Normal is out of the question for him and Charlie, and he needs to make Jamie understand this. “Just the other day, when he was driving me home—”
Jamie starts to laugh, loud and bright, and Simon throws his hands up in surrender. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go to Charlie’s party and get it over with.”
Simon’s not sure what he was expecting Charlie’s house to look like, but if he had to guess he’d have imagined one of those huge leather sofas that look vaguely inflated. Plenty of forest green. Probably a lot of the kind of art you only acquire when an interior decorator decides your walls are too empty. An over-reliance on ceiling lights. The design equivalent of cargo shorts.
There is a big leather sofa, but it isn’t completely hideous. And there’s plenty of art that somehow encompasses both dorm room prints and expensively framed generic-looking abstracts. For themost part, it looks like Charlie walked into a Pottery Barn and bought one of everything.
There are twenty people in the living room, and, from the sound of it, at least as many outside. People are relaxed, their feet up on the sofa, a pile of shoes near the door. This group is at home here, in Charlie’s house, on his comfortable-looking furniture. Simon gets a few double takes when he walks in.
He shouldn’t have agreed to come. He told himself he was doing it for Jamie, but Jamie is glued to his side like he’s Simon’s emotional support dog. The thought makes him wish he had Edie. Everyone would pet her and ask how old she is and compliment her sweater, and he’d hardly have to make any conversation at all.
“Go off and have fun,” Simon tells Jamie, trying to sound like he means it. Through the open French doors, he sees Roshni on the patio, talking to a man he thinks is her husband. “Seriously. I’m fine.”
Once Jamie is out of sight, Simon resists the urge to lock himself in the bathroom and do a crossword on his phone. These are people Simon sees every day—usually only for work reasons, and partly against his will—but still, he’s used to them. They’re used to him. It’s fine. He’s fine. He steps through the doors.
It’s barely April, so the water can’t be warm, but a dozen people are in the pool. It doesn’t take much to identify Charlie as one of them. His hair, usually wavy and light brown, is dark and slick with water. His shoulders are—well. You’d think Simon would be used to the sight by now, but apparently not, because he has to look away.
There’s an empty chair next to Roshni, and he sits in it before he can overthink whether she’s saving it for somebody. “Now is the timeto tell me about your children’s tuition,” Simon says, instead of being a normal fucking person and saying hello, “or why you think they should be captains of their lacrosse teams, because I had a lot of practice with those topics tonight. I have my lines ready. I’m off book.”
“They’re only two,” Roshni says, “but I’ll keep that in mind.” She and her husband proceed to manage the conversation in a way that leaves Simon only needing to supply enthusiastic noises when they mention their twin daughters doing anything especially adorable, terrible, or clever. It shouldn’t be a surprise that Roshni, who’s never been anything but kind, is taking a little bit of care to make sure he’s comfortable, or that she’s married to someone equally kind.
“Is that Samara?” Roshni asks, looking over Simon’s shoulder. Simon turns around to see Samara Jackson, who played a space diplomat on the first two seasons ofOut There. After she left the show, she texted Simon to ask if he wanted to get coffee. Simon, aware that these offers don’t actually mean anyone wants to have coffee with you, never responded.
Roshni waves extravagantly, even though she and Samara never worked together. Maybe they know one another from Charlie’s parties, if Samara still comes despite not having been on the show in years.
He probably ought to say hello, but he doesn’t have whatever it takes to walk a few yards and initiate a conversation with someone he hasn’t talked to in five years. He’s about to start feeling guilty about it when he hears the sound of someone dripping all over the patio next to him. It’s Charlie, who apparently wrapped a towel around his waist without first using it to dry himself off, because beads of water cling to his shoulders and chest, illuminated by the strands of lights strung up overhead.
“You came,” Charlie says.
“I did,” Simon agrees. For a moment, they stare at one another. Simon stays perfectly still, like he’s hiding from aTyrannosaurus rexand not the existence of social norms. Then Simon remembers his manners. Or at least one manner. “Thank you for inviting me.”
“I always invite you,” Charlie says.
“I know, I just—” He doesn’t know how to finish that sentence, because what can he say? He only agreed to come this time because—the truth of why he accepted Charlie’s invitation hits him. He isn’t doing this for Jamie. He’s here because this is his last chance. Charlie won’t invite him to any more parties because Simon won’t be working onOut There.
“Thank you,” Simon says. “You have a lovely home,” he recites, rote, like it’s a sentence he learned in a foreign language phrasebook designed for aliens wearing human skin-suit disguises.
Charlie’s eyebrows shoot up, probably because Simon’s being weird even by Simon’s standards. “I have to...” Charlie says, then just stands there.
“Right.” Simon’s still looking up at him.
“Bye.” Charlie hesitates another moment, then leaves.
“What was that?” Roshni’s husband asks. Roshni starts talking about a book she wants Simon to read. Simon dutifully takes out his phone and orders it right away, because that gives him something to do.
After maybe twenty minutes, he knows he has to let Roshni and her husband talk to someone else. He makes an excuse and heads toward the kitchen, remembering what Jamie said earlier about his father hiding in the kitchen during parties. He can probably make himself look busy by getting a glass of water.
There’s a side door from the patio that looks like it leads to the kitchen, probably through a laundry room or mud room for collecting wet bathing suits. He figures this is his best bet for a quick escape without running into anybody. The door is slightly ajar.
Once he pushes it open, though, he hears Charlie’s voice. Or, rather, his laugh. It’s quieter than usual, as if whoever he’s talking to is very close. Simon steps through what turns out to be a laundry room and pauses at the door to the kitchen, steeling himself for seeing Charlie. But then he hears Jamie’s voice, low and a little silky, and Simonknowsthat tone. Simon ought to go back out to the patio, but that might look strange to anyone who watched him walk through the door, so he’s frozen in place.
Through the crack in the door, he can see one of Charlie’s hands bracketed on the counter next to Jamie’s hip. Behind them, a piece of kids’ art hangs on the refrigerator door.
“Are you hitting on me?” Jamie asks, a little teasing.
“It’s more like I’m making sure you know that if you hit on me, I’m good with it,” Charlie says.
Slowly, making it obvious as hell and giving Jamie time to back off, Charlie lifts a hand and tucks a strand of hair behind Jamie’s ear.
