Chapter Eighteen
“You have veto power,” Jamie says when Simon answers the phone. “She’s your dog. But you miss her. You’re over there, having
a mental health episode or whatever, pining for your dog, and there’s an easy solution.”
“What’s happening right now?” Simon asks, confused. “And I’m not having a mental health episode anymore. I mean, my life is
kind of an ongoing mental health episode, but what does Edie have to do with it?”
“Charlie’s flying to New York in a couple days. He got an extra seat, so she won’t even need to stay in her carrier other
than during takeoff and landing, and we both know Charlie can probably charm the flight attendants into looking the other
way if there happens to be a dachshund buckled into the seat next to his. There’s no reasonable objection.”
Simon feels certain there are plenty of objections, but he can’t figure out what any of them might be. Jamie’s right that
he misses Edie. Buying a first-class seat—he doesn’t even seriously consider that Charlie might not be flying first class—for
a dog, however wonderful that dog might be, is a ridiculous expense. And that’s not even getting into the hassle of finding an
airline that will let you buy an empty seat.
“Whose idea was this?” Simon asks.
“Charlie, hundred percent. It would not occur to me to ask Charlie, of all people, to fly your dog around.”
“He already bought the ticket?”
“Yes. Non-refundable.”
Jamie’s probably lying about this last bit, but Simon doesn’t care. If Charlie wants to spend some of his money on Simon’s
dog, that’s Charlie’s own business. “Okay.”
“Okay?” Jamie asks, like he wasn’t expecting it. “You trust Charlie Blake to be, like, in loco parentis to Edie for a cross-country
flight?”
No objections on those grounds even crossed Simon’s mind. “Yes. Shouldn’t I?”
“Holy shit, Simon, you know better than I do. But you paid some guy to run a background check on Edie’s groomers. Your house
is wired like a fucking bank, with drop cams in every room so you can watch your dog while you’re on set. You use preservative-free
toothpaste when you brush her teeth. Your toothpaste isn’t even preservative-free.”
“You’ve been reading my toothpaste ingredients?” Simon sputters, torn between laughter and indignation. “And you know I turn
all the cameras off when you’re there, so don’t act like—”
“There’s nothing wrong with preservatives, you snob.”
“It’s the only brand she likes!”
Now they’re both laughing, and Simon gets to see his dog in a few days, and he thinks he found a perfect present for Nora
on eBay of all places, and Charlie—Charlie—
It’s one of those rare moments when everything in his life fits where it belongs, when his skin is the right size and his brain isn’t a total liability. He lies down on the couch and lets himself soak it in.
The only problem is a new flavor of awkwardness when he’s texting Charlie. It’s been two days since their mortifying conversation,
and things have pretty much gone back to normal. They text on and off nearly all day and watch a few episodes of the show
together.
Simon: Thanks about Edie. I’ll probably cry when I see her and you’ll need to pretend it isn’t happening, fair warning
Charlie: I get to cuddle your dog for five hours so who’s the real winner here
Charlie: I thought about surprising you.
Simon: Absolutely not
Charlie: I know! I thought about it for maybe three seconds, then remembered that this is you
Simon: What’s that supposed to mean?
Charlie: It means I will personally fight anyone who tries to surprise you
Simon has to put his phone down and pace around the apartment a bit.
He’d been expecting some roasting—he knows he’s not spontaneous and he’s starting to get to a place where he doesn’t mind Charlie making fun of him, just like he doesn’t mind Jamie making fun of him because he knows it’s done with—affection, or whatever.
But Charlie is upping the ante and Simon isn’t ready for it. Simon doesn’t have a lot of people in his life who would offer
to have fictional fights for him. He doesn’t have a lot of people who know what he’d want them to fictionally fight about.
For Charlie it was probably a throwaway comment but for Simon it feels like something more.
Simon arrived in New York with a suitcase and a shoulder bag. It took him about sixty seconds to unpack. Even with the blankets
and extra clothes he’s bought, the apartment is essentially empty.
Still, he manages to spend the two hours before Charlie’s due to arrive tidying up. For the two hours before that, he went
to the grocery store and bought things that Charlie might like but Simon likes too, so he can maintain plausible deniability
about what he’s doing.
He doesn’t know where Charlie’s staying. The network will put him up at a hotel, but obviously he needs to come to Simon first
to bring Edie. Will he want to stay with Simon? Will Simon want him to stay? Simon has no answers.
Halfway through wiping down the inside of the refrigerator with cleaning spray that smells like juniper and costs as much
as a bottle of midrange wine, he realizes Charlie might not have meant to come here at all.
