Chapter 13: The Party
Monday.
Simon found Meg at her locker before first period, which had become the established rhythm of their mornings — five minutes of actual conversation before the day fragmented them into separate schedules.
"Chuck's birthday thing is tonight," he said. "Come with me?"
"Obviously." She closed her locker. "What time?"
"I'll pick you up at seven. It's at his place — he lives with his sister over near the park."
"Dress code?"
"It's Chuck Bartowski's birthday party in his backyard. I'd say smart casual and leave the heels at home."
Meg considered this. "Noted."
The bell rang and they went their separate ways.
Lunch found the usual configuration — Simon and Meg, Veronica and Wallace, one table in the sun because the good indoor spots filled up in the first four minutes and none of them were the type to sprint for a table.
"Heard you've been picking up cases," Simon said to Veronica, settling into his seat. "The lockers thing, the plagiarism accusation. Word gets around."
Veronica Mars, amateur private investigator, Neptune High's most functional social outcast, looked up from her food with the measured expression she used when she wasn't sure if a compliment was just a compliment. "I've been busy."
"It's good work." Simon meant it. "If things get complicated — someone pushes back harder than you expect — say the word."
"Wallace and I can handle it."
"I know you can." Simon let it sit. "Offer stands anyway."
Veronica went back to her salad. Simon let the topic close.
Wallace, who had developed an instinct for redirecting conversations before they fossilized, leaned forward. "Hey — you guys hear about the North Hollywood job? The armored truck?"
"Hard to miss," Simon said.
It had been the lead story for three days running. Armored truck robbery, broad daylight, professional execution, a police pursuit that had somehow ended with a black SUV vanishing into thin air. LAPD was describing it as the cleanest getaway they'd seen in a decade, which was the kind of compliment law enforcement gave when they had nothing else to offer.
Veronica's interest sharpened visibly. It was the topic that did that to her — anything with moving parts, anything that didn't add up cleanly. "The driver is what's interesting," she said. "Whoever it was threaded through a pursuit that had six units involved and at least one air asset on the way. That's not luck. That's someone who knows exactly how pursuit protocols work."
She looked at Simon. "You know anything about that?"
Simon chewed his food thoughtfully. "Not really my area."
"You know every serious driver in this city."
"I know the racing scene," he said. "That's different from knowing who pulls jobs."
"Is it?"
"It usually is." He set down his fork. "Look — whoever did this, my honest read is it wasn't local. The people in LA with that level of skill behind the wheel, I know most of them. Dom. A couple of other guys on the circuit. They're not interested in this kind of work. Too much exposure, wrong risk profile."
"You included yourself in that list," Wallace said.
"Someone had to."
Wallace looked at Meg. Meg looked at her food with great concentration. Wallace looked back at Simon. "Wait — you're serious?"
"When am I not?"
"I just — I mean—" Wallace gestured vaguely at Simon's general existence. "You look like you're in eleventh grade."
"I am in eleventh grade."
"And you're on the list of LA's best drivers."
"Twelfth grade," Veronica said, without looking up. "He's a senior. And yes, he is. He's been racing since he was fifteen. Undefeated on the quarter-mile circuit."
Wallace sat back. "Okay. Okay, that's — yeah. Okay."
"Anyway," Simon said, "my point is — someone brought in outside talent. Someone who wasn't on LAPD's radar, didn't have local ties, was clean enough to walk away."
Veronica studied him. The look she used when she was deciding whether the explanation she'd been given was the whole explanation.
"Maybe," she said finally. "Or someone local is better at covering their tracks than you're giving them credit for."
She started gathering her things.
"Either way," she said, "not my case. I've got enough on my plate." She looked at Simon one more time — that flat, reading look — then stood and left. Wallace gave Simon a quick I'll catch up with you later gesture and followed.
The table was quieter.
Meg waited until they were out of earshot.
"Simon." Her voice was even. Careful. "Was it you?"
He looked at her.
She was watching him with the specific expression she used when she already had an idea of the answer and was deciding how much she wanted to confirm it.
"You don't have anything to worry about," he said.
"That's not what I asked."
"Meg—"
"I know." She exhaled. "I know. You're not going to tell me. And I'm probably not going to push it." She looked at her food for a moment. "Just — be careful. Whatever you're doing. Be careful."
Simon put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her in slightly.
She let him.
Neither of them said anything else.
After school, Simon ran his four hours at the Buy More — another relentless afternoon that left his voice rough and his commission figures looking healthy — clocked out just after seven, drove home, changed into slacks and a button-down, and picked up Meg at seven thirty.
She was waiting on her porch in a sundress and flats, hair down, looking like she'd put in exactly the right amount of effort.
"Smart casual," she said.
