#simon-x-billy

Billy: You know who this is - are you alive?

Simon: Yes

-----/-/-----

Here I am just leavin to fetch Anna Lucia and my text notification sounds out.  Last time I saw this name on my screen, reckon it’d be about a month past.

First dates. That’s a great feelin, isn’t it? You know you’re gonna kiss, but you don’t know when. Your heart’s poundin. And then the cell buzzes. Hope she’s not begging off. Took her ages to even sustain eye contact with me. To be honest, you know you’re bein flirted with when I come at yeh. Not that I’ve been pesterin her. Her eyes just couldn’t bear lookin straight into the sun. Ah, I’m only jokin. 

Right, give m’self one last lookover. “Teeth, check. Hair, check. Cock in, check. Smell good, check. Phone, check. Text check…

Simon: Are you alive?

Billy: What’s up, man? All right? You well?

Time, check. Tick tock tick tock. Come on, man, I can’t be sat here waitin on yeh to decide whether yer textin back. Anna Lucia’s-

Simon: There was an earthquake in Northern Italy

Billy: Yes, that is correct - there was an earthquake in Northern Italy

Simon: You ok?

Billy: Yeah man, did you worry? That’s so sweet

Simon: Shut up

Billy: Then you wouldn’t know whether I survived the earthquake in Northern Italy

Billy: Don’t be losin sleep on my account, man - I’m well to the south

Billy: Big landmass, we’re not fallin into the sea

Billy: That sorta thing only happens in America

I pause, thinkin that he might take the bait, but it’s been a minute without a response and I’ve got a stunner waitin on me. 

Condoms? Definitely. Check.

-----/Simon/-----

Billy: Simon

Simon: What

Billy: …

The little typing-in-progress dots start and stop, and start and stop again.

Billy: Nevermind.

Nevermind. Nevermind? Nevermind?! What the fuck?! You can’t just - grrrrrr. Sometimes I hate that guy. 

Shit. What if something’s wrong. 

What if he’s lost fingers and can’t thumb in a text. Besides “Simon” and “nevermind.” Yeah, no, that’s ludicrous, Lewis. Obviously. Certo.

Two hours later, and I’m still distracted. ‘Nevermind?’ Rude.

Annoying. 

Fucking obnoxious, is what it is. 

I do not need this kind of thing in my life. And I don’t even know the guy. So I delete him from my contacts. 

I already kinda regret it.

Fuck.

——-/-/——-

So yeah. Fuck. I still regret it. 

For a whole week. Shit. 

Did I put it under Terrazze……. Or di Limoni?  Ah, ok. The phone ringing in Italian sounds weird and wrong. Sorta like me in Italian.

“Ciao, Terrazze di Limoni, parlando Rosalina. Come posso aitutarti?”

“Um, si, I’m good, thank you…um, I don’t parlo Italiano.”

“Si, signore. How can I help you?”

“Thanks. I’m looking for Billy Delaney. Or, actually, I just need his phone number. I lost it.” 

Nothing. 

“Billy from the restaurant?” I clarify.

Again, nothing. “Yes?” I ask.

“Yes? Is this a question? I do not understand you, Signore Laywees.”

Ok, redirect. “Do you know his cell phone number? Please?”

“I can not, no.”

“Is there someone who does know his number? Maybe the computer?”

“No. Non signore. I am not permiso. Emmm, how you say, permit to give to you the informazione that is personal to him.”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess I can understand that. Makes sense. But since I know him?” Please please please.

She is silent, again. Until, “Is this a question? I still do not understand you, Signore Laywees.”

“I’d really like to talk to him. Via text, I mean. Send a text - to him.”

“Sí, signore.”

“Yes? You’ll give it to me?”

“No.” She makes it sound so final and permanent.

“Do you remember that he and I are friends? I stayed in the suite up on the top floor?”

“Si. You are the American on the roof.”

“I what? No, nevermind. He is still at the hotel, though, right?” Maybe I can just ask to speak to the mana-

“No.”

“Wait, what?”

“No. He is no longer at the hotel,” she informs me.

“But he’s still in Sorrento, right?”

“No.” It sounds so final and permanent.

Panic. “But-“

“He is in London,” she adds.

“Wait, what?”

“He is in London.”

“I didn’t know that,” I say quietly to myself.

“Certo.” Obviously? She thinks I’m obvious.

So now it’s even more important that she give me his number. Cuz if I ever need to get in touch with him, they wouldn’t give it to me. Not a chance.

“No.”

Goddammit, Lewis. “Did I say that out loud?”

“It was quiet, Signore.”

“Pardon?”

“Si. I perdonna you.”

Help? Confused. “Please, I need to talk- to text him. Even more now that he isn’t in Italy anymore. If you don’t share his number,” I say, kinda more to myself than to her, “then that’s it.”

“What is it?”

“I mean-” Shit, I suppose that really is it, then. I won’t get to tell him I’m over Voldemort and her nighty. I was kinda looking forward to that. “I guess it’s just that that will be it. In terms of knowing him. Friends. So, yeah. I guess I just won’t know him anymore.” This is the single most embarrassing experience I have ever had. Since my trip to Italy.