Simon: Do you want me to meet you at the airport to get Edie?
Charlie: I’m landing in an hour. You’ll never get to the airport in time.
Simon: Sorry, I should have thought of that.
Charlie: I can drop her off and go, no worries
Simon: ok
Charlie: or I can stay
Simon: ok
Simon reads Charlie’s messages six times, trying to figure out what Charlie wants, before realizing that Charlie’s probably
trying to figure out what Simon wants. Good fucking luck to him; Simon has no clue.
Simon: I have donuts
Simon: and coffee
Charlie: I like coffee and donuts
Simon: I know
Charlie texts when he’s ten minutes away and again when he’s downstairs. Simon waits in the hallway for the elevator to arrive. He notices Charlie for as long as it takes to see him drop Edie’s leash.
Edie is so happy to see him that Simon instantly feels guilty—what kind of monster abandons his dog for no reason at all?
He scoops her up and lets her lick his face while he tells her how good she is at being a dog.
They eventually make it into the apartment, Charlie rolling two suitcases behind him. Edie squirms to be put down, and proceeds
to zoom around the apartment, circling back every five seconds to make sure Simon’s still there. Simon puts out a bowl of
water for her, shows her where she can sleep (a stack of folded blankets with a pillow on top, which Simon rearranged six
times that morning), then watches as she lies down on a totally unrelated part of the floor and passes out.
“She didn’t sleep much on the plane,” Charlie says.
Only then does Simon really look at him. It’s been less than a month. Nobody looks different in three weeks, unless they’ve
cut their hair off or something, and Charlie’s no exception, but somehow he looks better than he does in Simon’s memory. He’s
wearing actual jeans and a hoodie that, on anyone else, Simon would suspect was made of cashmere.
“You’re wearing clothing that looks like it came from a store,” Simon says. “I bet none of it was free.”
“I went stress shopping while you were, you know, missing in action. I never did that before.”
“It shows,” Simon says with feeling, instead of trying to address the rest of the sentence.
“Jesus Christ,” Charlie mutters.
“You look good, is the point. That’s all.”
Charlie stuffs his hands in his pockets and looks at the ceiling, like that’s where he’s going to find an explanation for why Simon is the way he is.
“Not that you look bad in the rest of your clothing.” Simon manages to ruin this by putting air quotes around clothing. “The internet’s full of people who’ll tell you so. There’s an entire Tumblr about your flip-flops, but those are probably
fetishists. Which is fine,” he adds, feeling magnanimous. “I support that.”
“You support people jerking off to pictures of my feet,” Charlie says, incredulous. “You know, you’re kind of sweet over text.”
That’s just factually incorrect—Simon’s never been sweet in his life—and he’s about to say so when he notices that Charlie’s
stalking across the room toward him.
“I forgot what a fucking gremlin you are,” Charlie says, stopping about six inches away. “How do people not realize you’re
a gremlin?”
“You missed me.” Simon’s smug and a little giddy and absolutely unsuccessful at hiding his own smile. Honestly not bothering
to try. “That’s what you’re trying to say.”
“I’m trying to say that I want to kiss you, but you just let your dog slobber all over your face.”
“That’s where you draw the line? You fill the internet with pictures for foot fetishists to masturbate over, but this is a
bridge too far?” But Simon’s already halfway to the bathroom, and when he shuts the door behind him, he hears Charlie laugh.
He washes his face, which gives him just enough time to be filled with doubt and nerves, but then Charlie’s knocking on the
door. “How the fuck long does it take to wash one face, Simon?” So Simon slows down and brushes his teeth too.
He thought there’d be a lead up. Donuts. Small talk. Lots of awkward dancing around the issue of what they’re doing together. Plenty of time for Simon to worry. But Charlie apparently decided to steamroll over that entire process.
When Simon opens the bathroom door, Charlie’s there, waiting, impatient and fake-angry, and it’s so easy—Charlie’s made it
so easy—for Simon to grab him by the sleeve (it is cashmere) and kiss him.
He tastes like airplane pretzels plus one breath mint. In the interest of justice and fair play, Simon should insist that
Charlie brush his teeth, but his hands are on Simon’s face, and Simon’s brain empties out, thoughts swirling down the drain.
There’s nothing in the world but the scratch of Charlie’s beard, the softness of his sweater, the slide of their lips.
They’re good at this. It’s not like he didn’t already know, but the reminder is a bit of a shock anyway. He doesn’t know if