DeathStarJacuzzi:When I was transitioning, my dad did NOT know what to say to me but he sure did sit there and watch all three Star Trek reboot movies without a single complaint
SupervillainApologist:My oldest memory is watching Battlestar Galactica—the original one from the seventies—with my older sisters.
GalactoseIntolerance:who authorized any of you to make me cry in the middle of a workday??
Chapter Ten
Simon checks out while, across the hotel lobby, Charlie talks to an elderly couple. They’ve been chatting for five entire minutes, and at one point Charlie’s mouth makes the shapeCalifornia, so these people probably have no idea who he is and are just talking to him as fellow visitors. Charlie’s making friends with random senior citizens. And now he’s bending over one of their phones, grinning at—Simon can only assume—photographs of grandchildren or the Grand Canyon.
As soon as Charlie waves goodbye to the couple, the smile drops off his face. His brow furrows and his lips press together in a tight line.
Simonknewthat Charlie’s nonstop good humor was an act. He knew it, and he’s spent years wondering why nobody else could see through it. But it turns out that what lies behind the screen of affability is just a little less—less sunshiny, less gregarious, less charming. And also more—more thoughtful, more anxious. Nothing sinister.
They’re loading their suitcases into the car by six thirty, Charlie looking rougher around the edges than he did yesterday. A few times last night, Simon woke to the sound of Charlie in the kitchen. He doubts Charlie got much in the way of sleep.
“Let me drive.” Simon positions himself between Charlie and the driver’s side door.
“I can—”
“Can you just for one minute remember the number of times that you’ve insisted on driving me home when I was in no shape to get behind the wheel?”
They’re standing too close because they’ve been trying to maneuver one another away from the driver’s side door. Charlie’s quiet, scanning Simon’s face. “You hate driving,” he says eventually.
Simon didn’t learn to drive until he moved to Los Angeles after college. It still doesn’t feel natural. But he does drive, obviously. He doesn’t even talk about how much he hates it, because he’ll sound like the world’s biggest baby, and everyone (Jamie) will yell at him to take more Lyfts.
“How do you even know that?” Simon asks, realizing too late that he could have just denied it.
Charlie shoves his hands in his pockets and looks up at the still-gray morning sky. “I noticed.”
“Well, right now I’d hate even more watching you try to stay awake.”
Charlie presses the key fob into Simon’s hand, his fingers warm when they brush Simon’s palm.
“You know what this means.” Simon settles into the driver’s seat. He taps the car’s touchscreen, connecting his phone to the car’s Bluetooth.
“Fuck no,” Charlie says. “I’m not listening to your sad guitar music or whatever.”
“I can’t believe you think I’m emotionally stable enough to listen to sad music.”
“I’ll put on the same playlist as yesterday.”
Simon clicks his tongue. “I’m driving. I get to pick the music. It’s the law.”
“No way.”
“It’s in the constitution, Charlie.”
Charlie laughs, startled, almost a giggle, and Simon feels like he unlocked a door he wasn’t trying to open.
Simon doesn’t put on any music at all, because every few minutes, Charlie calls his stepfather. There’s a rhythm to it—unlock the phone, tap the screen, listen to the call go straight to voicemail, end the call, sigh. Simon memorized it yesterday. But today he notices that this is all Charlie’s doing with his phone.
“Why’s your phone so quiet?” Simon asks.
“I silenced notifications.”
“Why?” Simon wouldn’t have thought Charlie ever wanted to be left alone. Then again, he’d never have thought Charlie would tell him about it, so who even knows anything anymore.
“I can’t fake normal right now.”
