When October 1st arrived, the fall weather was upon us in great force. I was thankful. I enjoyed the cooler weather. Central Park was an array of oranges, reds, and yellows. Emerson said his favorite season was spring, but he loved fall as well. I found him on the balcony one morning, sitting in a fluffy robe, staring out into the park. He didn't have his phone or anything to distract him from his thoughts. He was just sitting there, quietly. I joined him and we chatted about the day's schedule. The next morning, before he woke up (which was usually around six-forty-five), I grabbed a hot coffee from the cafe next door and the usual iced coffee drink he liked. I perched on the balcony and when he woke, he joined me.
This became a somewhat regular habit, only when we both stayed the night in the townhouse. It seemed like he would leave on the weekends more. In addition to coffee on the balcony, we often carpooled to the office together and then back to the townhouse after work. Occasionally, we walked instead. We had finished The Last of Us so we began The White Lotus over dinner.
Emerson managed to convince me to cook for him, saying he wanted some homemade salmon patties with cream corn and mashed potatoes. He was adamant that no restaurant made them the way his mother made them. I knew how to make them, so I did. He was helpful in the kitchen, despite not being the best cook. With proper instruction, he was quite capable. When we ate, he told me they were almost as good as when his mom made them. I felt flattered, enjoying the fact that he liked the food I cooked for him. I felt good when he thanked me.
The day after cooking, Emerson also insisted on bringing the leftovers for lunch. It was Wednesday, so we were going to eat together anyway. He plated our food and took it to the break area to reheat in the microwave. He brought it back to the reception area where we ate by the window. It was only a few minutes later when Michael entered.
"What are you eating?" he asked, eyeing our plates.
"Salmon patties," Emerson said. "Lafayette made them."
"You cooked? When?" he asked.
I didn't know why he was giving us the third degree. "Last night," I said.
Michael tilted his head. "What's going on here?" he asked.
"What are you talking about?" I asked, throwing up my hands slightly.
Emilio entered. "Smells good in here," he said.
"You two," Michael said. "What is this? I mean, I saw you unpacking this from your lunchbox Em, but Lafayette cooked it? You guys arrive at the same time in the morning, even though Lafayette usually sleeps here so he can keep his little hookups out of his house."
"What the hell is your problem?" I asked.
"I'm just curious," he said, but I knew what he wanted to know. He wanted to know if I was sleeping with Emerson, not because he cared about the ethics of it but because he wanted to pester me about the details.
"I'm homeless," Emerson said. "Mr. Jett's been letting me use his guest room until I move into my apartment in a few days. I didn't want anyone to know because it's kind of embarrassing."
"Well why are you homeless?" Michael asked.
"You can't just ask people why they're homeless," Emilio said.
"I had a falling out with my crazy roommate. It was quite scary. I could press charges, but I'd rather forget about it because it's not fun to talk about," Em said.
Emilio slapped Michael's arm. "See, look at what being nosy gets you," he said.
"I'm just curious. There's nothing wrong with being curious," Michael said.
"No, curiosity is not the same as nosiness. You should learn to mind your fucking business," I said.
"Well excuse me for wondering why you're suddenly arriving at the office at a normal time, or why you're leaving with Emerson every night and why suddenly you're cooking. You haven't done any of these things in years and-"
"Who gives a fuck? Why are you always so pressed about what I'm doing?"
"Oh, I don't know, maybe because you don't tell us anything anymore," he snapped.
"I don't tell you anything because you stick your nose in anyway."
Michael and I went back and forth. It's just how we were. I didn't like bickering in front of Emerson. He sat patiently while we went at it until Emilio stepped in, telling Michael to back off. When they left, I aggressively cut my food with my knife and fork.
"I'm sorry, Em, I didn't mean for you to see that," I said.
"It's okay," he said. After a moment, he said, "Your accent really comes out when you're mad. It's kind of funny."
"I don't think I have an accent," I said.
"No, I mean, not typically. Like, if you or I were in the midwest then people could totally tell we're from New York, you know? Like I sometimes get a little nasally, like Fran Drescher, but what do you expect from a Jewish New Yorker? For you, I think sometimes when you're mad or cursing it gets a little Irish New Yorker or something, a little Brooklyn, if you will."
"I guess I've never noticed," I said, smirking.
"Yeah, I mean it's not super stereotypical, just subtle. It's funny," he said.
