Chapter Four #2
her sweater, and he’d hardly have to make any conversation at all.
“Go off and have fun,” Simon tells Jamie, trying to sound like he means it. Through the open French doors, he sees Roshni
on the patio, talking to a man he thinks is her husband. “Seriously. I’m fine.”
Once Jamie is out of sight, Simon resists the urge to lock himself in the bathroom and do a crossword on his phone. These
are people Simon sees every day—usually only for work reasons, and partly against his will—but still, he’s used to them. They’re
used to him. It’s fine. He’s fine. He steps through the doors.
It’s barely April, so the water can’t be warm, but a dozen people are in the pool. It doesn’t take much to identify Charlie
as one of them. His hair, usually wavy and light brown, is dark and slick with water. His shoulders are—well. You’d think
Simon would be used to the sight by now, but apparently not, because he has to look away.
There’s an empty chair next to Roshni, and he sits in it before he can overthink whether she’s saving it for somebody.
“Now is the time to tell me about your children’s tuition,” Simon says, instead of being a normal fucking person and saying hello, “or why you think they should be captains of their lacrosse teams, because I had a lot of practice with those topics tonight. I have my lines ready. I’m off book. ”
“They’re only two,” Roshni says, “but I’ll keep that in mind.” She and her husband proceed to manage the conversation in a
way that leaves Simon only needing to supply enthusiastic noises when they mention their twin daughters doing anything especially
adorable, terrible, or clever. It shouldn’t be a surprise that Roshni, who’s never been anything but kind, is taking a little
bit of care to make sure he’s comfortable, or that she’s married to someone equally kind.
“Is that Samara?” Roshni asks, looking over Simon’s shoulder. Simon turns around to see Samara Jackson, who played a space
diplomat on the first two seasons of Out There. After she left the show, she texted Simon to ask if he wanted to get coffee. Simon, aware that these offers don’t actually
mean anyone wants to have coffee with you, never responded.
Roshni waves extravagantly, even though she and Samara never worked together. Maybe they know one another from Charlie’s parties,
if Samara still comes despite not having been on the show in years.
He probably ought to say hello, but he doesn’t have whatever it takes to walk a few yards and initiate a conversation with
someone he hasn’t talked to in five years. He’s about to start feeling guilty about it when he hears the sound of someone
dripping all over the patio next to him. It’s Charlie, who apparently wrapped a towel around his waist without first using
it to dry himself off, because beads of water cling to his shoulders and chest, illuminated by the strands of lights strung
up overhead.
“You came,” Charlie says.
“I did,” Simon agrees. For a moment, they stare at one another. Simon stays perfectly still, like he’s hiding from a Tyrannosaurus rex and not the existence of social norms. Then Simon remembers his manners. Or at least one manner. “Thank you for inviting
me.”
“I always invite you,” Charlie says.
“I know, I just—” He doesn’t know how to finish that sentence, because what can he say? He only agreed to come this time because—the
truth of why he accepted Charlie’s invitation hits him. He isn’t doing this for Jamie. He’s here because this is his last
chance. Charlie won’t invite him to any more parties because Simon won’t be working on Out There.
“Thank you,” Simon says. “You have a lovely home,” he recites, rote, like it’s a sentence he learned in a foreign language
phrasebook designed for aliens wearing human skin-suit disguises.
Charlie’s eyebrows shoot up, probably because Simon’s being weird even by Simon’s standards. “I have to . . .” Charlie says,
then just stands there.
“Right.” Simon’s still looking up at him.
“Bye.” Charlie hesitates another moment, then leaves.
“What was that?” Roshni’s husband asks. Roshni starts talking about a book she wants Simon to read. Simon dutifully takes
out his phone and orders it right away, because that gives him something to do.
After maybe twenty minutes, he knows he has to let Roshni and her husband talk to someone else. He makes an excuse and heads
toward the kitchen, remembering what Jamie said earlier about his father hiding in the kitchen during parties. He can probably
make himself look busy by getting a glass of water.
There’s a side door from the patio that looks like it leads to the kitchen, probably through a laundry room or mud room for collecting wet bathing suits. He figures this is his best bet for a quick escape without running into anybody. The door is slightly ajar.
