“You know, not what I’d wear to drive through two hundred miles of desert, but okay,” Charlie says when Simon steps out of his house. Charlie’s leaning against his car, a bucket-size travel mug in his hand.
“Layers,” Simon says with emphasis, because Charlie still hasn’t grasped that this is the trick to looking civilized. He’s wearing a tan leather jacket and a scarf and sunglasses, very twenties aviator, and he’s pleased to have achieved this look on effectively four hours’ sleep.
“Here.” Charlie shoves the mug at him.
“Sure, Charlie, I’ll hold your coffee.”
“It’s your coffee, dipshit. Just say thank you.”
Then Charlie opens the trunk and loads in Simon’s suitcase before Simon can point out that he could have done that himself.
In the car, Simon sniffs the contents of the travel mug.
“It isn’t poisoned,” Charlie says.
“Exactly what someone would say if they poisoned my coffee.”
“For fuck’s—it’s your normal order, oat milk latte with no syrup.”
Simon takes a sip. Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised that Charlie knows his order. Charlie takes his own coffee black with four packets of plain white sugar.
“Thank you.” Simon’s mouth is strange around the words. Basic civility doesn’t come naturally around Charlie.
“Don’t hurt yourself there.”
They’re heading east, the rising sun blazing into their faces, so Simon puts on his darkest sunglasses, the ones he can barely see out of. He shuts his eyes, because it’s six fifteen and all the coffee in the world isn’t going to keep him awake.
When he opens his eyes, they’re already outside the city. In fact, they’re nearly in Palm Springs. The dashboard clock tells him he’s been asleep for well over an hour. He peels his face off the window and sits up straight, trying to look like someone who wasn’t just drooling all over his collar.
“Dolly Parton?” Simon asks, noticing the music coming from the car speakers. He can’t remember Charlie ever putting on music before. They usually just sit in fraught silence, punctuated by occasional insults, until Charlie pulls into Simon’s driveway.
“You have a problem with Dolly Parton, you can hitchhike back to—”
“I don’t have a problem with Dolly Parton. Jesus. Calm down. I was just surprised because—”
“I deliberately put on a playlist that I didn’t think would piss you off, and—”
“You’re the only person in this vehicle who’s pissed off,” Simon says, aware that he sounds distinctly pissed off. “You’re driving. You can listen to whatever you want. I have noise-canceling headphones if I get desperate.”
“Fine.”
“Also I like this song. I was just surprised because nobody everplays it.” Simon’s not sure whether he’s defending his taste in music or making sure Charlie knows he isn’t bothered, or something in the middle.
“I think we’re coming up on the last Starbucks for a hundred miles,” Simon says a while later, checking the map on his phone. “So if we want non-gas-station coffee, this is probably our last chance, unless there’s some other place you know about.”
Charlie grunts in a way that Simon chooses to interpret as agreement.
“What do you want?” Simon asks. “I’ll just order it now. Coffee with a bathtub full of sugar? Hot or iced? Some kind of muffin?”
“Iced. Largest possible size. And a slice of that lemon cake, if they have it.”
Simon puts in the order. When he gets out of the car in the Starbucks parking lot a few minutes later, it’s hot enough to take off his scarf and jacket. Charlie’s watching him.
“Layers,” Simon reminds him.
Charlie’s wearing sunglasses, but he pushes them up into his hair just so Simon can see him roll his eyes.
Simon picks up their order and brings it out to where Charlie’s leaning against the car.