"Nailed it."
She got in the car.
Chuck's place was a ground-floor apartment attached to a shared courtyard — the kind of Burbank residential complex built in the seventies that had held its value through sheer inertia and good bones. String lights had been run across the courtyard. A folding table held food and a store-bought cake. Maybe thirty people were scattered across the space in the easy clusters of people who mostly knew each other.
Simon spotted Ellie Bartowski near the entrance, managing the arrival of guests with the cheerful efficiency of someone who had taken on the organizational load of the evening without being asked and was doing it well.
She saw Simon and stopped.
"Simon Lewis," she said. "Simon Lewis." She looked at him with the wide-eyed recalibration of someone matching a memory to a current reality. "You got — you're so—" She caught herself. "How long has it been?"
"Few years," Simon said. "You look exactly the same."
"You absolutely do not." She laughed and pulled him into a brief hug. "Chuck said you were working at the Buy More with him. I didn't believe it."
"Believe it." Simon stepped back and gestured. "This is Meg. My girlfriend."
Meg extended her hand. "Ellie. I've heard nice things."
"Oh, she's lovely," Ellie said, the way people said it when they meant it. She took Meg's hand warmly. "Come in, come in — there's food, there's drinks, Chuck will be out in a minute—" She gestured toward a tall, broad-shouldered man nearby. "Devon, come meet Simon."
Devon — Ellie's boyfriend, who Simon already knew from memory was a doctor and whose physical presence suggested someone who had rowed crew through medical school — crossed the courtyard and shook Simon's hand with the specific enthusiasm of someone who was genuinely happy meeting new people.
"Simon! The Buy More guy? Chuck talks about you."
"Good things, hopefully."
"Mostly confusion," Devon said cheerfully, "which for Chuck is basically the same thing."
He shook Meg's hand. "Devon. Great to meet you."
They fell into easy conversation for a few minutes — the comfortable small talk of people meeting for the first time who have enough mutual context to skip the hardest part. Ellie eventually excused herself to check on something in the kitchen and Devon drifted back toward a group of people near the drinks table.
"She was looking at you weird," Meg said quietly, once they were alone.
"Ellie and Mia had a falling out," Simon said. "Years ago. Seeing me reminds her of it. She's not sure how to feel about that, so she feels several things at once and tries not to show it."
"Did you cause the falling out?"
"No. But I was adjacent to it."
Meg absorbed this. "Neptune rules. Everything's connected to something else."
"Welcome to my life," Simon said. "Come on — I haven't eaten since two o'clock."
They loaded plates and found a spot near the string lights, and for a while the evening was exactly what it was supposed to be — uncomplicated, warm, the particular pleasure of a backyard party where nobody was performing.
Simon was halfway through his second helping when Meg touched his arm.
"Your friend," she said quietly, nodding toward the far side of the courtyard.
Simon looked.
Chuck was standing alone near the fence, slightly apart from the nearest cluster of guests, holding a cup he hadn't touched in a while. He was talking — quietly, to himself, or to no one, lips moving in the way of someone running through something in their head that they couldn't quite resolve.
Simon watched him for a moment.
"Bad memories," Simon said. "This time of year probably hits him harder than usual. His birthday's close to when everything fell apart at Stanford."
"Are you going to go talk to him?"
Simon considered it honestly. "I'm not good at that kind of conversation. And me showing up to comfort him about something connected to Mia is only going to make it more complicated, not less." He watched Chuck for another second. "What he needs is time and people who know him well. Morgan's here somewhere. Ellie's here. They're better equipped for this than I am."
Meg leaned slightly into his shoulder. "That's surprisingly self-aware."
"I have moments."
She squeezed his arm. "Go say happy birthday at least."
"Later. Let him have a minute."
They stayed where they were, ate, talked to Devon about his hospital rotation when he circled back, accepted a brief and slightly chaotic introduction to Morgan — who turned out to be exactly as advertised, enthusiastic and scattered and genuinely warm underneath it — and eventually gathered near the table with everyone else when Ellie brought out the cake.
Chuck reappeared for the candles. He looked steadier by then — whatever he'd been working through in the corner, he'd gotten to a place he could function from. He caught Simon's eye across the table and gave him a short nod.
Simon raised his cup.
The cake was decent. The company was good.
By nine thirty, Simon and Meg had said their goodbyes — Chuck, then Ellie, then Devon who insisted they come back for a dinner sometime with enough sincerity that it seemed like he'd actually follow up on it — and walked back through the courtyard to the car.
Meg laced her fingers through Simon's as they walked.
"Good night," she said.
"Yeah," Simon agreed. "It was."
He meant it.
Which, given everything else currently circling the edges of his life, was something he didn't take for granted.
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