It’s more of the same with Simon’s oldest brother, who inflictsthe usual hearty handshakes and back slaps. George, who’s never seen Charlie in his life, unless you’re counting television screens—and Simon doubts he has much time these days for anything other than C-SPAN—greets Charlie like he’s never been so happy to meet anyone in his life. Assuming someone on his staff has a news alert set for Simon’s name, he already knows precisely who Charlie is to Simon.
Simon’s fine with this part. It’s acting. Which doesn’t mean it’s fake—Simon means what he’s saying, mostly, but he needs a layer between himself and the role. His brother is acting too.
When George crouches to let Edie sniff his hand, Simon has a dizzy little moment, remembering George showing him the right way to greet a dog. That’s something he hasn’t thought about in a couple decades. It’s probably sweet, right? An older brother teaching a preschooler how not to get mauled by strange dogs. Simon doesn’t know why he has that sorted in with the sad memories.
He doesn’t know why he has his entire family sorted in with the sad stuff.
Simon must be radiating bad vibes, because Charlie’s hand lands at the small of Simon’s back, and he’s close enough that Simon can feel the heat coming off him. Or maybe Charlie just wanted to touch him. Either way, Charlie’s here.
George clocks it immediately. His grin somehow doubles. “Simon never bringsanyoneto meet us.”
Simon is about to perish, but Charlie just grins right back, wattage cranked all the way up, and says, “I guess I’m just that lucky.” He pulls Simon a little closer. “Hey, babe, let’s go find somewhere to put this present.” A neat extraction.
Simon’s sister-in-law points them toward Nora. It’s not likethey’ve never met in person. Simon does show his face at family events, at the rate of once every eighteen months or so, or however long it takes to forget just how unsettling these things are. But when your relationship consists of words and images on a screen, the leap to face-to-face interaction isn’t always smooth.
Nora looks awkward enough for both of them, though. She’s wearing a pale-yellow dress that Simon would bet a literal million dollars she didn’t pick out herself, her makeup looks both subdued and professionally applied, and there are no visible piercings except for a tiny pearl in each earlobe.
“Oh, darling,” Simon says, taking in the entire look. “It’ll be over soon.”
She doesn’t exactly launch herself at him, but she takes a smidgen of a step forward and Simon recognizes what an enormous effort that is from a tiny goblin child. So he does the rest of the work and bends to hug her. She’s nearly a foot shorter than him. He’s careful not to wrinkle her terrible little dress.
“You brought Uncle Charlie,” she says, absolutely loud enough for Charlie to hear.
“And you can behave yourself or I’ll donate this to a thrift store.” Simon lets go of her and gestures at the box Charlie’s still holding. “Charlie, this is Nora. I’ve shown you enough pictures of her for you to know you can’t hold this look against her.”
“We follow one another on TikTok,” Charlie says, because of course they do.
“Come on, open the present so I know whether I have to sell it,” Simon says.
Nora leads them inside through a kitchen filled with caterers and into an empty living room. Simon’s seen the house before, inperson and in the background of Nora’s pictures, but it isn’t familiar. Neither are his parents’ houses, or his other brother’s house. The houses where he grew up have long since been sold. There’s nothing connecting him to this place—or to these people—except this one teenager and a whole bunch of neutral-enough feelings toward everyone else.
Nora tears open the present and takes the lid off the box. Simon watches her face for the three seconds it takes her to realize what she’s looking at.
“Oh, shit,” she says, holding the jacket up.
“I measured it,” Simon says. “But if it’s the wrong size we’ll find something else.”
“What am I looking at?” Charlie asks.
“A motorcycle jacket,” Simon says, at the same time Nora says, “Vintage Vivienne Westwood.”
“If you don’t like it—” Simon starts.
“Oh, shutup,” Nora says. “Thank you.” She puts it on then gets out her phone to use as a mirror.
“I wouldn’t,” Simon says. “Not with that dress. You’ll just get depressed.I’ma little depressed.” She does a little twirl, holds the camera out as far as she can to get a better angle. “Seriously, if you change your mind, it’s fine.”
She rolls her eyes.
She keeps the jacket on while Simon asks when the graduation ceremony is, who the bodyguards belong to, when she starts her summer internship.
“Nora!” calls a voice. “People are wondering where you are.”
Nora scrambles out of the jacket. “Sorry, Gran.”
“I’ve been sent to collect you,” Simon’s mother says as she entersthe living room. “Oh, Simon, there you are.” She says this in the same tone of voice she’d use if they’d seen one another earlier that day, rather than two Christmases ago.
The last few times he’s seen her, he’s been a little startled by how old she is. She’s seventy-five. It shouldn’t be a surprise. Her hair, which used to be as dark as his, is steel gray. Her closet used to be full of dresses, but at some point she shifted to flowy pants and tunics, everything soft and neutral. Today she’s wearing a scarf he got her for her last birthday, pale blue silk with ivory embroidery. Like he always does when he sees her, he thinks he might have missed her, but maybe didn’t notice until now.
