“Thanks. I usually forget,” Charlie says. “I wind up drinking cold, burned, gas station coffee in the middle of the desert.”
Simon’s about to tell Charlie exactly how disgusting that is, when a child materializes beside them.
“Hey there,” Charlie says, immediately turning on his smile.
“Are you Luke West?” the boy asks. He looks older than Roshni’s kids but not by much. Kindergarten, maybe?
“I’m Charlie, but it’s my job to be Luke West on television,” Charlie says, kneeling down. “And this is Simon, who plays Dr. Hale. Do you watchOut There?”
“With my dad,” the kid says. There’s something about the way he says it—proud, maybe, about getting to stay up a little late to watch a grown-up show—that makes Simon remember creeping into the living room in his footed pajamas to watchStar Trek: Voyager.It’s a memory from the other side of the country, from before Simon was Simon, before he’d figured out how to keep himself safe, and it has no place in a sun-soaked California parking lot.
The kid’s dad is inching closer, like he’s waiting for an invitation, and Simon doesn’t have a doubt in his mind that this guy sent his kid in first so Charlie and Simon wouldn’t blow him off. Which, to be fair, would work on Simon, but he doubts that Charlie blows anyone off.
When the man asks for a picture, Charlie puts his coffee on the roof of his car and reaches for the man’s phone. He subtly angles it so the car isn’t in the shot. Simon leans in and smiles, then watches as Charlie discreetly reviews the pictures before handing the phone back.
“It’s okay if you post them,” Charlie says, zillion-watt smile still in place. That is, after all, the entire point of this trip, and pictures on other people’s social media are only going to help.
Then Charlie gets into the car, effectively ending the interaction. It’s all very smooth, very polite, even friendly, but Charlie did the whole thing on his own terms and in under two minutes. It annoyed Simon the other day at the restaurant, watching Charlie do this thing that Simon still can’t get a handle on, but he tries to summon up something a little less petty. Charlie thanked him forthe coffee, and Simon isn’t going to let Charlie be better than him at whatever this is.
“I usually just flail,” Simon says when they’re in the car. “You’re good at that.”
“Nobody expects you to be friendly,” Charlie says, his mouth full of poundcake.
“Oh, fuck you, Charlie. I was trying to be nice.”
“So was I! What I mean,” Charlie says, audibly wrestling his voice into something less frustrated, “is that friendly isn’t your thing. You’re—” He gestures in Simon’s direction. “You’re you. And that’s not an insult. Or, like, not more than usual.”
“I’m touched.”
“What I’m trying to say is that people don’t expect you to be a ray of sunshine. They want to be in your presence while you glower and chain-smoke.”
“I don’t smoke,” Simon says, scandalized.
“Metaphorically.”
“Do you know what a metaphor is, Charlie? Do you really?”
“You know, you’re fucking impossible sometimes. All the time, actually. Literally every minute.”
They aren’t going to survive another four hours in this car if they’re at one another’s throats. Simon takes a sip of his coffee and a bite of his granola bar so he can’t say anything. Charlie shoves the rest of his cake into his mouth, probably having the same idea. Or terrible manners. A flip of the coin, really.
“We should post a picture before we get back on the road,” Simon says when he can trust himself to sound normal. “Or a video, or whatever.”
Charlie takes out his phone. “Okay, come here. Closer. Leanover the console, Simon. It’s not going to work if you aren’t in the picture.” He wraps an arm around Simon’s shoulder and hauls him in. “Smile, for fuck’s sake. You look like I kidnapped you.”
Simon rolls his eyes, but obviously he knows how to look like he’s having fun on command, at least for three seconds. He pretends Charlie said something funny, glances at him, and laughs. He ignores the five spots on his upper arm where Charlie’s fingers are holding him in place, pushes away the thought that in the past seven years, he’s probably touched Charlie more than he’s touched anybody else.
Charlie lets go, then holds out his phone to show Simon the pictures. Neither of them look like idiots. That’s all that matters. “Fine,” he says, then waits while Charlie types out a caption and posts it.
Charlie backs out of the parking spot, looking over his shoulder, his hand on the back of Simon’s seat. He has to be the only person under sixty-five who does that. Simon’s used to it, used to the way Charlie’s hand sometimes brushes Simon’s shoulder, used to the way Charlie swears under his breath at pedestrians who walk behind the car, used to a lot of things that he probably doesn’t need to have any feelings about.
“I can drive,” Simon offers once they’re on the highway and there’s no chance of Charlie taking him up on the offer.
“You don’t need—”
“If you don’t want me to drive your car, that’s fine, but I’ve never been in an accident and—”
“Driving keeps my mind off shit. Also no offense but I’d like to get to Phoenix today and we both know you’ll go fifty-five miles an hour the whole trip.”
