He may not be doing great, and he should seriously think about getting a therapist who does Zoom sessions, and who isn’t seventy-five and basically retired, but he’s doing as well as can be expected, if you’re grading on a steep curve.
He’s doing better than yesterday, at least. He’s doing a hell of a lot better than he was when he asked Charlie to drive him to the airport. There’s no way Charlie didn’t know something was wrong. You don’t spend seven years around somebody without knowing when they’re upset.
As far as Charlie knows, Simon’s still upset. As far as Charlie knows, something’s seriously wrong.
Simon can be better than Dave. As far as affirmations go, this is a petty one, but it’s also an attainable goal, which is good.
He opens Charlie’s message and texts back a simple “thanks.”
Charlie doesn’t text back.
It shouldn’t bother Simon. He hadn’t planned on staying in touch with Charlie anyway. When he imagined his future after leavingOut There, Charlie wasn’t in his life. But that version of the future feels impossible now, because it all hinged on that one stupid play. And somehow, into the murky picture of his future that he’s now trying to assemble, Charlie Blake has slipped in.
Or maybe Simon just can’t imagine a future without Charlie in it anymore. Charlie’s there because he couldn’t be anywhere else.
And so Simon keeps checking his phone, expecting a text from Charlie, even though that isn’t who they are. Of course Charlie isn’t going to text back—he has no reason to believe that Simon will answer, so why bother? They have seven years of bad vibes, three days of civility, and two instances of above average sex. Charlie probably doesn’t even want anything more to do with Simon, probably wouldn’t even if Simon hadn’t done the one thing SimonknowsCharlie doesn’t deal well with and disappeared on him.
Simon spends another two days eating prepared salads andgoing on walks. He goes to the bookstore and he buys more groceries. His travel-size skin care routine is running out, so he goes to four separate stores to replenish his supply, instead of ordering it online like he usually does. He texts Nora.
Realistically, he should call his agent and explain what happened with the play, but he doesn’t think he can handle Ken’s rote assurances, the sense that he thinks of Simon as interchangeable with his other clients, when Simon’s entire problem at the moment is that he isn’t.
Instead, he calls his therapist, who agrees to do a phone session, and then spends most of the hour loudly blowing his nose while Margie says things like, “It sounds like you aren’t being very gentle with yourself” and “This isn’t the first time we’ve talked about what rejection means for you.”
He shuts his eyes and remembers how happy he was on the bench at the car show, how he tried to store that feeling up so he could take it out later. Now’s later; now’s when he needs it. The closest he can get is the warmth of sunlight on his skin, the sound of Charlie laughing, the sense that the future was laid out in front of him, frictionless, easy.
He could look at that picture he took and try to recapture the feeling, but instead he can hardly bring himself to glance at the camera roll icon on his phone. He doesn’t want to see Charlie’s face. It’s bad enough that he keeps wondering what Charlie’s doing. Did he spend an extra few days in Arizona? Did he go back to Mike’s cabin? Is he home?
For the past year, Simon’s been telling himself that he’s going to get better. He’ll develop better coping strategies. He’ll stopworking onOut There, and whatever external validation he gets from his new roles will make him feel good. Someone will invent a new migraine medication or a new anxiety medication, or he’ll discover crystals or magnets or a new strain of weed that fixes all his problems.
But this is it. His migraines are reasonably well managed. His anxiety isn’t, but that’s been a work in progress since the third grade, even when he was on his old meds. It gets bad, and then it gets better. It’s a rhythm. A shitty rhythm, but he can work with it. Hehasbeen working with it. He’s functional—even when he feels like he isn’t, even when his brain insists that he isn’t.
He makes himself tell Jamie the truth of what happened with the play.
“I know it doesn’t matter,” he tells Jamie. “But it feels like it does. Anyway, sorry I had to be a crazy person about it.”
“Or,” Jamie says firmly, “you need some space to process your shit.”
“Most people manage to do that without running away.”
“Most people can’t afford last-minute airfare. Most people don’t have entire empty apartments they can use. Most people don’t have two months off. Who knows what most people would do in your shoes?”
“Still.”
“Is it so different than checking yourself into a silent retreat or whatever? You didn’t do anything harmful.”
Simon isn’t sure he agrees, but it’s still nice to hear that Jamie thinks so.
He reads that book Roshni recommended, and it’s boring butnot as boring as his brain and so he finishes it. Then he stays up until five in the morning—his sleep schedule is irredeemably fucked—finishing the horny dragon book.
The next afternoon, he texts Charlie a list of everything he hates about the book. Before hitting send, he really looks at it, thinking that before he sends it, he ought to at least know why he’s sending it. But he doesn’t have an answer, and he wants to send it anyway, so he does.
As soon as he taps the arrow, he realizes exactly how insane a text it is. It fills the entire screen. It’s about dragons. It falls right beneath the other day’s “thanks,” making it a double text. Everything about it is appalling and he’d probably work himself into a spiral about it if Charlie didn’t respond within five minutes.
Charlie:okay, wrong
Charlie:like, you’re entitled to your (wrong) opinion but I bet you’re going to read the sequel
Charlie:wait, no, I bet you already bought it
