“It’s inconvenient, sure; annoying, absolutely. In practice, though, it’s just—so I don’t get a lot of sleep here or there, what’s the difference?”

“Did you go back to Goa yet?”

“No, I did not. I haven’t had a migraine for weeks, seriously. Haven’t had time.”

“Right, because you’ve been too busy driving yourself to distraction.”

“I’ve been working, and this is what I’ve been working on. An actual job, just like the old days. Freaking finally.”

Mom opened her mouth to refute me, but right at that same moment—behind us—Clark bounced extra-high, gave a whoop, then stumbled against the front window, ankle turning; he started to buckle, skull angled toward the glass. Luckily, however, Simon was there to catch him as he came down, fast enough he didn’t get exactly how close he might’ve come to disaster. “Whoa, doggy!” Simon exclaimed, and Clark laughed maniacally, hugging on tight.

“Clifford is SO big!” he sang-yelled in return. “The Big Red Dog, wooof!”

I looked back at Mom, who sighed before gathering up her purse and coat.

“You have a job already, Lois,” is all she said as she turned to go.

“Am I being an asshole?” I asked Simon that night, snuggled up in bed together—a rarer occurrence than I liked these days, as my insomnia usually kept me up well past his latest. “To her? To Clark?” This close, I could almost see his face clearly, even without my glasses. “To you?”

Simon shrugged. “I think you’re in a lot of pain, and that makes it hard to be patient. But I don’t think a four-day trip counts as material for a heartbreaker country song.” He abruptly grinned. “‘My wife, she done left me with an autistic son/He sings on the YouTube while she’s on the run!’”

I snorted. “I’m trying to be serious.”

“This is se-wious,” Simon said promptly, in a toddlerish falsetto lisp. Then he yelped as I ran my hands up under his armpits, proving once again how Clark’s helpless ticklishness didn’t come from me; I stopped after a moment, to let him get his breath, and he rolled onto his side to face me. “You want serious, hon? You’ve looked happier these last few days than I’ve seen you in months, which I think is worth a few headaches.”

“Mom doesn’t think so.”

“She’s just worried about you. ’Cause that’s her job.”

I closed my eyes. “Yeah, that would come off more plausible if she didn’t phrase it to sound as if me taking a research trip means deserting Clark, somehow falling down on my responsibilities to him. Because nothing I want matters anymore, right?”

“Well, nothing either of us wants matters if it conflicts with what Clark needs . . . but I honestly don’t think this does.” He tilted his head. “Besides, and no offence—you don’t really have a record of knowing when to downshift gears for your own sake. Maybe she’s just taking any tactic she thought you might actually listen to.”

I nodded. “Manipulating me, you mean, since I’m genuinely too thick to know when I’m not physically up to something.”

He breathed out in the dark, sharply—that last part must’ve gotten to him, more than usual. “No, that’s not it either. What I mean is, she cares enough about you that she’s never going to give up trying to get you to take better care of yourself. Is that so unforgiveable?”

I sighed. “I just wish she’d get it through her head how important this is, and not just to me. It’s not the money, not even really the fame—I mean, Jesus, it’s the Canadian film industry. I just want to feel like I’ve accomplished something. Like there was some point to being here, in my life.”

Simon’s pause was longer this time, and again I belatedly realized how that might have sounded to him. I wanted to wince, but knew he might feel it as a withdrawal; his eventual response was dryer yet, but nothing worse. “A man with lower self-esteem might take that amiss. Fortunately, I’m protected by an impenetrable bubble of arrogance.”

I felt my face heat. “You know what I mean.”

“As it happens, yes, I do.” He tightened his arms, wrapping us closer, furnace-warm. “Look, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with needing more in your life than just one vocation. Lee’s erring in favour of Clark because she loves him—loves both of you—so much she can’t see that just yet, but she will. And while you might have to put up with some nagging in the meantime, that’s just par for the course between you two.”

Unarguably true, so I let myself relax, much as I could with my shoulder already beginning to whine at me. “I love you,” I told him, without planning to.

“I love you. So does Clark.”

“I hope so.”

Sleepily, but firmly: “I know so.”

I was tired—and smart—enough to know not to say: I’m glad you do. Because much as Simon’s own family, and Simon himself, were evidence for the assertion, I’d never quite bought into the idea that being someone’s parent or child automatically guaranteed their love or yours. Mom hadn’t been able to stand her own mother by the end, as I’d pointed out to her more than once.

Gamma couldn’t stand me, you mean, she’d said. I loved her, always. I couldn’t help it.

That sounds healthy.

Tags: Gemma Files Horror
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