As they walk back to Dave’s house, Simon clears his throat. “Not to be grim—”
“I’m already there,” Charlie says.
“You mentioned calling the hospitals. Did you call the police?”
“He’d hate having the cops in his business.”
“He should have thought of that before deciding not to answer his phone,” Simon snaps. “I mean,” he says, softening his tone as much as he can, which isn’t much, “either he’s okay or he isn’t. If he isn’t, then he should be grateful that someone wants to help. If he’s fine and just decided to fuck off, then he’s a dick and he deserves what he gets.”
Simon half expects Charlie to tell him off, but instead he just looks sad. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, that makes sense.”
“Before we even think about going to the police, we need lunch. Do you know anyplace near here or should I find something?”
“Do you like tacos?”
“Everybody likes tacos.”
Charlie gives him a skeptical look, which is a huge improvement over anxious and tragic, so Simon will take it.
“I thought you were vegan,” Charlie says as soon as they order.
Simon makes a so-so gesture with his hand. “Some cheeses and meats can cause migraines.” This is true, and it’s a good enough answer, so he could leave it there. But today he saw Charlie have some kind of panic attack, and he’s inadvertently gotten some insights into Charlie’s life that Charlie would probably prefer he didn’t have. It feels like the scales have tipped uncomfortably, and if Simon doesn’t even them, he’ll lose the game of honesty chicken they’re playing. Or that Simon is playing, at least. “Actually, my doctor doesn’t think my migraines have anything to do with food. Caffeine doesn’t even trigger them.”
Charlie’s slouched in his chair, a baseball cap pulled low on his forehead, his legs stretched out so far they’re practically under Simon’s chair. “What does trigger them?”
“Stress, allergies, bad sleep, skipped meals. Bright lights. But I avoid the foods anyway, just, like, as a show of good faith in case the universe is paying attention.”
Saying it out loud like that—which he’s never done except to his therapist—makes it sound even less rational than it already is. He’s fully expecting Charlie to point this out, but instead Charlie just tilts his head and says, “Yeah, makes sense.”
“It really doesn’t.”
“I mean, it makes sense that you’d want to control the things you can control.”
Which is almost exactly what Simon’s therapist says. It’s also what she says about the rest of his rules, more or less.
Their food comes, and Charlie doesn’t make fun of Simon for eating his fish tacos with a fork and knife.
It’s a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, with stacking vinyl-cushioned chairs that have been repaired with duct tape and Formica tables with wobbly legs. The menus look hand-laminated. The tables are all occupied, and there’s a steady stream of takeout orders being picked up at the counter.
“You ordered something from the menu,” Charlie says.
Simon bristles. “There’s a difference between a restaurant that sells twenty-five-dollar salads and a family taco place.” Besides, fish tacos are basically fish tacos, no surprises, no matter where you get them.
“We used to come here all the time,” Charlie says.
“You and Dave?”
Charlie hesitates. “Yeah. Sometimes my mom. One of my foster homes was just a few streets over, but we didn’t come here.” He’s looking at his plate, only throwing a glance at Simon when he gets to the end.
Simon’s never heard Charlie mention foster care. That isn’t a surprise—most people don’t go around talking to their least favorite coworkers about potential minefields of childhood trauma.
What’s surprising is that Charlie’s mentioning it now. Simon knows his reaction is important, but he doesn’t know what the right reaction is. He doesn’t want to alienate Charlie—the extent to which he doesn’t want to alienate Charlie is something Simon’s going to think about later. Like, maybe next month, when he’s in New York. Maybe never.
The right answer is something like “Thanks for trusting me with that information,” but Simon would need a solid hour with that before he could deliver a convincing line reading. If he tried now, it would come out somewhere between sarcastic and unhinged.
“Yeah?” It isn’t exactly a meaningful response, but he nudges Charlie under the table, just a tap of his shoe against Charlie’s ankle. He doesn’t know what that tap means, or what he wants it to mean, just that he hopes Charlie figures it out.
“Yeah,” Charlie says, kicking him back, very lightly. He isn’t looking at his plate anymore, but at Simon, with an expression that Simon can’t decipher, something that looks like a question.
