Within/Without

chapter twenty-five.

Simon

The only reason I take her back to Noah's and my apartment is because Noah isn't there. He's out at a bar with a group of his work friends, so I probably won't see him again until he staggers in drunk at five in the morning, swearing and singing and sometimes both at once. I hope Val has left by then, even if I don't precisely want to say goodbye to her yet.

As we climb the stairs—she insisted on taking the stairs, saying it would make her feel better about her general lack of exercise—I still have to keep reminding myself that this isn't, in fact, a dream. A few days ago, Val looked at me, disgust written all over her face, and told me she'd never let me get near her again. Now we're shoulder to shoulder, our voices echoing back at us from the stairwell walls, her hand brushing against and away from mine. It's what I always hoped it would come to: she knows the truth, and she's okay with it.

We reach the apartment, and as I dig around in my pocket for my key, Val says, "I almost thought for a second that you weren't going to come."

I glance at her. "To the diner?"

"Why did you?" she asks then. I look at her again, at the remnants of confusion and concern in her face, like she doesn't have all the answers, and she knows it. "Why did you show up?"

It's not a question that has a precise answer, exactly. A number of factors led me there at that time, including Noah's bar endeavors, the need to avoid Larry, the desire to get out of my own head. As for what led me there at the exact same moment that Val was leaving? God only knows.

"A gut feeling," I tell Val, "and a side of fries."

She grins at me, but rolls her eyes. I open the apartment door.

When it comes to decor, neither Noah nor I know precisely what we're doing. The first room we walk into is a hybrid between a kitchen and a laundry room; our dining table is a slab of wood we found on the side of the road that Noah fixed up and now uses as his workspace for all his strange, techy projects. The washer and dryer are less than half a foot from the fridge, and the whole area also serves as my miniature garden, brimming with potted ferns and bonsai trees.

I flick the light on with my shoulder, taking a breath. It smells like melted plastic in here; Noah must have been welding again.

"My humble abode," I say, half-bowing. Val seems bemused. "Sorry. I would have made Noah put away all his crap if I knew ahead of time."

"Noah?" Val asks, nudging the door shut behind her. She walks forward, casting a lofty look around, brushing one of my ferns with a gentle hand.

"He's my older brother. We've been living together since I started college."

"You mentioned something about a brother," Val recalls. She turns, suddenly, as if faced with a sudden realization. "Is he also—"

I exhale, shaking my head. "No. Just me and my cousin, for some reason."

I watch her eyebrows knit. Before she can ask anything more, I guide her towards the breakfast bar. "Do you want something to drink? I'm an okay mixologist."

Val slides onto a barstool, and I flick on the light fixtures above us. It's weird, but she almost seems at home here, even if I've never brought her here before. It's something about the way she leans so casually over the counter, grinning at me from over her hand. It's something about the way the gold light makes glimmering bronze and ivory out of her brown and white skin, gold-flecked obsidian out of her dark eyes. It's something not even tangible. An aura. A feeling. Like everything might be okay.

"Okay, Mr. Mixologist," she taunts, raising an eyebrow. "Surprise me, then."

I open our designated alcohol cupboard, wherein tequila, brandy, spirits and whatever else are stored in no particular organization. It takes a few brief moments of searching to recover some Vodka and apple schnapps. An apple martini's a good basic; besides, it's the drink I made her late at night after her graduation party, when her parents were asleep.