Chapter Fifteen
By the time he boards the plane, Simon’s head is already throbbing and there’s an ominous blind spot in one eye. He’d known
it was coming, but thought maybe it wouldn’t catch him this time.
He spends the first leg of the flight participating in the fun little tradition of listing all the ways he deserves this migraine.
Maybe it was the Parmesan on his salad last night, or that he skipped breakfast on Saturday. Too much coffee, not enough sleep,
that glass of wine he had last week. Cigarette smoke at the car show. Pollen. Existing on a planet that sunlight can reach.
And, most annoying of all, even good stress—like whatever he and Charlie were doing—still counts as stress, at least as far
as his body cares. He should have known he wasn’t getting out of this weekend without a migraine.
By the time he lands in Phoenix, he’s already put on his darkest sunglasses and taken his emergency migraine meds and an extra
anti-nausea pill, because the thing about airplanes is that there just isn’t anywhere reasonable to throw up. He figured that
out at fifteen, on the flight home from his oldest brother’s wedding, his mother’s tentative hand on the back of his neck
as she apologized to the flight attendants.
The meds don’t completely wipe out the headache. When he lands in New York, half his forehead is numb and there’s a grenade of dull pain behind his left eye that detonates whenever light leaks in around the edges of his sunglasses.
By some minor miracle, he manages to look at his phone screen long enough to find the address of his sublet. He reads it to
a cabbie who keeps looking in the rearview mirror like maybe he recognizes Simon, or maybe just like he’s worried Simon’s
going to be sick in his cab. The cabbie takes turns too quickly, steps on the brakes too abruptly, leans on the horn. Charlie
never does any of those things.
When he finally gets inside the apartment, it looks how it did in the pictures—minimal and tidy—and that’s all he notices
before he collapses on top of a fluffy white duvet and falls asleep.
He wakes up to his phone buzzing in his pocket. And since he has no idea how this apartment is laid out, he can’t tell if
the light slanting through the window is dawn or dusk; he doesn’t know if he’s been asleep one hour or ten. The migraine’s
mostly gone, but he’s wrung out.
Wincing at the brightness of the screen, he checks his phone and sees that it’s the middle of the morning on Tuesday. He slept
for over twelve hours. He’s grimy from sleeping in his clothes. His phone buzzes again. Jamie’s texting, but Simon’s head
is too fragile to look at a screen for long, so he uses voice controls to make a call.
“Sorry,” he says when Jamie picks up. “Just woke up.”
“You went completely radio silent for twenty-four hours.”
Simon texted Jamie from the airport to tell him he was heading to New York earlier than he expected. And then, not wanting
to answer Jamie’s questions about the change in plans, he’d put his phone into airplane mode a little earlier than necessary.
“Migraine,” Simon says. “I should have let you know when I landed. Sorry.”
“You want to tell me what happened?” When Simon doesn’t say anything, Jamie goes on. “Theaters don’t just randomly start rehearsals
a week early without any warning. We both know this.”
Simon still doesn’t say anything.
“Was this just your best idea for getting away from Charlie?” Jamie asks. “I mean, who hasn’t wanted to fly across the country
to avoid someone they hooked up with.”
Simon could just not correct Jamie. That would be easier than explaining that Simon doesn’t want to talk about how shitty
and lost he feels. It would definitely be easier than talking about how an empty, bland apartment three thousand miles from
home feels safer than his own house.
He’s not sure how he’d even put into words that what he wants is to pet his dog and curl up in his own bed, that he wants
to hear Jamie tell him that everything’s going to be fine, but that he doesn’t think he can endure those things without shattering
whatever flimsy scaffolding is holding him up. Even thinking about Edie makes him want to cry.
“You aren’t denying that you hooked up with him.” Jamie sounds scandalized and delighted.
“Like you didn’t already know.”
“I thought you’d deny it for a few weeks while you got used to the idea.”
And that’s why Simon can’t go home right now. Jamie knows him too well. He’d take one look at Simon and see him for the mess
that he is.
“I’m going to take a shower,” Simon says. “And then figure out where the grocery store is.”