“Ah, si. Ssssssi.” She stretches out the last word, so it sounds like she’s mulling something over.

“Signore Laywees,” she says in a muffled whisper. “His numero is-“

——-/-/——-

Simon: Billy

That Irishman: 

——-/-/——-

Rude! 

——-/-/——-

Three days later it’s even ruder. More rude. (I’m allowed to think with bad grammar.)

I shouldn’t have bothered getting the number. That’s an hour of my life I’ll never get back. I mean, how many more days is he… You know what? Fuck it. I don’t even care.

This is me not caring.

At all.

—--/Billy/—--

Fucksake, Simon. I was with a girl. Lucrezia with the long legs, and what, you want me to pull out to answer your text? 

Y’ know what - I’m done with this. He’s alive. That’s fine. All I needed to know.

Deleted.

—--/Simon/—--

Simon: Where are you?

That Irishman: New phone, who dis?

I - wow. That kind of - stung.

Stings. 

—--/-/—--

It’s been a week and it’s still stinging.

Simon: Are you alive?

I couldn’t go a week without texting. What the fuck is wrong with me. 

That Irishman: New phone, who dis?

Ow. 

He ghosted me. Actually, like, in reality, intentionally ghosted me.

Simon: You know who this is.

You know what? I’m done.

I do not need this in my life right now. My book placing Simon out front as main character is due in two months, but Me Simon, the author? I’m still stuck. I still suck. I’ve scrapped everything I’ve written about him.

So of course I start writing an entirely different story. Which then turns into an idea for a Warlock spinoff series for my most flamboyant and interesting character. 

It’s a love story between boys. It’s been building over the course of all three books, and I just can’t shove it out of my head. And the fans want that just as much as they want a Simon book. Easiest way to avoid doing something you need to do? Do something else you need to do. 

Shit. I need to do some research.

That Irishman: Why?

Huh. Interesting point. I-

Simon: I don’t know

—--/Billy/—--

I think we’ve gotten past our - whatever it was a few weeks ago. That was weird. Yeah, weird. We were up each other’s arses about - what? Nothing at all. Immature and grating, and yet, we’re still texting. A little more often now. But usually it’s of the “are you alive?” variety, with single word, single syllable answers from Simon. “Are you over her?” “Yes,” that sort of thing. I can’t tell whether he’s pissed, or just wants to know I’m alive. I thought I was supposed to be knowing that he was alive. 

Billy: Are you alive?

Grumpy: I guess

Billy: Two words! We’re making progress

Grumpy: Shut up

I laugh.

Billy: I’m not talking, I’m texting. If you want me to stfu, just put the phone down

Billy: Try it - now

Billy: See? Silence. Wasn’t that nice?

Grumpy: You really can’t can you

Billy: Can’t what

Grumpy: Shut up

Billy: Jaysus, Simon. Put the phone back down. I don’t need to be hearing you being mean

Grumpy: Funny

Billy: You know man, you’re like the Hemingway of texting

Grumpy: So literary

Well, he’s not biting. Much. Why do I bother? Have a better conversation with the cat. 

Of course my friend Rachel’s a cat person. I like that about her. And her cat.

So I feed the cat. And Rachel, before she’s back to her pub downstairs. I potter about the kitchen, tidying up while I wait to hear back from my best mate, Alfie.

I feel my cell buzz in my back pocket, just as I’m puttin the several thank-you meals I’ve made Rachel into the fridge.

Alfie: We still on mate?

Billy: Do you really have to ask?

Alfie: Yes! 

Alfie: I mean no

Alfie: I mean I know - just looking forward to seeing you mate

Alfie: Worried you wouldn’t want to see everyone - you know what I’m trying to say

Billy: I think what you’re trying to say is you’re leaving the house now

—--/-/—--

Is this… I think this is shot #3. She gave us two, and then… so that’s 4? I think. 

Oooh, my arse is vibrating. But not for the fun reason. 

“Whoa-what Alfie?!” has just grabbed me - bodily - and pulled me up against him. 

“Alfie, I love you, mate. You’re a mostly good friend and I guess you’re kinda cute, but-”

He flips us around, drops his arse onto a bar stool, and makes himself very small.

“Tired, mate?” I’m frowning down at him when Rachel sets up another pair of shots.

“For the birthday boy. Where’d he get off to?” she asks, pretendin to survey the room.

I snort. “Here’s yer man. This tiny human here in front of me who appears to find my Vegas belt buckle fascinating. Alfie, mate, what’re yeh-”

“I’m hiding,” he hisses.

“But why?”  

And of course it’s just as I’m throwin back shot #5 (4?)  when the great eejit grabs me about the waist, yanks me to him, and buries his face in my navel. 

So now I’m chokin on vodka and he’s hissing at me to shut up and stand still. “The fuck? What’re you doin?! Stop it,” I wheeze.

“Shhh!”

Still tryin to see past the blindin fire in my sinuses. “Fucksake, Alfie! You know I just blew a shot of clear alcohol out my nose. And I know you do cos you’ve vodka snot in your hair, and runnin down the side of yer face, mate. What the fuck?”

“I don’t care, shhhh!”

