The afternoon goes by pretty quickly, and we don't come back down. We lie on Simon's bed for a long while, not really talking, but just being together. I feel like Simon needs me more now than before, since this whole thing really is my fault.

I make a mental note to wash the sheets. They feel dusty.

He gets up and goes for his bag. He has that downbeatten, tired look on his face. He seems more sad than normal, too. “I have some work I need to do.”

“Simon, take the day off.”

“The deadline's tomorrow.”

“Email them saying something came up,” I say, sitting forward. I hold his hand. “They'll understand.”

“I can tell you now, they won't.”

“Simon.”

He's already seated at the end of the bed, slipping his legs into what little space there is under the desk and propping up his laptop to work.

I sigh and glance around the room, wondering what to do, but I want to be near him. Quietly supportive, I guess, but even that doesn't seem like enough when he's in this mood. I kneel behind him and wrap my arms around his neck. To feel closer, to remind him that he isn't alone. “I love you, Simon.”

Simon deflates. He wraps a hand around my arm.

“I'm sorry.”

“I'm sorry, too.”

“No. Don't be. Don't. I was the one who said we should do this. I, I didn't know...”

He lets out a soft grunt. “To your credit, I didn't tell you.”

“...why?”

“You wouldn't have understood.”

“You don't know that.”

“You're not into guys exclusively.”

“I'm into you, so it doesn't matter,” I mumble, hugging him a little tighter. “I would've listened. I love you. Isn't that enough?”

He doesn't say anything. Simon closes his eyes and lets out a little breath. “I love you, too,” he whispers back, turning to me. He has that sad, desolate look in his eyes.

I turn his head and kiss him, and nothing about it isn't perfect. It's a quick one, but I could go on kissing him for at least the rest of the day if he'd let me. Simon Hopkins kisses better than anyone I've ever kissed before. I put my hands on his face and feel the gentle stubble under my fingertips. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“I'm not going anywhere.”

“You say that now – ”

“I'll say that always. Until you're absolutely sick of me, and then some.”

He holds me a little tighter.

It's a sign. I know what it means. I shuffle beside him and kiss him again. When I pull back, his cornflower blue eyes are on me, and the only reason I know this is because I forced him to sit down while I figured out what color his eyes were. Not because I just wanted to stare at him more. “I forget how pretty your eyes are.”

Simon starts frowning.

“Like the summer sky.”

He scoffs. “And I forget how fuckin' cheesy you are.”

“You love it.”

“Nope, not at all.”

I hum, trying not to smile. It isn't working. “I think you do.”

“I hate them.”

“But it makes you all blushy and its so cute!”

“No, I'm just embarrassed for you.”

“You wouldn't want to kiss me again if that were the case.”

“Not my fault you're a good kisser.”

“With some great pickup lines, too.”

Simon rolls his eyes. “Dummy,” he sighs, kissing me again. He tips his forehead against mine, and closes his eyes. “Micah, I do need to finish this tonight.”

I flop back on the bed. “Then I'll stay here until you're done. Go into battle together.”

“You'll be bored.”

“I'll be bored with you. And I'd rather be bored with you than anyone else.”

He glances over his shoulder at me. I don't know what he's thinking, but Simon sighs and turns back to his computer. “They'll want us down for dinner eventually.”

“Then we'll go down eventually.” I have no doubts, either, that I would absolutely get lost in this freaking monster of a house. I pull out my phone and check my phone for any missed messages. I don't have any.

Simon doesn't argue with that. He goes on working – or, staring at his screen and making a lot of third drafts of this logo thing he's designing and then just staring at it for a long time – before he gives up and lies back on the bed with me.

By 6, we go downstairs. Mrs. Hopkins is prepping dinner, and watching her turn zucchini, and the amount of it, into veggie noodles leaves my stomach feeling a little topsy-turvey. I don't doubt, though, that with her experience, the dish will be great.

“I'm trying out a new vegan dish,” she says, moving the wet noodles to the side to start the sauce. “Are you okay with this?”

I shake my head. “I'm always willing to try something that isn't currently alive.”

