnishing my impending dorm room. My dorm room where I’d live without Emmet. He’d told me, gaze fixed on the floor, that he was sorry, but his autism wouldn’t let him handle a dorm or a campus apartment.
“My mom is looking into other options,” he assured me. “She says to sit tight. She has a lead.”
I wanted her to have a lead, more than I could express with mere words, but until it became a reality, I had to assume I’d be living in a dorm with a stranger, and I had to prepare. According to my mother, I wasn’t prepared remotely enough, and when she got tired of waiting for me to take care of things, she took charge. She dragged me to Target after yelling at me for an hour about responsibility, but I think I would have had a panic attack in the middle of the college prep aisle even if she’d smiled and told me it would all be okay.
Don’t think she held my hand afterward, though. She shouted at me the whole way home.
“How could you embarrass me like that? Everyone was looking at us. Everyone looked at me, as if it were somehow my fault.”
I felt guilty, though she was the reason I got upset. She made me go. I couldn’t do the large discount grocery store or any store bigger than Wheatsfield, and some days it was too much. But I hate disappointing anyone, and I hated the way everyone looked at me too. I despised that I couldn’t walk farther than the greeting cards in Target without hyperventilating, but it didn’t matter how I tried, I always broke down.
I broke down all the time now, even at home. Not often with Emmet, but we had to stop walking on campus, because it only made me think of how awful living there would be without him, and I would get a panic attack.
“I think you should not go to college yet,” Emmet said. “I think you should talk to my mom about medicine. She could prescribe it for you.”
He was right. But I always told him I didn’t want to talk about medicine. Honestly, part of me wanted to go be a mess at school, to show my parents how wrong they were.
Then I would realize how many strangers would see me break down, and I’d have another panic attack. So mostly I tried not to think about school at all.
Marietta worried about me, I could tell. She didn’t tell me I should take medication, but she gave me lots of attention every time I was over, assuring me she was looking into alternate housing for Emmet and me, that she was making me an extra-special going-to-school care package. Books began to appear on the Kindle I always borrowed from her too. The Noonday Demon. Shoot the Damn Dog. From Panic to Power. They were books about depression and anxiety.
I didn’t read them.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want help. I did, but mostly I wanted my parents to stop pushing me, and I didn’t see how me taking drugs or reading was going to change them. I needed them to take drugs or read books or at least listen to me.
They didn’t listen, no matter what I said or did, no matter how bad my panic attacks became. But one day, my sister called me.
Jan lives in Chicago, and she rarely comes home. My mother complains about this all the time, how whenever she calls Jan, my sister doesn’t answer. In Jan’s defense, Mom never asks Jan about her life, only complains about her own. I wouldn’t answer her calls either, if I were Jan.
Jan doesn’t call us, ever, and she never calls me. But that day she did, when I was sitting out back waiting for Emmet to be done with class.
“Hey, little brother. How are things?”
“Fine,” I said, though they were anything but. Nobody ever wants to know about bad things.
“I hear you’re nervous about starting college. And you’ve been having more panic attacks. You’re worrying me, Germ.”
My whole body went hot with embarrassment. How did Jan know all this? Her calling me my old nickname didn’t make it any better. “I’ll be fine.” I didn’t believe that, but I didn’t want yet another person fussing over me. I didn’t understand why Jan was. She never did.
But that day, she wouldn’t stop. “I know I’m bad about keeping up with the family. I’m sorry for that. I can’t handle Mom, so I stay away, but that means I accidentally ignore you. Are you really okay? Do you need me to come home, run interference for you?”
I didn’t know what to say. She wanted to come home and help me? I wanted that, yeah, but this whole thing felt weird, and it made me nervous. And embarrassed, that she’d have to bother with me. “I’m okay. Sorry to bother you.”
“Hon, you aren’t bothering me. I care about you. I want to know what’s going on with you. I don’t want our parents to drive you out of your mind, and I know from firsthand experience that’s a real possibility. Are you seeing someone about all these panic attacks? Are you taking anything, medicine to help?”
Why was everyone acting like I was sick? Like I had a heart condition, not a stupid habit of being upset in public and easily overwhelmed by life? “I’m fine,” I told her again. And again.
Eventually she stopped asking, and Emmet started to text me from the bus, so I told her I had to go.
“Okay, but I’m going to keep checking up on you,” Jan said.
I was glad she warned me. I told myself I wouldn’t be so surprised next time she called, and I’d have better lies prepared.
Two days after Jan’s call, Marietta showed up at my house.
She had a cute wicker basket full of banana bread and cookies and a glass bottle of fancy mineral water, and she sat in the kitchen with my mom for an hour, talking about nothing in particular, so I went to my room. But after Marietta went home, Mom was all flushed and happy. The day after, Mom and Marietta went to lunch at the fancy new place in Somerset, and another day they had coffee downtown together at Chocolaterie Stam.