So I stand very still and speak very quietly. “Alfie, mate. Why don’t you care that you’ve vodka snot – my snot – runnin down yer face?”

That’s when he grabs both my arms and slaps them on the bartop, caging himself in. 

This once again catches Rachel’s eye at the other end of the bar. As it should do. And she shoots me a quick look. I answer with a shrug. 

“Do I even want to know?” she asks, headin back our way.

“Would both of you shut up? Hide me!”

Rachel rolls her eyes and leaves me with the child in my arms. 

“I’d say I’m flattered, mate,” I whisper. “But you’re freakin me out now. I’m assumin it’s a girl, yeah? Which one is she?” 

I’m looking into the bar mirror and spot a face from a lifetime ago. 

“Alfie, is that-”

“It’s that fit Thai bird from Bangkok.”

“Alfie, is that Ken?” 

Guest starring, Ken

Alfie buries his face in my navel again.

“Yes?” he says in a guilty squeak. 

“Why is she here?” I ask very slowly, as if I’m speakin to someone not so bright. Because I am speakin to someone not so bright. 

“Erm, well… Because I live here? Probably?”

I need another pint. And vodka’s put me off, as that’s a pain that’s gonna linger in my nasal passages. I signal the lovely Rachel, who nods as she begins to pull me a pint.

“Alfie. Why are yeh hidin? From Ken. Who is now where yeh live. And not in Bangkok.”

“I sort of…”

I give him the ol’ eyebrow encouragement. 

“I’ve kind of been sending her sexy pokes…erm, sexy poking with her.”

“For a year?! Wait, no. How long has it been since Thailand? Have you been sexy poking her all this time?”

“Shhhh!” And back to my navel he goes. “I didn’t invite her! She’s just here! Over there,” he says with a muffled rumble into my belly. 

“I have a feelin that’s just the beginning of a very long, very embarrassing story. Don’t let me stop yeh. But yer steamin up my stomach and my vodka snot has now migrated back to me. On my shirt. And you know how I feel about laundry.”

Sighing and shaking my head. “Mate, stop it. Yer actin like a baby. Face yer fears or face responsibility or buy her a drink. Those are yer options.” 

“How about we buy me a drink instead?” He looks up hopefully, his hands loosening the vice grip he’s got on me.

“And by we, you mean me,” I state the obvious.

“It is my birthday.”

“And we have a history of phenomenally fucked up birthdays here. Are you plannin to make a regular habit of it?”

Rachel places the perfect pint in front of me. I sigh. “Sure’n I suppose you’ll be wantin my pint then.”

He grins sweetly up at me. “Birthday?”

“Thank yeh, Rachel, love. That’ll be one more. But I’ll be takin this one.” 

Alfie whines unintelligibly.

“Alfie!” rings out the voice of a high tenor.  

I move aside like the terrible friend that I am.

“Judas!” Alfie cries.

“Ken!” I cry. 

“Billy. I like seeing you again. I don’t like seeing this one with his face in another man’s chest!”

“Another man’s-”

“Pickles!” Alfie cries.

Guest starring, Pickles

“Lord Jaysus, Pickles!” I cry. I’m over the moon to see our old mate Cheese & Pickles. Another one Alfie made a hash of a start with, leadin him on. But at least in that case, it had been an honest mistake with a cheese and pickle baguette, and quickly sorted. And we made a solid mate out of the mess. I’d hoped I’d get to see him again this year. 

Ken, on the other hand, I never had much interaction with her. Nice girl if memory serves, but she is a bit of a wild card. Certo.

I round on Alfie. “Alfie, why is Ken here? How long has this been going on?”

“Two years!” Ken shouts.

Oh Alfie, you feckin brainless eejit, look at the state of yeh. 

“He said he wanted me. Me. He never said anything about you.”

I watch as Pickles’ jaw drops open at the implication, and his eyes slide from side to side like it’s Wimbledon. 

“I say it again, Billy. He told me he wants me. So I came.” Ken is trying to keep a lid on her emotions, but they’re right there at the surface ridin her.

“Erm,” Alfie begins, looking like things are starting to fall into place in that thick skull of his. 

“What was that? Squeak up,” I press. “Today’d be grand.” 

“Erm, well,” Alfie begins again. “I-” And his face turns cherry red starting from his collar, ending at the very tips of his little mouse ears. “I may have said-”

“I want you so much. You told me over and over. I want you. I want you so much. Come with me. So I came.”

Pickles zips his mouth shut.

Simon would have relished this moment.

“I am beautiful. You told me! How could you be with him? He is not beautiful.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” Pickles mutters again. 

“Thanks, mate,” I say. No harm in hearin it, if I’m honest.

“And just where were you when you were telling Ken how much you wanted her? How beautiful she is?” Spit it out, man.

“Erm…” says Alfie, eloquent as ever.

“He was on the computer. Where else would he be? He was not in bed with you!” Ken turns on Alfie. “Were you?”

“Erm…” repeats Alfie. 

“Have you no sense, you great eejit? You’re makin it worse.” All skull, no brain. Don’t know why I bother.

We need to get her calm, get her some privacy in a nice, cozy snug in the corner, sit down and sort this out. This is too personal for the floor of a pub. Not fair to Ken. 