“Do something nice for yourself, all right?”
“Why?” Simon asks, maybe a little defensive.
“Well. For one, because it’s your birthday.”
“Fuck.” Between the time difference and losing a day to travel and a migraine, he’s mentally a day behind.
“Don’t take this the wrong way.” There’s something alarmingly careful in Jamie’s voice. “But if I text you, I need you to
answer.”
“I always do.” Simon’s a little offended. Other than yesterday, he’s never left Jamie on read, not even immediately after
they broke up. He leaves practically everybody else on read, but not Jamie.
“While you aren’t around for me to look at, I need proof of life. Just for the next day or two.”
Simon winces. Even if Simon’s never admitted it, Jamie still knows that sometimes Simon’s anxiety takes over, grabs the wheel,
and drives the car into the nearest ditch.
He might actively resent Jamie asking for this, but then he remembers Dave. Fucking Dave, who sails through life without a
care in the world for the people who worry about him. Simon might not be the greatest friend, but he can do better than Dave.
“Okay,” he says. “Sure.”
After ending the call, Simon remembers that Jamie isn’t the only person Simon disappeared on for twenty-four hours. He was
supposed to text Charlie when he landed. Well, maybe Simon can’t actually do better than Dave. Shit.
Squinting against the horrors of his phone screen, he pulls up Charlie’s contact and types out “sorry, got here safe.” It’s not enough, but he doesn’t know what would be enough, so he sends the text and goes back to sleep.
The sublet is in a fairly soulless Chelsea high-rise. It’s a five-minute walk to Whole Foods, has a washer and dryer in the
unit, and isn’t cluttered with other people’s belongings.
It would have been a short enough walk to the theater, but Simon isn’t thinking about that right now. Instead, he’s filling
his shopping cart with premade salads and a random assortment of foods that he can’t visualize forming any kind of meal. He
may not have a plan for his career, but he does have a sixteen-dollar jar of almond butter and some crackers made from cauliflower,
and that’s going to have to be good enough for now.
As soon as he gets the groceries into the refrigerator, he’s ready to fall back asleep. He doesn’t know if he’s tired from
the migraine or if it’s some kind of emotional hangover, but he makes himself have a glass of water and a few spoonfuls of
almond butter before getting into bed.
When he wakes up, it’s completely dark out, which means he’s going to wind up fully nocturnal if he doesn’t start paying attention
to the time. There’s a text on his phone from Charlie. It just says “Hey. Happy birthday.”
There’s no “how’s New York” or “how was your flight,” because Charlie doesn’t expect Simon to respond. Simon disappeared in
a way that Charlie probably took personally and then didn’t text when he landed. Charlie has drawn some accurate conclusions
about what kind of person Simon is.
He has a salad, a totally reasonable choice for—he checks his phone—one in the morning.
But if it’s one here, then it’s only ten in California.
He sends a picture of his salad to Jamie, the proof of life Jamie requested.
“Alive and eating,” he writes. Jamie sends a thumbs-up immediately, then sends a picture of Edie, fast asleep on Simon’s bed.
The picture—and the fact that Jamie sent it—pierce the fog of doom that Simon’s felt wrapped in since that phone call yesterday
morning. He knows, logically, that this isn’t the end of the world. He’ll get more work. There’s no urgency. He can afford
to be choosy. He’s good at what he does. But you can know something is fake and still feel it.
Simon’s entire job is making people feel things that aren’t based in reality. You can make an audience frightened, happy,
triumphant, whatever, entirely from some made up dialogue and a halfway decent score. Right now all his brain chemicals are
putting on a show and it’s called Everything Is Terrible and Nobody Likes You. Simon knows it isn’t real but it’s a pretty convincing performance anyway.
Simon’s spent most of the past twenty-four hours asleep. He’s had—more or less—a normal number of meals today. He took his
meds. He shaved off a gross three days’ worth of stubble. He unpacked his suitcase, did a load of laundry, and lined up his
lotions on the bathroom counter. Going to the grocery store and back probably counts as a walk. All the self-care boxes have
been checked.
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.