Simon continues to barricade himself in his room, guarding himself like a castle under siege. He works continuously or lays in bed – there is no in between. I suggest walks outside and watching movies and anything to lift his spirits. I go as far as to offer sex like some desperate 50-year-old spouse who doesn't spend enough time with their significant other and have to pencil in spending time together.

He apologizes to me, over and over and over. He doesn't tell me why he's apologizing.

I ignore the spark in me. The circumstances are what's wrong. If we were back in our apartment, that email never sent, things would be so different. But I can't help hearing him say, “Sorry” for the hundredth time and feel that twang of agitation.

“Has Simon always been like that?” I ask Finn, glancing back up the stairs.

He rolls his eyes. “I'm a mind reader, apparently.”

“Sorry, sorry.” I press my fingers to my temples and frown. “He's...really down right now.”

He shrugs. “Sounds like Simon. Though I get it. Being stuck in the house for this long – ”

“Is he usually like that?”

“Why don't you ask him? I'm not his keeper.”

“I have,” I whisper, eyes dropping to the floor.

Finn leans over the counter in the kitchen and shakes his head. “Pansy.”

I take in a slow breath and wipe my hands down my face. I can't stand the idea that he's getting tired of me. Just the thought of it aches in me with this pain I've never felt before.

“...he's always been like that. For as long as I can remember.” Finn turns away. “He's always been a shitty brother.” He pushes off from the kitchen island and walks away.

I nod. “Ah.” Finn's answer leaves more questions than answers, and I choose not to press my luck.

The kitchen falls unbearably quiet, shrouded in yellow spring light.

“Why don't we go sit outside for a little?” I ask, leaning over the edge of the desk in our room. “It feels like we don't spend any time together anymore, and with everyone doing their own things right now, I just thought – ”

“Micah, I have work to do.”

“You can't spare 5 minutes? For me?”

He sighs, and I instinctively know I've pushed the wrong button on him.

“Please? It's a nice day.” I kneel in front of him. “5 minutes. I just...I miss you.”

Simon stares at me for what feels like eons before he relents, in the same way a tired parent finally caves in. “Fine.”

It's a hollow victory, but I take it nonetheless.

The day is warm, and reminds me of spring in Alabaster-by-Sea. The wind is brisk and clear, there are no clouds, The world feels still, and the absence of any cars, trucks, trains, everything, passing around us adds to the eeriness of it. The backyard is an enclave surrounded by pine trees and greenery punctured by pops of budding flowers, obscuring the neighbors; tucked into bushes on the far side is a firepit with chairs surrounding. It's the kind of backyard that would be perfect for entertaining in the summer, with ample seating and a barbecue that would make any cook jealous, but based on the state of the furniture, it hasn't been touched in a while.

The sectional seating is warm when we sink into them. At first, Simon's rigid and sits like a scolded child, but the moment I lace my fingers through his, he relaxes a little.

“What're you working on?” I ask.

“Corporate thing.”

“Remember that book cover you did for that one guy? The one with the tiger?”

He huffs at that. “I don't want to think about that one. It looked like the painted side of a van.”

“God, I hope he published it.” I lean into his side. “What was the thing about?”

“Who knows?” he sighs, tipping his head against the top of mine. “I'm sorry.”

“No, don't be.”

“I should be.”

“Simon.”

“If you didn't agree to come – ”

“I agreed to come because you asked me.”

“You could've said 'no'.”

“I could've, but I didn't. Were you hoping I'd say 'no' after convincing you to come back?”

“I don't know.”

I tap him. “We're in this together, I hope you realize. I'm not going anywhere.”

“You say that now – ”

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

Simon closes his eyes and deflates a little more. “I'm still sorry.”

I trace the side of his hand with my thumb. “What're you thinking about?”

“Things.”

“Anything in particular?”

“...a lot.” He takes in a breath. “How're the Reynolds?”

“They're good. They miss us being around.”

Simon hums. He closes his eyes.

“I miss our apartment.”

“Me, too.” He still isn't with me. There's an air about him that tells me he's still somewhere else. “I miss Minnelli's and their pasta.”

“You miss their tiramisu.”

“Why can't I miss both?”

“You can,” he says, and for a second, it sounds like a chuckle, “but I'm just saying.”

“I miss my candle, too.”

“I'm not going to lie, I miss you dumb lemon lavender candles, too.”

I tap his chest. “It's a really good candle.”

Simon hums.

I swallow. “Where are you?”

“Hm?”

“You just seem...somewhere else.”

“I'm...thinking about a lot.”

“Like what?”

“Work. What happens after lockdown ends. You. Things like that.”

“Want to cue me in?”

“They're just thoughts.”

I shuffle up to meet his blue eyes, so sunken and tired and sad. “I still want to hear them.”

He doesn't say anything for the longest while, and I accept the silence if it means sitting with him. Simon carefully, slowly, traces my fingers with his, and for the first time in a long while, he looks down at me, and I can't tell what he's thinking. There's this pang as he traces the outline of my hand, this wonderful, nostalgic rhythm to the motion, and I think he's trying to tell me something without being obvious.

“Simon?”

He opens his mouth, and this pained sigh comes out. He closes his eyes and tips his head towards me.

I don't get the chance to ask because the back door opens and Mrs. Hopkins comes out.

“Afternoon, boys. Can I sit with you? It's a lovely day today, isn't it?”

Simon sits up a little straighter. His hand slides from mine, falling into his lap. The moment is gone.

That spark in me resurfaces. “Of course,” I say, smiling. I don't have the heart to tell her to leave. “Is it always this pretty in spring?”

“Sometimes there's more rain,” she says. “We've been very fortunate this year. It wasn't that cold of a winter, either.”

I hum and drum my fingers over his hand.

He shifts away from me. It's not even a full inch, but it feels like a freaking chasm has opened between us.

“I, uh, have to go back. To work.” Simon stands.

“Aw, I just got here,” sighs Mrs. Hopkins. “I feel like I don't see you anymore.”

“Mrs. Hopkins, your son is very dedicated to his work.”

He flushes red.

“S-sorry to keep you...longer than I meant,” I whisper, turning to Simon. “You can go back to work if you want.”

“Yeah, I...” Simon stands. “...I need to go.” He waves at me and goes back inside.

The moment he's gone, I apologize for her son's leaving.

She isn't satisfied with it. “My son, the workaholic. He wasn't this intense when he left.”

I blink. “Oh?”

“No, it was all Simon's father's fault. He pushed my sweet baby boy too hard, and look at him now.”

I hear his mother telling me to ask Simon about this, because “It isn't my place.” and my whole body shudders. My stomach upends itself, and I squirm. I sink back into the cushions for a single moment, bathed in the tinted bright sunset, all I can think about is how worthless I’m being.

“Are you all right?” she asks. “You need a blanket?”

I smile. “No, I'm okay. Thank you, though.” I cough, and that spark moves from from my gut into my unsettled stomach.