Guest starring, a snug

Looking disgusted with Alfie, Pickles steps in and picks up Ken’s hand. “You deserve better,” he says softly but with honest conviction. Good man. 

Ken’s eyes are welling. “Yes. I do.”

“Oi!” Alfie exclaims in indignation.

I cut him off with an elbow to the ribs and a glare. “Not helping!” I grit out. 

“Oh. Oh!” Alfie takes in a deep breath and gives her a sincere apology. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he says, and once again buries his face in my navel. 

“Alfie!” Ken looks like she’s about to cry quite a lot of tears. “You said-”

And right before my eyes, Pickles’ face goes all soft. I watch it happen right in front of me. That moment you see in films when the boy looks at a duckling like he’s never seen one before, and suddenly she’s the loveliest water fowl he’s ever met. “Ken, is it?” he says softly. “Come sit down. I’ll get you something to drink, and we can figure it out.”

I incline my head toward the snug at the back part of the room. I can see it’s empty.

Ken raises her head high, and pins Alfie with a deadly glare. “You are not worth my tears. Or my frequent flying kilometers.”

Alfie looks ashamed, as he should do, and wisely keeps his fat trap shut. Wise - for Alfie, that is. Pickles leads Ken across the floor as far from Alfie and me as he can be. “Do you have luggage?” I hear him ask as they walk away. Good man. Damn good man.

“You owe Pickles, mate.”

“All my birthday beer is his.”

“That’s right,” I agree. 

“That’s right,” Alfie whispers as he downs his two forgotten shots. “That’s right.”

“Alfie. What’s really goin on here, mate?” I ask him. “You realize you’ll be needin to have an honest talk with Ken, don’t yeh? Pickles may have put the situation on pause for the moment. But she does deserve better, man.”

He looks a bit lost.

“What were yeh thinkin?”

He starts to fidget. “Look, man.” I reassure him. “I’m here for yeh, thick, thin, wide, narrow, tall, short. Female. Male?”

“Or maybe somewhere undefined in-between?” he asks.

“Alfie. I love yeh, mate.” I’m bendin down gettin in his face, bein that the man is avoidin eye contact with his head down. “Nothin else matters, yeh see that, don’t yeh?”

Alfie peeks up and looks at me, barely. He’s unsure and deeply unsettled. Ken, in person, has him rattled — profoundly rattled. And can I blame him? Somethin private – and very likely somethin he thought was just for fun with no consequences – just became public and hit home in a very, very she’s at my home kind of way. So much for no consequences.

“Life is real, Alfie. Life happens. Life has consequences. Life is full of good people, in with the bad. Ken’s one of the good ones, mate. If yeh don’t want anything to do with her-”

“I didn’t say that!” busts out of his mouth, before he can think on it. Which, if I’m honest, describes everything that comes out of Alfie’s mouth. He squeezes his lips together, willing them not to speak.

I let it float for a minute, not wanting to give him any outs, but also not wanting to make him afraid to speak. But I break. “No judgement, mate. Do you want Ken?”

He finally lifts his head, and gives me frightened eyes I’ve never seen him wear. “I don’t know?”

“No reason to panic like this. No need to have it all worked out of a sudden, all at once. But you do need to be honest with her. And you need to walk over to that snug with me, sit yerself down across from Ken, and talk to her. Tonight. Let her know how yer feelin, that you might be conflicted, questioning. She’s got to know what that feels like, mate. Hasn’t she?”

He gives me a one-shoulder shrug, lettin me know he’s heard me.

“Go take a piss, do a shot, smoke somethin, whatever. But you’ve got 5 minutes before you have to act like a grown man. I’ll make your excuses til then. And I’m lettin her know you’ll be joinin us in that snug. No runnin from this, mate. She knows where yeh live. Because I’ll give her the street number and drive her there m’self if ye run.”

—--/-/—--

When I finally arrive back up at Rachel’s flat, I’m drunk enough to bump into every wall between the entry and the stairs, which I manage to fall up, and then “Ow!” as I knock my hip against the railing at the top.

I’m tripping as I try to walk out of my jeans and open the bedroom door at the same time. Seems like something that should be possible, walking out of a pair of jeans. It isn’t.

As I fall on my arse with a loud thud and grunt, my guest for the evenin begins laughin at me. I can’t really blame her. I’m drunk. She’s drunk. Neither one of us remembers each others’ names. Doesn’t matter. Except-

Guest starring, Guest

“Oh, Saints preserve us! Jaysus no!”

“What are you on about?” Somethin-somethin-somethin, “on me.”

I’ve no idea what she’s sayin, and couldna care, because I’ve fallen on my phone. “Mary and the sweet baby Jesus, oh thank you. Ohhhh thank you. Oh lord.”

I caress it lovingly – which is really what I should be doing with the bird crawling across the bed in a relatively alluring way. The screen lights up revealing a text notification, and I vaguely remember it buzzing in my pocket at the start of the night. I’d sort of forgotten it, what with Alfie’s nose in my navel. And my nose shortly due to be well below her navel.

Grumpy: Why

“What? Oh no, not you love. Don’t move a finger. I want yeh just like that.”