Mrs. Hopkins side-eyes me. “So no dishes with live octopus? No ants? Simon's father and I went to Thailand a couple years ago, and we ate this dish that had ants in it.”

I shake my head. “No. I – maybe, but for now, no.”

“Well, it isn't alive anymore, so I hope you like it.”

“I'm excited,” I say, leaning over her shoulder and watching the machine basically spin the zucchini into noodles. “I've never had this before.”

“Oh, they're really nice.”

They are not nice, and I really hate that I don't like them. They're too watery and it makes the sauce runny and I feel so bad making this face of absolute disgust with every bite. But Mrs. Hopkins made them, and she enjoys them, so I smile through the mushy pain and eat them to not upset her.

Simon doesn't. He picks at them for the longest while with that vacant look in his eyes. He's probably still worn out from all that driving.

I pick my nails under the table.

“Simon, eat,” she presses.

“Not really hungry.”

She grunts, then turns to me. “Micah, since my son's being so talkative, tell me about you. What do you do? For work, I mean?”

Simon’s shoulders roll forward at that.

I put down my spoon, and the guilt of not eating this not-noodles starts eating away at me again. Something gets stuck in my teeth, and I pick it out. “Odd jobs, ma'am. I worked part-time at the library in Alabaster-by-Sea, I...helped out in a garage, I worked for Instacart and did surveys for gift cards at one point. Also question: I have a Visa gift card that I haven't used, and I'm afraid I'm not going to. Do you want it? It's $50.”

Mrs. Hopkins raises a brow. “You're quite...varied, aren't you?”

“Mm.”

“What did you go to school for?”

“I'm 19. Well, just turned 20, so I graduated late. It's what happens when you transfer schools halfway through 5th grade.” I think my phone vibrates, and I pull it out to check it. There's nothing new, and I put it away. “I didn't want to go to school.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I never really got the idea of college.”

“A lot of employers see higher education as an important stepping stone.”

I feel very uncomfortable being told that. I still manage to smirk. “It's not a matter of not – ”

“If you had to pick a field, what would you study?”

“Mom, let him be.”

“I just asked a question, Simon. Just because you didn't go to college, does that mean I can't ever ask anyone about it ever again?”

Simon frowns. He sinks into his seat.

I laugh to cut through the mood, but it only felt like I made things worse. “It's not even the lack of interest, Mrs. Hopkins. I got held back once, which was tough, and I don't have the money for it, either. I don't want to, like, laser-focus on something and slowly grow to hate it. I-I mean, kudos to the people who are disciplined enough to pursue perfection in their field, but I-I like a lot of things. I like that kind of variety.” I turn to Simon. “That's one of the things I love about Simon. His job's a little all over the place, but because he's self-employed, he gets the power to...I don't know, dictate it himself? If that makes sense?”

Mrs. Hopkins glances at Simon. “You're self-employed?”

Simon looks at her.

“You didn't know?” I ask. “He's a graphic designer, and he's so freaking talented – ”

“Mom, where's Finn?” Simon asks.

The breakfast table's in this turret nook at the very back of the kitchen, with this great domed ceiling overhead and a chandelier hanging down from it. A wall-mounted TV is pressed right up against the wall, turned off. Tall windows framed with long, white curtains frame the view into the manicured backyard. The table's set for 6, but it's just me, Simon, and Mrs. Hopkins. “And Mr. Hopkins. Is he not feeling well?”

“No, Simon's dad is upstairs. He wasn't hungry.”

“Who's Finn?”

“Simon's younger brother.”

“He's at a study group.” She pulls out her phone. “He must be getting a ride back tonight.”

I look at Simon. “You have a younger brother? Does he look like you? What's he like?”

Simon doesn't say anything. He goes back to picking at the food.

I swallow back a groan.

And dinner continues on.

“Who the fuck are you?”

It's not really the kind of question that I'd expect to get from someone, but I still look up from my book. I'm back in Simon's room reading because I'm slightly terrified of leaving his room for anywhere else alone yet. I smile and say, “Hi. I'm Micah. Are you Finn?” I snap the book shut and put it to the side. “You're taller than I thought you'd be. I can see the family resemblance, though. Apparently, good looks runs in the family. How annoying is that?”

