“Yeah, well, if you’re the Charlie I think you are, you aren’t hurting.”
“Can’t complain.” Charlie grins, and if it looks a little forced, then Simon bets he’s the only one who can tell.
Mike turns into the house. “Dave! You’ve got company.” Then, to Charlie, “You should come in. I’ll get you a drink.”
“This is Simon,” Charlie says.
“Nice to meet you,” Simon says, shaking Mike’s hand.
Mike looks at Simon a second too long, which probably means he’s watched the show.
Inside the house, every surface, including the ceiling, is made of broad pine slats. There’s a huge stone fireplace and a wall of windows that Simon missed from the outside. If there’s a hot tub somewhere on the premises, it’s basically a four-hundred-dollar-a-night Airbnb in Aspen. Dave has not been living rough this past week.
At the kitchen table is a man with gray hair that’s buzzed short, weathered tan skin, and two sleeves of tattoos emerging from a white T-shirt. He’s clearly (1) alive and (2) fully capable of answering a phone. Simon hates him on sight.
Charlie opens his mouth and snaps it shut.
“What are you doing here, kid?” Dave asks, getting to his feet. He sounds confused. Disappointed. A little pissed off.
“You weren’t answering your phone.”
“What?”
“I’ve been calling you for a week. No answer.”
“I left my charger at home.”
“He has an iPhone,” Mike explains. “This is an Android household.”
“Wasn’t gonna waste money on a new charger,” Dave says. “We’re not all rich movie stars.”
Charlie, incredibly, doesn’t rise to the bait. “I went to your house. I nearly went to thepolice. I was about an hour away from filing a missing persons report.”
Dave takes a step back. “Why the fuck would you do that?”
Charlie’s hands are balled into fists so tight that his fingers are white. The vein in his forehead is doing terrible things. “Because I thought you were dead. I was worried sick.”
“What can I get you to drink?” Mike asks. His voice is low, the question meant for Simon.
Simon doesn’t want anything but feels like drinks might be the kind of stage dressing that makes a situation feel more normal. “Water for me, and Charlie likes Coke, if you have it.”
“How many times have I told you that you don’t need to worry about me? I’m not your problem,” Dave says.
“Only five-fucking-thousand times, but seriously, Dave, you don’t get to decide who I worry about. If I’m not gonna worry about you, then who will?”
“He’s got a point,” Mike says. He hands Simon both the drinks, like he senses nobody ought to approach Charlie right now.
“None of your neighbors know you, which isn’t any kind of surprise. Most of your friends are dead. When I drove by the garage, it looked like it was closed. When did that happen? You couldn’t let me know? Whenever I talk to you, I ask about it, and you say everything’s fine.”
“None of your business, Charlie. Nobody asked you to stick your nose in.”
“None of my business,” Charlie repeats. “None of mybusiness?”
“Drink.” Simon hands Charlie the can of soda.
“And who the fuck is this?” Dave asks, looking at Simon. Simon doesn’t believe for a single second that Dave doesn’t recognize him. No matter how much of an asshole this guy is, no matter how little he thinks of Charlie, there’s no way he hasn’t occasionally watched an episode just out of curiosity.
“This is Simon,” Charlie says, no explanation. Dave raises an eyebrow, and still Charlie doesn’t qualify it with “from work,” or “a friend,” or anything else. It sounds like a dare.