Billy: Why what?

He replies almost instantly.

Grumpy: Why are my texts like Hemingway

Billy: Brief.

I turn off my phone, and drop it on the crumpled and growing mass of clothing on the floor. After all, it’s important I focus all my attention on my guest’s needs. And I’ve a feelin she’ll have many.

—--/Simon/—--

Fuuuuuuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Again.

I have no idea how to write the Simon book and it’s seriously sucking my will to live. Which, you know, vampire Simon and all that.

OK, so here’s the thing. I can’t just suddenly claim I’m totally different from the character, when the fans know I’ve based him on me. And they know I’m a nerd. A huge nerd. I can’t turn him into some super, supernatural, sleek, and sexy vampire. Nope. He has to be confused half the time. And show periodic feats of great courage, followed by moping and pining and loyalty. The fans love it. They eat that shit up. On paper – not in my actual life. Me Simon, I mean. Other Simon gets to mope all he wants and they still think he’s worth reading about. Fuck if I know why.

I can’t turn him into an amalgam of like, hipster-bass-player-shoegazer-vampire. We’ve all already read the one about the rockstar vampire.

So what kind of person would Other Simon wish he could be?

Ugh, well, 15 year old Me Simon just wanted to be cool and get the girl. 15 year old Other Simon is… a vampire, and will get the girl. Maybe two. Eventually.

I think he needs confidence. Other Simon, I mean. That’s what being a vampire gives him. That and killer abs. (Vamp abs are killer. I crack myself up. This is me cracking up.)

I think that’s his real growth arc – the confidence, not the abs. Wayyy back at the beginning I started him from a place already lagging behind his peers, saving himself for his crush. So becoming a vampire boosts his confidence immeasurably. That’s why we can more easily believe it when he finally gets the girl. For like five minutes.

I dunno. Now maybe he’ll go be a rockstar at being a super-supernatural superhero, rather than an actual rockstar of music. Nobody cares that I play bass.

You, self in mirror. Nobody cares that you play the bass. Just let it go.

Ok fine, me. You win. As usual. Nobody wants to hear the stats on my vintage Marshall stacks. Or about my priceless Rickenbacker, played by Sir Paul himself. Oh my god, why? Whyyyyyy? This should be exciting to everyone, everywhere.

I wonder if Billy would say I’m whingeing. How do you even spell that. Winging? Winjing? Whinging?

Actually, wait. Billy’s a confident person. He’s gregarious. Everybody fuckin loves that guy. Sometimes I hate him, just to prove to the universe that it is possible. Sometimes he deserves it, too. Wanker. Twat. Neither of those sound good in American.

Maybe Ma’s right and I should get out more.

Nah.

What would I even do? I’m supposed to be writing. I’m supposed to be writing. Writing.

Writing.

Writing.

Writing.

I can’t believe I went to Italy and didn’t take one picture. Not one. I had a couple good conversations. All with an Irishman – no one Italian. That would be stupid, Simon. (Me Simon, not Other Simon.)

Fuuuuuck.

——-/-/——-

Simon: I was in the seat of the Roman Empire, on possibly the sexiest sea in the world, and I didn’t fucking notice

That Irishman: Yeah, I noticed

Simon: Where are you?

That Irishman: Sorrento, dinner rush, can’t talk

Simon: Pick me up tomorrow

That Irishman: Wait what?

That Irishman: ???

That Irishman: Simon

Just remember, your first impression of her is while she’s cosplaying someone else. You might find you’re falling for a personality that isn’t really her on the inside. The whole thing is exhausting. Because my beautiful but cruel shiki found somebody else to cosplay with.

Just remember, your first impression of her is while she’s cosplaying someone else. You might find you’re falling for a personality that isn’t really her on the inside. The whole thing is exhausting. Because my beautiful but cruel shiki found somebody else to cosplay with.

She revealed this shortly after breaking up with me.

No, Simon. I do not choose you. No, Simon. I never choose you. Said every girl ever.

She gave me lots of reasons why. Constructive observations for my next relationship, she said. So at least I had something to think about on the plane to Naples that made me feel really good about myself. For 22 hours including two layovers and a bonus train ride from the airport to downtown Naples. (Trust me, just fly into Rome. Why didn’t it occur to me to fly into Rome?)

I once read a book where the most flamboyant, exciting character said something of extreme poetry and wisdom. (Because poetry and wisdom can both be extreme. Whatever.) It went a little something like this: “Unsolicited advice is just criticism.” Ok fine, I’ve read it more like 25-30 times. Alright look, I can’t be coy, I wrote it. And 25-30 is how many revisions my editor tried to convince me to take it out. (I won.)

What can I say, I love stories that stretch out over like 20 books in a series. You get to stay with the characters you love until you finally stop re-starting the series the minute you close the last page of the last book. Again.

I think I’d be a vampire irl. And I have thought a lot about it. I mean a lot of thinking on this topic. And you can’t convince me that fairies and werewolves are even in the running for best paranormal destiny.

I love stories where choosing to be a vampire is one of the safer bets. Because you’re already dead.

Don’t start. I’ve fought table top duels over this and I refuse to go over that ground again. Take my word for it. You want to be a vamp.