The (I'm guessing 14-year-old?) teenager with obvious acne scars leaves his backpack in the hallway and walks over towards me on the bed.

“I have a really good cream that can help with that. I had a lot of bad acne in high school, and this stuff's a godsend. I can order some for you if – ”

“Yeah, I don't give a fucking shit.”

“Oh...kay?”

“Who the fuck are you?”

“I'm Micah...?”

He groans. “Worthless. What, are you one of my dad's friends' or something? Why're you here?”

“No, I'm Simon's boyfriend. We – well, Simon got an email from his mom saying your dad was sick, and we came back – ”

“I can't believe that fucking worked.” A beat. “Wait, what?”

“What?”

“His boyfriend?”

“Yeah.”

“Un-fucking-believable.” He goes back into the hallway and shouts into his parents' room, “Yo, why the fuck didn't anyone tell me the f****t's back?”

I get up. I glance to the bathroom door, hoping Simon didn't hear any of that.

“Finn, don't call your brother that,” Mrs. Hopkins says.

“But he's back?”

“Yes, Finn. He's back.”

“And we're, just, letting them stay in the same room together?”

I peek into the hallway. Finn's in the bedroom door to the master bedroom, which, no doubt, is way larger on the inside than it looks on the outside. Somehow, the upstairs feels more formal than downstairs, even though there's visible signs of family life – the pictures frame on the walls of graduations and formal events outnumbered the candid ones of summer barbecues and birthdays – but even with that, the house is too clean and prim to let itself unravel.

Finn looks back towards Simon's room, and sees me. “Oh, you're an eavesdropping f****t, huh?”

“Finn, enough.”

He scoffs at me. “Simon hasn't been back for 5 fucking years. What the fuck did you do to him? Make him more empathetic?”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, leaning into the hallway. “W-we got an email from Simon's – your mom saying your dad – ”

“ – sick? Yeah, I know. I sent it.”

I fumble over my words for a moment before asking, “Why would you do that? It isn't funny to joke about that! You scared us.”

“I scared you guys?” Finn asks, walking slowly back over towards me. “Let me tell you something, homo, in case you weren't listening – ”

Mrs. Hopkins grabs his ear. “Phineas, that is enough.” She pulls him toward the room at the other end of the hall. “Do not talk about your brother that way.”

“Why shouldn't I? He runs off, doesn't talk to us, and you expect me to fucking play house now that he's back? He left.”

She turns back to me. “Do your homework, rotten child.” She says it with a slight, and obvious, twang of endearment, but I can't shake the fact that she called him that at all.

“No goddamned need,” he says, pushing her aside and grabbing his backpack outside Simon's bedroom door. “School's off for a while.” He wiggles his fingers at his mother, like he's casting a magic spell. “Coronavirus' going to get us.”

“Don't joke.”

“Make me.” He slams the door in her face. The house is quiet all over again.

Mrs. Hopkins turns to me. “Sorry about him. Y-you know how teenagers are, right?” She laughs, but it doesn't last for very long.

I nod. I can't help this great inky blackness swamping around my heart. “We can...talk about this later.”

She nods.

I go back into Simon's room and close the door as quietly as humanely possible. I press myself against the door, taking a moment to understand all the information that was just unceremoniously dumped.

“We shouldn't have come back.” Simon's standing by the bathroom door, his eyes down.

“Simon, he's just being a teenager. Everyone was like that. I bet even you were like that.”

“I wasn't.” He was most definitely the quiet one. I just have that feeling about him.

“Simon, it's okay.”

“You should've found someone else,” he says, not looking at me. “I told you it'd be hard.”

I don't say anything. I go over and wrap my arms around his head. He leans into me, and his arms go up around my back, hands on my shoulder blades, sighing so deeply and so long that it makes my heart ache. We quietly agree not to leave the room for the rest of the night.

A national lockdown goes into effect pretty much the next day.