A few days later, Mom suggested I have Emmet over to our house for a change.
She was nervous about it, I could tell, but Marietta had gone on her charm offensive, and she played my mom like a violin. I overheard their discussion on the screened-in porch before the visit. Marietta was telling my mom what to expect with Emmet. “He gets nervous in a new place, and usually I go with him when we try a new environment, but he’s insisting on doing this on his own. I’ve told him the condition for coming over alone is he cannot lose his temper. So if something makes him angry, he’ll probably withdraw for a few minutes without telling you anything. If he’s doing well, he’ll tell you calmly that he’s angry. But he’s likely far from calm. He’s a good boy, though, and he works hard. I’m sure everything will be fine, but if you have any troubles, you have my cell number.”
It was huge that Mom was considering having Emmet over. He made her nervous. Incredibly nervous.
But she was polite when he came to visit, and so was he. He knocked on the door, only rocked while he waited for me to answer, and he presented my mom with a bouquet of flowers from the co-op, which won her over though he didn’t meet her eye while he presented them. He told her, without looking around, that she had a nice home and he was happy to be there. I knew him well enough to know this was all rehearsed.
“I want to see your room, Jeremey,” he told me after a little while, and he also tapped two fingers on his thigh in a pattern. He had told me about this—he and his mother had a series of signs and silent exchanges they used to tell each other things without letting anyone else know. The one on the patio that first day I’d gone to his house—her two fingers, his three—was her reprimanding him for rudeness and him acknowledging and apologizing. The two fingers on his thigh meant he was nervous and needed to leave the room, but he didn’t want to say it out loud.
I rose from the couch and led him to the stairs. “Sure. It’s this way.”
He followed me up the stairs without a word. I was looking forward to having him in my room, to show him my things, to be in my space. I’d been to his house many times now, and we’d spent many afternoons in his room. But this would be the first time he’d be in mine.
When I opened the door, though, he took one look inside and jerked, then withdrew into the far corner of the hallway, putting his face to the wall.
I approached him cautiously. “Emmet? What’s wrong?”
He held his body rigid, his face hidden from view. “I can’t speak right now.”
Nerves tangled in my belly. “Why not?”
His neck and arms were tight with tension, and he screwed his eyes shut. “I’m angry. I promised I wouldn’t get angry.”
I felt hot and cold, as if someone had put poison in my heart and it had spread into my arms and legs. “Why are you angry? At me?”
“Yes. Please leave me alone.”
I didn’t know what to do. I felt sick—this was pretty much my worst fear, that I would upset someone I cared for but I wouldn’t know why, that I would upset Emmet and I wouldn’t be able to fix it. I could feel a panic attack coming, which would make things worse, but I couldn’t stop it. I went to the other corner of the hall, sat down and curled my knees to my chest with my forehead on my arms while I tried to breathe.
His hand fell on my back again.
“Jeremey, you can’t have a panic attack right now.”
It was such a ridiculous statement I almost laughed, but it was too hard to breathe. It got easier, though, when he rubbed my back. The touch was hesitant, as if he didn’t know quite how to do it—but I still liked it. Emmet had a way of cutting through my fog, and I leaned into him.
He let me. He doesn’t always want to be touched, but he was touching me now. He kept a heavy hand on my back, and then fingers brushed my hair. He crouched beside me, and he stroked me. Awkwardly, but he did it.
It was wonderful. It made me, as the panic attack ebbed, a little aroused. And when he leaned into me, my leg against his groin—I realized he was aroused too.
I looked up at him—and froze.
He had his eyes shut, his fingers tangled in my hair and his erection pressed into my leg. His expression was still flat, but very focused.
He was beautiful.
Eventually he opened his eyes and looked down at me. His gaze was heavy-lidded, and for once he didn’t look away.
He touched my lips with three fingers, and I shuddered.
He kept his fingers there, tracing the outline of my lips. His gaze was off to the side, but somehow I could still feel him looking intently at me.
“I need to tell you something important.”
I nodded, trying not to dislodge those fingers.
He rubbed the underside of my bottom lip. “I’m gay.”
My heart flipped over. I’d figured as much, given the erection against my leg, but it was still a rush to hear it out loud.
His fingers stilled, and I looked up at him. He kept his gaze on my mouth. “I’m not supposed to ask if you are.”
I laughed—that was Emmet. Asking a question by saying he couldn’t ask it. Well, I could tell him, obviously. But it was still difficult to say the words. I made myself speak anyway. “I am too.”
He smiled—again not meeting my gaze, but it made him so beautiful. “Good.”
I touched his arm tentatively.
He jerked away. “No light touches. But you can touch me harder.”
I put my hand on his arm, a heavy touch.
“Yes.” His hand on my back tightened. His erection against my leg grew as he leaned farther into me. “Jeremey, I’m attracted to you.”
