Page 13 of The Immortalists

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Sun slices through the blinds. There is the sound of a shower running and the bodily, other-person smell of unfamiliar sheets. Simon is naked in a king bed beneath thick white covers. When he sits up, his legs ache, and he feels he might be sick. He squints at the room: a closed side door, which must lead to the bathroom; stock photos of urban architecture in sleek black frames; a small walk-in closet, inside which Simon sees color-coordinated rows of suit jackets and collared shirts.

He climbs out of bed and scans the ground for his clothes before he realizes that he must have left them in the living room—he remembers it vaguely, the night before, though it feels less like reality than the most intense dream he’s ever had. His jeans and polo shirt are crumpled under the coffee table, his beloved 320s by the door. He scrambles into them and looks outside. Hordes of people stride down the sidewalk with briefcases and coffee. In some alternate reality, it’s Monday morning.

The shower stops. Simon walks back into the bedroom just as Ian comes out of the bathroom, a towel slung low around his waist.

“Hey.” He smiles at Simon, takes the towel off and rubs it vigorously over his hair. “Can I get you anything? Coffee?”

“Um,” says Simon. “That’s okay.” He stares as Ian walks to the closet and pulls on a pair of black underwear, then thin black socks. “Where do you work?”

“Martel and McRae.” Ian buttons an expensive-looking white shirt and reaches for a tie.

“What’s that?”

“Financial advising.” Ian frowns into a mirror. “You really don’t know much of anything, do you?”

“Hey. I told you I was new here.”

“Relax.” Ian has a suspiciously handsome smile, as might belong to a personal injury lawyer.

“The people at your work,” says Simon. “Do they know you like guys?”

“Hell no.” Ian laughs shortly. “And I’d like to keep it that way.”

He strides out of the closet, and Simon steps away from the doorway.

“Listen, I gotta run. But make yourself at home, okay? Just be sure the door shuts behind you when you leave. It should lock automatically.” Ian grabs a jacket from the hall closet and pauses at the door. “It’s been fun.”

Alone, Simon stands very still. Klara doesn’t know where he is. Worse, Gertie must be hysterical. It’s eight in the morning, which means it’s nearly eleven in New York—six days since he left. What kind of person is he, to do this to his mother? He finds a phone on the kitchen counter. While it rings, he pictures the one at home, a cream-colored push button. He imagines Gertie walking over to it—his mother, his dear; he must make her understand—and grasping the receiver in her strong right hand.

“Hello?”

Simon is startled. It’s Daniel.

“Hello?” Daniel repeats. “Anybody there?”

Simon clears his throat. “Hey.”

“Simon.” Daniel releases a long, ragged breath. “Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking Christ, Simon. Where the hell are you?”

“I’m in San Francisco.”

“And Klara’s with you?”

“Yeah, she’s here.”

“Okay.” Daniel speaks slowly and with control, as if to a volatile toddler. “What are you doing in San Francisco?”

“Hang on.” Simon rubs his forehead, which pounds with pain. “Aren’t you supposed to be at school?”

“Yes,” says Daniel, with the same eerie calm. “Yes, Simon, I am supposed to be at school. Would you like to know why I’m not at school? I’m not at school because Ma called me in a fit on Friday night when you hadn’t come home, and being the good fucking son that I am, the only fucking reasonable person in this family, I left school to be with her. I’ll be taking incompletes this semester.”

Simon’s brain spins. He feels unable to respond to all of this at once, and so he says, “Varya’s reasonable.”

Daniel ignores this. “I’ll repeat myself. What the hell are you doing in San Francisco?”

“We decided to leave.”