She was a vamp. I was a vamp. (D, because who else?) We thought we were made for each other. Until she didn’t. Think that anymore. I guess she’d been not-thinking that anymore for months and months. And here I am, presenting her with a trip to Italy where I was going to propose. I had it all planned out. I mean I had it all planned out. Because that’s how I roll. (A 20-sided die, obviously.) Ugh. So when she says she doesn’t want to leave the city, I’m like, “But it’s Italy! And me!”

Turns out the trip wasn’t the only thing she didn’t want.

Turns out she was also being quite literal about not leaving the city. And so, like the heartless traitor she is, she abandoned Brooklyn for the Upper West Side and a yoga instructor with a man bun and half a million followers on Twitter.

Half a million? What even is that? I mean, I get 100 followers -- wow, friend, you are on fire! I get a million followers -- wow, somewhat famous person, you are on fire! But, like, what’s halfway between the two?

So the “hot yoga instructor” -- her words, not mine -- is a person that exists. I told her that she didn’t have to be mean about another, hotter guy. And you know what’s coming next. You totally do.

The hot yoga instructor is an instructor of hot yoga.

But since I mentioned it, she laughed and said he is also a hot instructor, of yoga.

Thanks. I don’t feel angry tears at all when I think about that.

Anyways, I was talking about trains in Italy running on time, which is like absolute and unrepentant dad humor. And somehow I eventually land on vamps. Welcome to the brain of Simon Lewis, enjoy your stay.

Oh my god. There’s a McDonalds here. It’s like a crime against Italian humanity. “That should be illegal,” I announce to no one in particular. Followed by “Shut up, Lewis, that guy over there is staring.” And yes, I do use my last name when I scold myself out loud in public. Because people find that attractive and charismatic.

So the train in Italy running on time is actually my problem. “My driver” isn’t due for another 30 minutes. Which means I get to spend an additional 30 minutes enjoying my own company some more. And also avoiding talking to any strangers. Which is particularly difficult in the Naples train station. And even more unlikely when you’re standing in the same spot forever and ever.

I’m full of my mother’s dire predictions of criminal young people offering their services to help you find your way around the train station. And when that fails, they’re supposed to start begging for money. And when that fails, Oliver and the Artful Dodger pick your pocket. So put your money and your passport down the back of your underwear or something equally unworkable when you’re dealing with Customs.

That little gem was actually written in the margins of the travel book. By my mother. So I wouldn’t forget to keep it in my pants. “Simon, don’t forget about the criminal young people. Keep it all in your underpants.”

So standing here looking like I’m waiting (and waiting and waiting), I’m an easy target. But as my t-shirt says, I’m from Brooklyn. We do not pay people to tell us where we are and which line to stand in. It’s a matter of pride. Unbelievable.

Being from Brooklyn, I understand trains. I can find my way around any train station in the world. Hubris! But it’s true. Even in foreign alphabets. It’s in my blood, it’s in the East River, it’s in the soot-flecked air we New Yorkers are born breathing.

So here I am in the Naples train station with my underwear full of credit cards, IDs, and my emergency contacts laminated in both English and Italian. And now I also have that hot tingling in my eyes and the slight burn in my sinuses that threaten angry tears again.

I’m supposed to see a little old man with a big old mercedes, holding up a sign saying “Simon Lewis.” His name is Giuseppe and he came very highly rated on travelbookie.com. Very highly rated. I can say I knew him way back after he was cool.

So… Ok… This guy is definitely not Giuseppe. He doesn’t look that much older than me. He’s an awfully chatty Irishman named Billy. So I’m like, “What’s Billy in Italian?”

“Fuck if I know,” he laughs. “They just say Beelee. Which puts me off every time, if I’m honest. God bless ‘em, they’re beautiful people, right, but Beelee is so wrong.”

“What’s your last name?”

“Delaney.”

“So in Italian, you’re Beelee Day-la-nay.”

“Y’speak Italian then, do yeh?” he laughs.

“Fluently. This app taught me how to say ‘dog’ and ‘blouse’ and I leveled up really fast -- one of my great talents, btw.’

“Levelin up is it? Or Italian?”

“Italian. Certo. That means certainly, but you use it kind of like you would use ‘obvi.’”

“Obvi,” he snorts. “Are you mansplainin the language of the place I live to me?”

“Certo.”

Billy rewards me with a low chuckle. It may have been low and just a chuckle, but it was real. Being a connoisseur and collector of bad puns and dad jokes, I have a finely tuned ear for real laughter, as opposed to the usual laughing-just-to-be-nice.

“So I’m better off with Beelee Daylanay. I’ll have a talk with my boss and ask him to use my full name or nothin at all.” That at least gets a snort out of me. Until he says, “What about you? Are you lookin forward to bein Seemon? Sorry, mate. I think yours might be worse than mine.”

-----/-/-----

We’ve been talking all this time and I forgot to look out the window. As if I’m not on my dream vacation. Runner-up, actually. I’m holding my best dream vacation (Venice) for when Ms. I Do Lewis actually says, “I do.” And I will not book the rooms til after she does.

“Sorry, what was that?” I’ve been staring into space and ignoring Mr. Daylanay, who is now looking at me funny in the rear view mirror.

