“Bring this sweater in case you go somewhere nice.” Simon folds the cashmere sweater they got in New York and puts it in the suitcase, next to about seventeen USB cords, a full-size bottle of shampoo, and a pair of flip-flops. “How about you untangle these wires,” Simon suggests.
While Charlie’s distracted, Simon packs one pair of jeans, two of the less seedy pairs of cargo shorts, three T-shirts, gym clothes, running shoes, underwear, and socks. Then, from the bathroom, a beard trimmer, a toothbrush, and some deodorant. That’s enough—Charlie can buy whatever else he needs. They have drugstores in Utah.
“What are you doing?” Charlie asks when Simon’s zipping the suitcase. He sounds pissed.
It’s perfectly obvious that Simon’s packing Charlie’s things because Charlie isn’t going to do it himself. “Come on. There’s probably some room for protein bars if you want to get some from the kitchen.”
“I can pack my own suitcase.”
“Good for you. Now get those protein bars. They aren’t going to pack themselves.”
Charlie looks like he wants to have a fight about it, but he leaves the room, and when he comes back, he’s carrying a Costco-size box of protein bars. Simon opens the suitcase just enough to slide in six bars, unwraps one for Charlie to eat now, then zips the suitcase back up.
Simon doesn’t usually think of himself as patient. Part of him wants to tell Charlie he’s being a big baby. If he doesn’t want to see his mom, he shouldn’t go, and bitching at Simon won’t get him anywhere.
But none of it’s that simple, and honestly Simon doesn’t give a shit if Charlie has fifteen cranky minutes every now and then. Simon is no stranger to being mean when he’s upset. Simon’s no stranger toCharliebeing mean when he’s upset. He’s spent seven years in training for this.
Simon rolls the suitcase out to his car—Charlie was going to drive himself, but Simon has no faith in that ending with Charlie at the airport. Charlie follows, his jaw set and his fists clenched. But he gets into the passenger side of the car when Simon opens the door.
They’re nearly at the airport before Charlie says anything.
“I probably won’t be very nice when I call. If you don’t want me to call, I’ll see you next week.”
“You’d better call,” Simon snaps. It’s probably the first time all morning he’s let himself sound annoyed. “Also, you don’t need to be nice. Give me some credit. You think you’ll scare me off? I’d like to see you try.”
Charlie’s quiet for too long. “I don’t want to be mean to you,” he says, like he really does think he’s going to scare Simon off. For fuck’s sake.
“This is barely even rude. You aren’t as scary as you think you are. Text me or I’m getting on the next flight to Utah, are we clear?”
Charlie texts when he lands, but there’s nothing else until Simon’s getting ready for bed. Charlie’s sent a picture of one of those doodle-type dogs wearing the kind of bandanna dogs get at the groomer. No comment, not even an emoji. Just a dog.
Simon asks the dog’s name, and in return gets a FaceTime request.
“I’m flossing my teeth,” he says after accepting the call, the phone on the counter, its camera pointing at the bathroom ceiling.
“Yeah, whatever, your teeth will wait,” Charlie says. So, still in a shitty mood, then.
Simon takes the phone into bed and props it up on his knees. “Well, you’re in a state.”
It looks like Charlie’s also sitting in bed, but that’s all Simon can make out. “I can hang up,” Charlie says.
Simon has a moment of emotional double vision, where he can see perfectly clearly the other version of himself that takes the out, that seizes the excuse.We’ll talk later, that other, worse Simon says, effectively creating a nice, safe barricade between himself and other people’s feelings. Between himself and other people, period.
But he hasn’t done that with Charlie since New York, maybe not since puttering around Dave’s living room.
Maybe Charlie’s right and, on some level, Simon already was thinking of Charlie as an ally. Maybe he already trusted Charlie enough that he could pass out as soon as he got into the passenger seat of Charlie’s car, and so he trusted Charlie enough to let himself care.
All that matters is that he does care and that he wants Charlie to know it. He never wants Charlie to doubt it. Maybe that’s the trick to relationships—with friends or lovers or colleagues who become something like family. Simon just needs to occasionally do the opposite of what all his defense mechanisms want him to do.
And so Simon fills the air with nothing: what he had for dinner, a meme Nora sent, a movie he wants to watch.
“This kid,” Charlie says when Simon winds down, “isn’t fucked up atall.”
Simon assumes “this kid” is Charlie’s half sister, and that if Charlie sounds pissed about her being well-adjusted, it’s a lot more complicated than that. “How old is she?”
“Seven. They have apool. Brad—his real name, swear to God—is a chiropractor. I just—what the fuck. Every time I come here it’s something else—Haley goes to ballet class. Brad has opinions about lawn care. My mom volunteers at Haley’s school.”
And Charlie didn’t have any of that. Charlie’s mentioned sleeping in his mother’s car.
