Simon, a little high from the thrill of his deranged text not being treated as the lunacy it most definitely is, sends Charlie a picture of the sequel toA Scorched Landsitting on his coffee table.
Chapter Sixteen
So, now they text. Apparently.
It’s nothing important. Charlie talks about whatever he’s watching and occasionally sends TikToks. Simon sends detailed updates about the dogs who live in his building.
They aren’t saying anything that matters. These are probably the most boring texts anybody’s ever sent to someone they’ve had sex with, but the fact they’re texting is more important than what’s in them.
Simon can’t bring himself to tell Charlie about losing the role in the play, so he mentions that he’ll only be in New York for another week and trusts that Charlie’s smart enough to take Simon’s caginess as a sign he doesn’t want to talk about it, and to google instead of asking questions.
Simon stays up way too late finishing the second book in the dragon romance series, then starts reading the third. He finds the subreddit for the series and gets sucked into a vortex of fan theories. Someone on the internet iswrongand Simon almost has to fight them. He preorders the fourth book and tries to decide whether it would be weird to go to a book signing.
This series maybe isn’t what Simon would call good, or maybe his definition of good is useless. It’s fun, the way novelty fringe isfun, the way Eurovision is fun, the way peculiar flavors of Oreos are fun. Simon is having fun, despite being a bit of a wreck, and it’s because he’s given his entire flawed brain over to another universe.
He feels like he’s nurturing some freaky little part of his soul that he’s neglected since high school.
“I forgot for an entire day that the humans aren’t actually in love with that dragon,” Simon tells Jamie. “You and Charlie have completely perverted my ability to read.”
“You’re welcome,” Jamie says. “And also you’re wrong.”
“Sure, if you’re playing make-believe.”
“Yes,” Jamie says. “Now you understand.”
After nearly a week in New York, Simon calls Lian.
“Sorry,” he says instead of leading with hello or anything passably normal.
But maybe Lian isn’t normal either, because instead of anything polite or even intelligible, she says, “Come back as a producer.”
“What?”
“If you want, we’ll give you a producer credit.”
Simon doesn’t roll his eyes, but only because they aren’t on a video call. After the third season, whenOut Thereproved that it was, if not a huge hit, then at least a reliable success, he renegotiated his contract. So did Charlie and Alex.
At one point, instead of offering more money, they offered a producer credit. It’s pretty standard to give stars that kind of title. Usually it doesn’t come with any responsibilities or creative control, just gets tossed onto the negotiating table instead of money.
Simon turned it down, strongly preferring money to the uncomfortable feeling of permanence that would come with producing the show, however nominally.
“Why?” he asks.
“Do half a season. You can spend the other half stuck in space jail off camera. That would give you time to do other projects. Meanwhile, sign on as a producer. That way if the following year you only want to do a few episodes, nobody can stop you.”
“One of us is confused about what kind of power an actor with a producer credit has, and it isn’t me.”
“Nobody wants you to leave the show. The network—they don’t like it. Upfronts are in three weeks.”
Every May, television networks and most of the streaming services put on a big show to pitch the upcoming season to advertisers. Simon’s had to go to upfronts a few times, usually with Charlie and Alex too. They stand around onstage with a network executive, everyone engaging in the fiction that their weird little show is a great opportunity to sell car insurance and prescription drugs.
“The network wants to be able to show advertisers thatOut Thereisn’t changing,” Lian says. “I’m just telling you, you have the upper hand, as long as what you’re asking for isn’t more money.”
“When I asked for a few episodes off so I could do a movie, they said no.” Technically, Lian said no. She’s the show’s actual executive producer. Over the years he’s managed to squeeze in a few small projects, but it’s rare that the scheduling works out.
“That was the year Samara left. I didn’t want to run part of the season with half the original cast gone.”
“Okay.”