Once he pushes it open, though, he hears Charlie’s voice. Or, rather, his laugh. It’s quieter than usual, as if whoever he’s
talking to is very close. Simon steps through what turns out to be a laundry room and pauses at the door to the kitchen, steeling
himself for seeing Charlie. But then he hears Jamie’s voice, low and a little silky, and Simon knows that tone. Simon ought to go back out to the patio, but that might look strange to anyone who watched him walk through the
door, so he’s frozen in place.
Through the crack in the door, he can see one of Charlie’s hands bracketed on the counter next to Jamie’s hip. Behind them,
a piece of kids’ art hangs on the refrigerator door.
“Are you hitting on me?” Jamie asks, a little teasing.
“It’s more like I’m making sure you know that if you hit on me, I’m good with it,” Charlie says.
Slowly, making it obvious as hell and giving Jamie time to back off, Charlie lifts a hand and tucks a strand of hair behind
Jamie’s ear.
“I’m tempted,” Jamie says, “but I’m trying to be a better person and I just don’t think Simon would like it if I kissed you.”
Simon doesn’t like hearing that, largely because it’s true. Maybe it’s some old residual jealousy at seeing Jamie with someone
else, but Simon feels hot and anxious at the sight of Charlie’s hand resting on the counter near Jamie’s hip.
Charlie takes a full step backward. “He said you weren’t together anymore.”
“We aren’t.”
“But he wants to be. Or you want to be.”
“No, it’s definitely not that.”
“Oh,” Charlie says, “he just wouldn’t want you to hook up with me because he doesn’t like me.”
Jamie opens his mouth and shuts it almost immediately, then tilts his head to the side. “No,” he says slowly, drawing the
syllable out, “not that either.”
Before Simon can figure out what Jamie means, he decides that it’s time to make his exit. None of this is meant for his ears.
He slips back out to the patio and hopes nobody notices him.
“I think I nearly kissed Charlie? Or something like that?” Jamie says as they walk home. They’d taken rideshares earlier,
but it’s too nice a night to get a Lyft for a five-minute walk, even if it’s uphill the whole way to Simon’s house.
“Why are you telling me?” Simon keeps remembering how Jamie said Simon wouldn’t like it, and how he’d known right away that Jamie was right. But then why tell Simon about it?
Out of the corner of Simon’s eye he sees Jamie turn his head to look at him, sharp. “Because I tell you everything? Besides,
better to get it out in the open. Especially if it’s something that could turn toxic, you know?”
Simon thinks of all the things he isn’t telling Jamie—from how he’s leaving the show to the way he feels on edge and twisted
up when he sees his dishes stacked the wrong way in the cabinet. The knowledge that he’s disappointing people is nothing new;
even disappointing Jamie is nothing new.
They step into the street to avoid a bougainvillea whose branches are spilling across the sidewalk. It’s late enough that the neighborhood is almost perfectly quiet, except for the chirp of crickets and the distant hum of traffic. The air is heavy with jasmine.
“It wouldn’t be toxic,” Simon says. “I mean—you don’t need my permission or whatever.” None of it feels like the truth, but
he wants it to be.
“It’s too messy, even for me. Fucking my best friend’s work nemesis?” Jamie puts air quotes around work nemesis, like it isn’t perfectly accurate. “If he were the man of my dreams, I’d probably do it anyway, let’s be honest. But for
a hookup? Big dumb golden retrievers aren’t even my type. Not worth it.”
Jamie’s actual type is emotionally stingy and kind of mean, which is how he and Jamie got together in the first place.
They’re in Simon’s driveway now but he doesn’t want to go inside. Some things are easier to say in the dark, side by side.
“I know I’m not a picnic to live with. Or be near. Or—anything, probably. Just—thanks.”
Jamie leans over and smacks a messy kiss on Simon’s cheek. “Where’d that all come from?”
“I just—the past few months—” Simon doesn’t know how to end that sentence that isn’t a monologue of whining. He reaches out,
just a little, from some sad old belief that a hug will make things better. He lets his hand drop, then sticks it in his pocket.
“Charlie’s more of a rabid wolverine than a golden retriever,” Simon says, and Jamie laughs.