The words thrilled me though they didn’t tell me anything I hadn’t been able to figure out for myself. They let the feelings I’d been holding back come forward, made me bold. I gripped his arm. “Let’s…go to my room.”
But he pulled away. “I can’t go into your room. It’s too messy.”
Too…messy? I blinked at him. “You’re angry because my room is messy?”
“Yes. I wanted to come see you, but your room is a disaster. I can’t be in there. No wonder you’re nervous. Nobody could feel okay in that room.”
I didn’t know how to respond. It was true, my room was messy. The worst part was I’d picked it up before he came. In fact, I’d worked quite a long time at it. It had taken me all morning, and I’d had to take a nap afterward.
I’d done my best, and it wasn’t enough. It might never be enough for Emmet.
We could never live together, be together, because I was too messy. I was a mess.
My breathing came sharp and fast, and I wanted to cry. Then I felt stupid for acting this way, which made me more upset. I shut my eyes, feeling the spiral opening in front of me, a dark slide leading into nothingness. Any second my mom would come upstairs, and wouldn’t that put the icing on the cake—
Hands, touch—the sharp scent of Emmet filled my senses. When I opened my eyes, he was staring at me, right into my eyes, and I held still, breathless, transfixed.
“Jeremey, we need a code. I can’t understand why you’re upset, but when you’re upset, you can’t tell me. Why are you upset right now?”
Why was I upset? God, where did I start? Even thinking it overwhelmed me. How was I supposed to say it out loud?
Emmet opened a notepad app and handed me his phone. “Can you type it?”
Before I met Emmet, I would have said that was silly, typing when someone sat right in front of me. But it was commonplace for us, and I took the phone with shaking hands, tapping out my whirling, churning feelings as best I could. To Emmet, me needing to type because talking was too difficult wasn’t an invitation to comment on my freakiness. It was simply an obstacle to overcome.
I’m upset because you’re upset about my room. I can’t clean it any better than this. I’ve tried. It was hard for me to do this much. This is my best, and my best isn’t good enough for you. I hesitated, shaking, then let out an unsteady breath as I finished. I want to be with you, be in my room with you.
In fact, I’d long since kicked guilt over crushing on an autistic boy out the window—clearly he was ten thousand times more put together than me—and had developed some serious fantasies about making out with him. Now that I knew those fantasies could be reality, they were in overdrive.
I kept typing. I don’t know how to fix this, and I’m afraid there’s no fix, and— I stopped, overwhelmed, and passed his phone back, all but dropping it into his hands.
His response at first was no response. He read what I’d written, then stared at it a long time, not saying anything. Not rocking. Eventually he typed something too, and passed it over to me.
E: I will help you fix it. Let me help you clean your room.
What? Clean my—what? I frowned and typed back. He’d edited our conversation with a J and an E before our comments, so I put a J: before my reply.
J: Why do you want to clean my room?
He frowned at my comment and typed another quickly.
E: You said that was the problem. I want to fix the problem. It will be tricky because it’s messy and that bothers me a lot, but I can get through it. I’m strong.
J: But why would you want to clean my room?
Now he looked exasperated. E: Your room is messy. I want to kiss you in your room, but I can’t until it’s clean. So I want to clean your room. Because I want to kiss you.
I let my breath out in a rush.
I kept staring at the words he’d typed, feeling dizzy looking at them. In my mind’s eye I saw Emmet pressing me to my bed, touching my face, my hair, kissing me. It was funny, because in my head he smiled at me in a subtle, rakish manner he never would in real life.
I realized, though, he did smile at me like that, in his own way.
I wanted that kiss. I wanted to do whatever I had to do in order to get it. But in the same way Emmet’s autism defined him, my depression and anxiety defined me.
J: I’m embarrassed to have you clean my room for me. I should do it myself.
Emmet made a subtle, quirky facial gesture which I’d come to learn was Emmet for raising one eyebrow. E: But you said you did your best. I thought you meant you couldn’t do more, like it was the same as the store, that your room was being too loud. Am I wrong?
No, he wasn’t—I shook my head, too moved to type this time.
He typed more. I don’t mind cleaning. You shouldn’t be embarrassed. I enjoy putting things in order. It makes me feel happy. It would make me happy to help you, Jeremey. Let me help you.
I felt so overwhelmed—but in a good way. I took the phone. J: Emmet, you’re very good to me.
He smiled, his stretched, lopsided smile, which I loved. He didn’t look me in the eye, but he didn’t need to. I understood.
I typed one more time. When you kiss me, it will be my first kiss.
It felt a little terrifying to say, but only a bit. Emmet read my note, smiled again, though not as wide. E: My first kiss too.
Feeling bold, I typed, J: I want my first kiss.
Now his grin was as wide as his face, and he hummed as he typed. E: Then we’d better start cleaning.