Utterly Forgettable | MM Romance | Complete

Seventeen: Don't Always Want A Babysitter Around

There were several moments in Josh's day where coming across Emery Hall was no hardship — he'd be forgiven for thinking they were, in fact, a distinct pleasure.

Coming back from his nightly jog, drenched in sweat with hair sticking to his neck was definitely not among them. He could feel Emery's eyes on him, more than likely judging him for coming into the house like an unwashed barbarian.

"Josh. I was hoping to run into you."

He decided against replying 'Emery. I was hoping to run into the shower' and settled on, "Anything I can do for you?"

"Yes. I'd like you to set up a convenient time for you to come to my office and make regular reports on Emma. Emotionally, physically, whatever you can think of that feels relevant."

Josh should have replied that, at that point, Emma was pretty content with her lot in life if not for the fact that she was, well, dying. Her work was progressing along nicely, her relationship with her brother was mended, and she was terrorizing the people at the design shop every other day — in person, and not always allowing Josh to accompany her, much to his chagrin, with a dismissive 'Don't always want a babysitter around, minion'.

He should have mentioned that there was little sense in Emery taking even more time off his work schedule to receive reports that would have very little intrinsic value.

The words that actually came out of his mouth were, "Sure. We can do daily reports, if you'd like. How about after Emma goes to sleep? I can spare an hour then."

The following night, when he made his first report, he was delighted to find out Emery had ordered an assortment of energy drinks entirely for his benefit. "May I offer you a sugary aberration?" he asked, and Josh wasn't able to wipe the grin off his face the rest of the night.

#

Josh was beginning to compare opening his front door to unwrapping a little box of surprises. He never knew what he'd find. Today it was the teenage son of his second-floor neighbor; said teenager sat across the counter from Emery, wearing a dour expression, a math book open in between them.

"But I have a question."

"I'm not interested in your questions at the moment. The goal is to complete the exercise as if I weren't here. Then we can begin discussing questions."

"But I—"

"In silence. 'As if I weren't here' precludes conversation. Go back to your exercise." He lifted his head to greet Josh. "Do you need anything at this moment? Otherwise, I'll be with you in an hour."

Josh must be out of his mind, to find the dismissal endearing; on second thought he hadn't been in his right mind since any of this had started, had he?

#

Emma was dictating again, after a short reading session that had ended when Emery had to go answer a phone call. The anthology was nearly ready, already at the printing house, yet she insisted on sending feedback on poems that hadn't made the cut. She was infuriated by the material, and Josh had to translate her clipped sentences into something that wouldn't completely destroy the life of the poor poet she had in her sights.

"Pretty rhymes aren't a poem. All of these are copies of your first. Can't stand reading another rehash of the same thing. Originality is a concept. So is realism. Your cars are your apples are your jackets are your forks." She was on a roll.

"Emma, hold on. I have to actually write this and I have no clue what you meant by that last one," he interrupted.

"Ugh," she offered in disgust.

Josh had never considered what it'd be like, to not have your mouth respond fast enough to be able to speak properly, until he'd met her. More often than not he'd dealt with dementia, where a person's brain wasn't there all the time. He'd dealt with a few cancers and a few other degenerative diseases, but hers was the first one where it was so clear, the waste of a brilliant, fully cognizant, self-aware mind trapped in a failing body. That she was smarter than anyone in any room she found herself in only added to the tragedy.

"I mean to say," she continued through gritted teeth, "he wrote one good poem. Then he copied it another twelve times. He's using different settings. Different objects. Different rhymes. Meaning's the same. Every time."

"Why not just thank him for the one that made it, then," Josh asked, confused, "if you only selected one a person anyway?" By the way she narrowed her eyes at him he knew she was thinking him rather stupid at that point. He turned away from her to fetch his water bottle from the shelf.

"Because, minion, the first one was better than good. It was outstanding. If he spends the rest of his life copying himself we all lose. And if—" She paused abruptly. "If— Josh."

She never called him by his name. He turned to face her, knocking the bottle from its perch. Beads of sweat had gathered on her forehead, hand clutching at her heart. "The nurse."

He was running before the first drop touched the floor.