Simon still doesn’t say anything.
“Was this just your best idea for getting away from Charlie?” Jamie asks. “I mean, who hasn’t wanted to fly across the country to avoid someone they hooked up with.”
Simon could just not correct Jamie. That would be easier than explaining that Simon doesn’t want to talk about how shitty and lost he feels. It would definitely be easier than talking about how an empty, bland apartment three thousand miles from home feels safer than his own house.
He’s not sure how he’d even put into words that what he wants is to pet his dog and curl up in his own bed, that he wants to hear Jamie tell him that everything’s going to be fine, but that he doesn’t think he can endure those things without shattering whatever flimsy scaffolding is holding him up. Even thinking about Edie makes him want to cry.
“You aren’t denying that you hooked up with him.” Jamie sounds scandalized and delighted.
“Like you didn’t already know.”
“I thought you’d deny it for a few weeks while you got used to the idea.”
And that’s why Simon can’t go home right now. Jamie knows him too well. He’d take one look at Simon and see him for the mess that he is.
“I’m going to take a shower,” Simon says. “And then figure out where the grocery store is.”
“Do something nice for yourself, all right?”
“Why?” Simon asks, maybe a little defensive.
“Well. For one, because it’s your birthday.”
“Fuck.” Between the time difference and losing a day to travel and a migraine, he’s mentally a day behind.
“Don’t take this the wrong way.” There’s something alarmingly careful in Jamie’s voice. “But if I text you, I need you to answer.”
“I always do.” Simon’s a little offended. Other than yesterday, he’s never left Jamie on read, not even immediately after they broke up. He leaves practically everybody else on read, but not Jamie.
“While you aren’t around for me to look at, I need proof of life. Just for the next day or two.”
Simon winces. Even if Simon’s never admitted it, Jamie still knows that sometimes Simon’s anxiety takes over, grabs the wheel, and drives the car into the nearest ditch.
He might actively resent Jamie asking for this, but then he remembers Dave. Fucking Dave, who sails through life without a care in the world for the people who worry about him. Simon might not be the greatest friend, but he can do better than Dave.
“Okay,” he says. “Sure.”
After ending the call, Simon remembers that Jamie isn’t the only person Simon disappeared on for twenty-four hours. He was supposed to text Charlie when he landed. Well, maybe Simon can’t actually do better than Dave. Shit.
Squinting against the horrors of his phone screen, he pulls up Charlie’s contact and types out “sorry, got here safe.” It’s not enough,but he doesn’t know what would be enough, so he sends the text and goes back to sleep.
The sublet is in a fairly soulless Chelsea high-rise. It’s a five-minute walk to Whole Foods, has a washer and dryer in the unit, and isn’t cluttered with other people’s belongings.
It would have been a short enough walk to the theater, but Simon isn’t thinking about that right now. Instead, he’s filling his shopping cart with premade salads and a random assortment of foods that he can’t visualize forming any kind of meal. He may not have a plan for his career, but he does have a sixteen-dollar jar of almond butter and some crackers made from cauliflower, and that’s going to have to be good enough for now.
As soon as he gets the groceries into the refrigerator, he’s ready to fall back asleep. He doesn’t know if he’s tired from the migraine or if it’s some kind of emotional hangover, but he makes himself have a glass of water and a few spoonfuls of almond butter before getting into bed.
When he wakes up, it’s completely dark out, which means he’s going to wind up fully nocturnal if he doesn’t start paying attention to the time. There’s a text on his phone from Charlie. It just says “Hey. Happy birthday.”
There’s no “how’s New York” or “how was your flight,” because Charlie doesn’t expect Simon to respond. Simon disappeared in a way that Charlie probably took personally and then didn’t text when he landed. Charlie has drawn some accurate conclusions about what kind of person Simon is.
He has a salad, a totally reasonable choice for—he checks hisphone—one in the morning. But if it’s one here, then it’s only ten in California. He sends a picture of his salad to Jamie, the proof of life Jamie requested. “Alive and eating,” he writes. Jamie sends a thumbs-up immediately, then sends a picture of Edie, fast asleep on Simon’s bed.
The picture—and the fact that Jamie sent it—pierce the fog of doom that Simon’s felt wrapped in since that phone call yesterday morning. He knows, logically, that this isn’t the end of the world. He’ll get more work. There’s no urgency. He can afford to be choosy. He’s good at what he does. But you can know something is fake and still feel it.
Simon’s entire job is making people feel things that aren’t based in reality. You can make an audience frightened, happy, triumphant, whatever, entirely from some made up dialogue and a halfway decent score. Right now all his brain chemicals are putting on a show and it’s calledEverything Is Terrible and Nobody Likes You.Simon knows it isn’t real but it’s a pretty convincing performance anyway.
Simon’s spent most of the past twenty-four hours asleep. He’s had—more or less—a normal number of meals today. He took his meds. He shaved off a gross three days’ worth of stubble. He unpacked his suitcase, did a load of laundry, and lined up his lotions on the bathroom counter. Going to the grocery store and back probably counts as a walk. All the self-care boxes have been checked.