"Well, still, I don't like reacting with anger or annoyance so quickly," I said. "Sometimes it just feels like I can't help it."
When I said this, I didn't think much of it, but when I glanced up at Em he was staring at me with his puppy dog eyes. "Have you..." He stopped himself.
"Have I what?" I asked. "Gone to therapy? Sure, I went for a long time, but it's been awhile. I had a hard time telling my therapist anything I probably should have told her."
Em glanced at his food, pausing, but I could see the thoughts running through his mind. "You know, I'm not a therapist obviously and I'm not qualified to give any advice, but...I think sometimes just talking to someone can be helpful, just someone to listen to them without needing to give advice back or something. So, you can always vent or talk to me, if you want," he said.
"I know," I said quietly. "I don't want to put that on you, though. I wouldn't want to burden you with my troubles or anything."
"I know you don't, but still. I don't mind," he said.
I met his eyes. Eye contact seems so rare these days. It was so intimate even though it didn't have to be. I knew he was telling the truth when I looked into his eyes. I glanced out the window. "Thank you, Em," I said. "You can, you know, always confide in me as well."
He laughed, to my surprise. "I think I already over-shared enough," he said.
I chuckled. "Surely there's no such thing as over sharing," I said.
He took a bite, nodding. "There is," he said with a mouthful. "Especially with my boss."
I laughed, something I did not do often but somehow seemed to do more with Emerson lately. When I laughed, he laughed. When he laughed, he smiled a genuine smile not easily captured in photos. His smile ate up his face, stretching from ear to ear, but it beamed like the sun. So I liked laughing because I liked it when he smiled.
After lunch, I had a meeting with the executives in the boardroom where I had interviewed Emerson. Michael, like usual, was the first one there. I was second. I sat across from him with my laptop and we sat in silence. I thought about what Emerson had said weeks ago, about how maybe Michael didn't like it when I snapped at him. Truth be told, although Michael was sometimes an annoying know-it-all, he wasn't always instigative. I brought out that side of him because I was the instigative one. He was nosy because he cared. I knew he missed having me confide in him and Emilio like I used to. They didn't confide in me that much anymore either, and I didn't blame them.
"I'm sorry for snapping at you," I said, staring at my laptop. My voice probably could have sounded softer, but I was bracing myself for a snarky response.
Michael didn't say anything but I felt his eyes on me. "I'm sorry, too," he said, with a softness that was appropriate for the conversation. He drummed his fingers. "We should come over to your place."
I finally looked at him, and when I did he rolled his eyes because my questionable face was not hidden. "Why?" I asked.
"We haven't been to your place in forever. Since you are now hosting people, we should come over and have a little barbecue or something like we used to," he said.
"I'm not hosting people. I am letting my employee stay with me because he does not make enough money to find a place to stay, and my guilt at not paying him enough compels me to let him stay with me," I said.
He rolled his eyes again. One of these days he was going to roll his eyes so hard he was going to pop a blood vessel. "It'll be fun," he said.
I could tell he was trying to not be instigative. "When?" I asked.
"This Saturday. The evening. We will all come over and you can cook for us the way you cooked for Emerson," he said.
"Fine, whatever," I said. "You can come over."
"Come over where?" Emilio asked, entering with Carla and Marion.
"Lafayette is hosting all of us this Saturday at seven," he said, because of course he would take it upon himself to set the time. "At his townhouse."
"Oh," Marion said, putting a hand on his chest. "I get to grace your home again?" Marion really loved my townhouse.
"Yes, you all can come if you want," I said. "Emerson will be there."
"We heard he was residing in your little abode," Marion said. "I cannot hide the jealousy I have. Jealousy that that little cutie gets to sleep with you or jealousy that he gets to live in that beautiful house."
"They're not sleeping together," Michael said. "Lafayette made that clear. He's giving Emerson charity for over exploiting the poor guy's hard work." Michael was coming off like an ass, but I knew he was saying this so I wouldn't have to. "Emerson stays so late like everyday. He deserves to go home, you know?"
"He chooses to stay," I said. "And we leave earlier now anyway since we carpool. Well, sometimes. Sometimes we walk."
"I noticed your pants have gotten tighter in the butt," Emilio said. "Walking is helping your glutes I think."
"Thank you for looking at my ass," I said. "Can we begin?"