“Nothin important. Where’d you go, mate?”

“New York to Frankfurt to Milan to Naples. I flew out of JFK.”

“I’ll pretend to know where that is. No,” he says, “I meant just now. You disappeared behind your face.”

Um… “I did what?”

“I’ve been the only one enjoyin the sound of my voice, apparently, since you went quiet about five minutes ago. So where’d you go? Back behind your face,” he prompts.

“That’s an awfully private question, Mr. Daylanay. I’m not sure we’re good enough friends for letting you behind my face.” I kinda stumble on the word friends, cuz… we’re not.

“What. Is that like bein let in to visit the little man behind the curtain? That sounds a bit-”

“Yeah, yeah, I know how it sounds.” I make sure to roll my eyes loudly so he can hear. My mother always says she can hear my eyes rolling from the next room.

“Cagey one, aren’t ya?”

“Nosey, intrusive one, aren’t ya?” I counter.

He bobs his head and gives me a simple, “Ok.”

And now it’s gone quiet. I decide to disappear behind my face again for a while. I quite like it there. Maybe one day the whole world will join me. (Obscure movie reference, don’t bother.)

“Does she have a name?” he breaks into my sinking mood.

“What- Why?”

“Well, Seemon, because every story worth tellin about people generally has a name or two in it. Unless yer feelin all avant-garde while you're busy behind your face, contemplatin. Things.”

Ok, now I’m starting to get tired of his persistence. “I like to think of her as She Who Shall Not Be Named.”

“Like Voldemort. In a nighty.”

The bark of a laugh just erupts out of me before I can stop it from encouraging him. “That is the most disturbing image I’ve ever had.” My dull ache of a mood evaporates as quickly as it came, uninvited and unwelcome on this trip.

“You’re off the hook for now, but if I see you again, I’ll want to hear more about Ms. She Who Shall Not Be Named.”

And just like that, I’m annoyed again. “No.”

“Ok,” he says again.

-----/-/-----

While apparently spending more time behind my face, I realize I’ve ignored over 45 minutes of the view in a foreign country. Again I’m annoyed. Isn’t he supposed to be narrating the countryside, or something? Giuseppe would be narrating the countryside. I frickin paid for that narration.

“So what am I looking at?” I lob at him.

“Naples.”

“Funny.” I hope he can hear my eyes rolling.

“Hold up, I’m not finished yet! That great U-shape, right, that’s the Bay of Naples. The city herself is over there in the distance, all the way at the far end of the bay. All the wee towns strung out and all bunched up against the sea as tight as can be sketch out the shape of the bay and on along to the Sorrentine Peninsula -- where we’re goin. The big blue bit beyond the bay-”

“Is the Mediterranean. Yeah, I got that much.”

“Nah, mate. You don’t. See, it’s the Tyrrhenian Sea, which is just the part of the Mediterranean between the boot of Italy and Spain.”

“Thanks so much for the oceanography lesson.”

“Bit tetchy, aren’t yeh?” he says, eyeing me in the rearview mirror. “Look, mate. I’m sorry if I rubbed ye up the wrong way with makin conversation. I’m just not used to fillin in on the delivery service. That’s a specific kind of hospitality. Mine might be a bit more suited to conversatin across a bar. In that situation, all of this would have been charmin.”

I can see him smiling at me in the rearview, trying to reset the mood.

“So you’re a bartender, not a driver. But you do work at the hotel. Right? Or…”

“Yeah sure’n I fill in at the bar when I’m needed.” He clarifies, “Acourse it’s just that the season’s barely started, and some of the summer staff are still not yet back from wherever they’re livin the rest of the year.”

“So you’re not a ba-”

“Aaaaand, here we are,” he declares, pulling off the road going way too fast into what appears to be open air. But when I don’t feel us driving off a cliff, I open my eyes to see an ornate iron gate, a tile roof, a million flowering bushes, and more than one fountain.

“Allow me to be the first to welcome yeh to the Hotel Terrazze di Limoni. I’ll just fetch your bags, shall I?”

-----/-/-----

Masterlist | ao3 | Start here! | Next

Photos: 1. Billy Delaney, via @vousnavezrienvu 2. Simon Lewis, 3. Leaving Naples behind for Sorrento, 4. Looking back toward Naples, with Sorrento in the foreground, 5. Robbie as Simon. Anybody know the gif source?

That can’t be good. “On the roof?”

That can’t be good. “On the roof?”

“Or maybe I do not speak it well. He is on the floor of his room, on the floor next to his room. He sleeps there. Maybe he drops his key in the sea? Or the window?”

“He’s asleep on the floor?”

“Si.”

“But not in his room?”

She shakes her head. So do I. What now, Seemon.

Haven’t laid eyes on him in a coupla days. Hoped he’d be doin better.

She looks very serious now. “And I do not like to see the other girls also seeing him when they go to clean. You speak English to him and you are tell him to go to his room for the sleep.”

That’s really very sweet -- she doesn’t want to embarrass him. “I do not like them seeing him like that, either, Rosalina. Thank you. You are very kind.”

“Kind?”

