Chapter Eight #2
Simon half expects Charlie to tell him off, but instead he just looks sad. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, that makes sense.”
“Before we even think about going to the police, we need lunch. Do you know anyplace near here or should I find something?”
“Do you like tacos?”
“Everybody likes tacos.”
Charlie gives him a skeptical look, which is a huge improvement over anxious and tragic, so Simon will take it.
“I thought you were vegan,” Charlie says as soon as they order.
Simon makes a so-so gesture with his hand. “Some cheeses and meats can cause migraines.” This is true, and it’s a good enough
answer, so he could leave it there. But today he saw Charlie have some kind of panic attack, and he’s inadvertently gotten
some insights into Charlie’s life that Charlie would probably prefer he didn’t have. It feels like the scales have tipped
uncomfortably, and if Simon doesn’t even them, he’ll lose the game of honesty chicken they’re playing. Or that Simon is playing,
at least. “Actually, my doctor doesn’t think my migraines have anything to do with food. Caffeine doesn’t even trigger them.”
Charlie’s slouched in his chair, a baseball cap pulled low on his forehead, his legs stretched out so far they’re practically under Simon’s chair. “What does trigger them?”
“Stress, allergies, bad sleep, skipped meals. Bright lights. But I avoid the foods anyway, just, like, as a show of good faith
in case the universe is paying attention.”
Saying it out loud like that—which he’s never done except to his therapist—makes it sound even less rational than it already
is. He’s fully expecting Charlie to point this out, but instead Charlie just tilts his head and says, “Yeah, makes sense.”
“It really doesn’t.”
“I mean, it makes sense that you’d want to control the things you can control.”
Which is almost exactly what Simon’s therapist says. It’s also what she says about the rest of his rules, more or less.
Their food comes, and Charlie doesn’t make fun of Simon for eating his fish tacos with a fork and knife.
It’s a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, with stacking vinyl-cushioned chairs that have been repaired with duct tape and Formica
tables with wobbly legs. The menus look hand-laminated. The tables are all occupied, and there’s a steady stream of takeout
orders being picked up at the counter.
“You ordered something from the menu,” Charlie says.
Simon bristles. “There’s a difference between a restaurant that sells twenty-five-dollar salads and a family taco place.”
Besides, fish tacos are basically fish tacos, no surprises, no matter where you get them.
“We used to come here all the time,” Charlie says.
“You and Dave?”
Charlie hesitates. “Yeah. Sometimes my mom. One of my foster homes was just a few streets over, but we didn’t come here.” He’s looking at his plate, only throwing a glance at Simon when he gets to the end.
Simon’s never heard Charlie mention foster care. That isn’t a surprise—most people don’t go around talking to their least
favorite coworkers about potential minefields of childhood trauma.
What’s surprising is that Charlie’s mentioning it now. Simon knows his reaction is important, but he doesn’t know what the
right reaction is. He doesn’t want to alienate Charlie—the extent to which he doesn’t want to alienate Charlie is something
Simon’s going to think about later. Like, maybe next month, when he’s in New York. Maybe never.
The right answer is something like “Thanks for trusting me with that information,” but Simon would need a solid hour with
that before he could deliver a convincing line reading. If he tried now, it would come out somewhere between sarcastic and
unhinged.
“Yeah?” It isn’t exactly a meaningful response, but he nudges Charlie under the table, just a tap of his shoe against Charlie’s
ankle. He doesn’t know what that tap means, or what he wants it to mean, just that he hopes Charlie figures it out.
“Yeah,” Charlie says, kicking him back, very lightly. He isn’t looking at his plate anymore, but at Simon, with an expression
that Simon can’t decipher, something that looks like a question.
There are years of irritations and grievances between them, built up like barnacles, a crust of ill will that makes it impossible
to make out the shape of whatever’s underneath. Simon can start to see it, though, and wants to look away.
Simon disentangles his leg from Charlie’s when the waitress comes to take away their plates. “My dad watches your show every week,” she says, bending a little to peer under the brim of Charlie’s cap.
“Is your dad Manuel?” Charlie asks, big smile in place.
“Manuel’s my uncle.”
“You tell your uncle he has the best taqueria on the west side. I used to come here after school.”
She gets a calculating look. “Okay, so, you can say no, but would the two of you take a picture in front of the sign? Manuel
will do something embarrassing with it, like put it on the website, but he’d love it.”
Simon shrugs when Charlie raises his eyebrows at him. His face has been used to sell worse things than tacos.
They go outside to stand in front of the sign in the window. Charlie takes off his hat and Simon takes off his sunglasses.
“You should do the GIF,” the waitress says.
“Which one?” Simon asks.
He’s run across three GIFs that escaped containment from the fannish parts of the internet. One is mostly Simon. He’s just
rescued Charlie from space prison using math and the power of his intellect, and now he’s demanding the heads of Charlie’s
captors. The GIF is Simon looking furious, one arm around a battered Charlie. The text reads “Just one? As a treat?”
Another GIF is Charlie excitedly explaining something while Simon examines his nails.
And the third—
“The space ghosts,” the waitress says.
The context is that Simon’s been taken over by dead aliens, and Charlie is shaking Simon’s shoulders in a futile effort to get rid of the ghost. That episode had been fun to shoot—Simon always relishes a chance to be the villain.
Simon looks at Charlie. He might not want to reenact Out There’s gayest moments for a live audience, even in the service of good tacos. But Charlie just nods knowingly. “That’s a good
one. Simon?”
They get into position. Angela, the waitress, has no scruples about bossing them around, and enough confidence to make them
both do whatever she says.
Charlie takes hold of Simon’s lapels and gives him the world’s tiniest, gentlest shake. When they were filming that scene,
Simon nearly demanded a stunt double, Charlie had shaken him so hard. And here, outside a taqueria, after six hours in a car
and two hours in an empty house, he’s holding Simon like he’s made of glass. The disparity strikes Simon as hilarious, and
he starts to laugh.
“Space ghosts don’t laugh,” Charlie says, low, in Simon’s ear.
Simon tries to rein it in, not very successfully.
“They don’t giggle either,” Charlie says.
“Take it back, I’m not giggling,” Simon says while Charlie shakes him a little.
“No, shut up. We just need one good take,” Charlie says, and he’s shaking Simon’s shoulders now. “Get it together, Hale!”
he says in his Luke West voice.
Turns out Simon can’t laugh and keep his balance, because he trips a little. Charlie gets an arm around his back almost instantly.
Simon’s holding on to Charlie’s arms, which isn’t even remotely necessary—not for this scene they’re reenacting, and not to
avoid the fall.
He catches Charlie’s eye, which was the wrongest possible thing to do, because the look that passes between them is . . . warm. It’s no different from what Simon’s seen in the eyes of all the other people who’ve been interested in him.
Simon knows what he looks like. Being sufficiently attractive is eighty percent of his job. It doesn’t mean anything that
Charlie noticed.
But this is Charlie Blake, and Simon’s looking back.
Simon has to catch his breath because there’s no way Charlie can look at him without seeing seven years of flaws and resentment,
but Charlie’s still looking at him like that. All the gears in Simon’s brain grind to a halt as he tries to process the truth
of this.
“Okay,” Charlie says, letting go of Simon and taking a step back so quickly that Simon nearly stumbles again. “You guys can
post that wherever you like. Go wild.”