“A two-bedroom suite is always three times as nice as two single rooms,” Simon explains as he unlocks the door to the hotel room he booked on the way from Dave’s house to the taqueria. The real reason Simon wanted the two-bedroom suite is that he isn’t sure Charlie ought to be left alone tonight. He’s gone quiet and fidgety again.
The plan is to kill some time, order room service, go to sleep, and then in the morning—theoretically well-rested and less stressed—Charlie will go to the police station and file a missing persons report. Maybe by then, one of the old men Charlie contacted will get back to him with some idea of where Dave is.
“See,” Simon says when they’re standing in the main room of a fairly standard suite in a slightly upmarket chain hotel, “the kitchen is much better than in a single.”
“You plan on a doing a lot of cooking tonight?” Charlie asks. It’s the first mean thing he’s said in hours, and it takes Simon about three full seconds to clock that Charlie isn’t being mean at all. He isn’t exactly smiling, but he looks like maybe he thinks it’s funny that Simon is pleased about a kitchen he’ll only use to brew stale hotel coffee.
Simon puts his bag in one of the two mostly identical bedroomsand shuts the door, then unpacks exactly what he’ll need for the next twelve hours: phone charger, pajama pants and a T-shirt to sleep in, that book he’s never going to finish, some clothes for tomorrow. In the bathroom, he lines up his lotions in the correct order.
There’s something about the closed universe of one suitcase and one hotel room that makes Simon’s brain shut up for a little bit. It’s not that his house makes him anxious so much as it is that in new places his brain hasn’t figured out what to be anxious about.
He takes a shower. When he comes out, he sees that Charlie has already done the same thing. He’s sprawled across the living room’s single couch, his hair wet, wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt.
“Edie already caved in and ate the scrambled eggs Jamie made her for dinner,” Simon tells him.
“Is she going to be mad at you when you get back?”
“Oh, she won’t talk to me for days.”
Charlie grins. “Does she usually talk to you?”
Simon gives him the finger.
“Come on,” Charlie says, getting to his feet. He stretches, and since he doesn’t know how to buy clothes that fit, his shirt rides up. Simon doesn’t bother looking away. “We need to watch some basic cable.”
“Why on earth would we do that?”
“Because we’re at a hotel. Gotta watch some weird television as part of the experience. Gotta use their remote control and see ads for local news teams.”
That doesn’t make the slightest bit of sense, but then again, whenever Simon’s at a hotel in a new city, he finds himself watching the local morning news show, something that would never cross hismind to do at home. It’s like when he’s in a strange space, he forgets how to live his normal life.
Charlie’s walking toward the bedrooms.
“There’s a TV out here,” Simon points out.
“You have to watch the television in bed,” Charlie says. “That’s part of the experience.”
“Is mini-fridge wine part of the experience?”
When Charlie turns to look at him, there’s an odd look on his face, and it’s a few beats before he says anything. “For you, maybe.”
“You don’t drink?” Simon thinks back to all the times he’s seen Charlie with a glass of clear liquid in his hand, and how it never once occurred to him that Charlie might be using the same trick Simon does: a glass of seltzer with ice and a lime wedge, a decoy for a mixed drink.
Charlie lets out an irritated huff. “You were there that first season. Rehab? Remember?”
“I knew there was...” Simon tries to phrase this as delicately and non-judgmentally as possible. “I knew there was a substance abuse issue going on. But I didn’t realize there was any actual addiction.”
He isn’t even sure if there’s a meaningful difference. All he knows is that it is, possibly, a little strange that it never occurred to him that Charlie was—what? In recovery? He knew Charlie must have made some changes, but never thought about what that might have looked like. “Good for you,” he says.
“Good for me?” Charlie repeats, incredulous.
“For, uh. Dealing with the—thing?” Simon tries, cringing as soon as he says it.
“It’s okay, people always say something stupid at this point in theconversation. You shouldn’t feel too bad about yourself,” Charlie says, punctuating it with a sarcastic little tap on Simon’s shoulder.
“I’m trying to be nice,” Simon complains.
“You’re so bad at it. Have you ever tried before? Is this your first time? Should I be flattered?” Somehow, Charlie’s managing to sound mean and hurt and fake-flirty all at once.