“You have a beautiful heart,” I say, tapping my chest. No use listing everything else beautiful about her. “And your English is improving.” She smiles, and twists away so I can’t see her blushing. Why do women do that? When are they more lovely?

She’s a coworker, Billy, she’s a coworker. I already regret my feckin principles.

She shoos me toward the stairs to the top floor, and all but flees down the hallway when I aim a smile her way. She’s sweet.

-----/-/-----

Even before I top the stairs, I can already hear him snoring.

Actually, that sounds more like choking…

Aw, mate, this isn’t good. He snores until his head lolls too far to the side, then he chokes, making his head roll back against the wall, where he starts up with the snoring again. Jesus Christ, has he been choking like this all night?

He’s sat there, propped up next to the door to his suite. The closer I get, the more I smell fumes. It’s sickly sweet, and oof, he’s got sticky-looking drool migrating in a slow stream from his mouth down the side of his chin.

The label on the half-empty bottle says Limoncello. “Aw, mate. The pain you’re about to feel is a unique suffering.” I hate to get in his face to wake him up. Something tells me Simon’ll be mortified, but there’s nothin for it.

The hall is dim with the storm shutters bolted tight from the inside. Maybe if I shed some light on the situation… Result!

Simon choke-snorts, then groans as he attempts to shift away from the source of light. So the – oof, they stick – shutters at the far end of the hall are open. Result again.

He mumble-whines. “Mmmfm mmmmbnnnaway.” Then there’s groaning, as if the sound of his own voice is too offensive to bear. Then growling and groaning. Until I finally hear some English I recognize. “Ow? Owwwwwwww. Nooooooo. Make it ugly again. n’Go away.”

“Make it ugly?”

“Dark. Too pretty. Hate it.” Followed by whimpering.

“How can something be too pretty?” I mumble under my breath.

“Just can.” Then he tries to roll his head toward the sound of my voice and fails. “Owwwwww?”

Probably needs a hand up. Leaning down, I can see his pulse pounding in his temple. I’d take the pain away if I could, mate. I would if I could. “Let’s get ye to bed, get ye down for a kip, mate. It’ll make you feel better, promise.”

“s’Too pretty in there. Don’t want pretty. You’re too pretty, go’way.”

I can’t help snorting.

“Said go’way.”

“Sorry, mate. Not happenin. Anyway, I can shutter the windows in there to keep it dark. The bed’ll be more comfortable for yeh to sleep it off than this floor, at any rate.”

“Don’t wanna be comfortable.”

Hm. “Here, man. Take my arm. We’ll get you sorted.”

“Go’way!” he shouts, then clutches his head and whimpers. “n’Stop being so nice. s’Disgusting. Don’like it. Don’like you. Go’way.”

“Yer lucky I’m pretendin to be hard of hearin, or I’d go ahead and leave ye here. Now take my arm and-”

“Stop it!” He tries slapping my hands away. And misses.

Shaking my head. Just shaking my head.

“Can do it myself,” he demands. But no, he really can’t. He gives standing a go, and all he manages is a high pitched sob.

“Aw, mate. Go on, lemme help yeh.”

Apparently there is a threshold of stupidity with Simon Lewis, thank Christ. He holds out his arm.

But before he takes my hand, he squints up at me. “Never speak of this,” he says with deadly seriousness. “Never happened.”

As I shutter the windows and draw the curtains, he shuffles into bed, fully clothed. “Gross. Why am I sticky?”

“Aw, man. Ye don’t want to be sleepin in those clothes. I promise yeh, mate. You get your kit off, and I’ll fetch you a wet cloth.” I hold up my hand to stop the inevitable complaints and refusals. “Enough whingeing, man, just do it.”

I come back from the bathroom to find a pile of clothes on the floor, and Simon snoring away with the sheet stuck to his face. It would be endearing if he wasn’t such a feckin pain in my arse.

-----/-/-----

Simon’s been silently staring out the window for 45 minutes. But not out the window with the gorgeous view. He’s staring at the rock cliff face blurring past too fast to see much of anything.

I want to reassure him that everything will be alright. But it’s not my place, and he’s not for hearin it, anyway.

And what if it isn’t alright.

I try to just leave it be, but I can’t help myself. “You alright man?”

“Why.”

“You’re usually a lot gobbier than this. I’m worried about yeh.”

“Italy was a bad idea.”

“Italy is never a bad idea.”

“Says the man not living my life.”

He’s got me there. “Ok.”

As I’m pulling his bags out the boot, I feel like I can’t leave it like this. I don’t know why. It’s just unsettling seeing someone in pain like this, and not bein able to help. I wasn’t lyin -- I’m worried about him.

“Thanks, Beelee,” he says, holding out his hand.

We shake, and before I give him his hand back, I find myself saying, “Text me in 6 months and let me know you’re alive, yeah?”

He huffs out a breath and looks at me. After a moment he shifts uncomfortably, and finally says, “Yeah.”

I’ve no idea why I feel so relieved. “What’s yer number, I’ll text yeh so you’ve got mine.” Shocked be fuckin I when he gives it to me.

“Thanks, Billy. You’re a good guy. Appreciate you.” And then he’s gone.

——-/-/——-

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