Within/Without

chapter twenty-eight.

Val

Simon and I get back in the car and he drives. Just drives, God knows where, for God knows how long, foot steady on the accelerator and hands steady on the wheel. I look at him, keep hoping he'll look over at me, give me something—a side glance, a tap on my hand, a noise, something—but he doesn't. He's quiet. He's still. The most movement I see in his face is a minute twitch of his eyebrow.

Until, finally, I grow sick of it.

"Stop the car."

My words draw a reaction from him at last; he jolts. "What?"

"Stop the car, Simon. I need to talk to you. I need—we need to talk."

He looks at me like I'm crazy, but nevertheless lets out a heavy exhale and takes the next right, the tires skidding into the parking lot of a Hardee's. I'm not sure what it is about us and fast food places, but we always seem to end up somewhere close to some greasy, dollar menu joint.

Simon pulls the key from the ignition, and as the engine dies, he sits back in his seat and just looks at me. His eyes are blank, his face blank. I can't tell what he's thinking. I need to know what he's thinking. "'We need to talk?'" he repeats. "Is that any way to start a conversation?"

"I didn't know what else to say," I tell him, deciding to ignore the underlying attitude I sensed in his words. "You were so quiet. What are you thinking about?"

I can still hear the oil drip, drip, dripping somewhere beneath us. Simon cocks his head as if he can hear it, too. "I don't know," he answers, his voice low, gruff. "I am thinking...that I'm worried, I think. Not only is Larry back to bother the hell out of me, but he's bringing other danger with him. That's what I'm thinking. I'm worried."

"He's a con artist. There's no guarantee whoever it is will find him."

Simon holds my gaze. "There's no guarantee they won't find him, either."

There's something in his expression, something I don't like. I lean back against the door, folding my legs underneath me, just watching him. There's sweat at the edge of his hairline and hanging in the strings of his fiery red hair, his eyes downcast, profile outlined in the harsh light of the streetlights. "Simon?" I prompt. He looks up, if only a little. "What are you saying?"

"Maybe we should...wait. On this. On us. Just until I sort everything out with Larry?"

I stare at him. Wait for him to process it himself, wait for him to backpedal, wait for him to say no, no, that's dumb, I didn't mean that.

When he doesn't, I scoff, climbing out of the car. I don't leave, merely step out upon the asphalt and breathe in the crisp, icicle-like air, needing anything, anything at all, to bring me back to my senses. He's kidding. He must be kidding.

I hear a car door open, and shut. I look up, and Simon's across from me, leaning over the car's roof. "Val? Val, you understand why—"

"Why you'd suggest that? Yes, I do. It's the same reason you lied to me all these years, isn't it?" I say, and watch Simon shut his mouth in surprise. "You want to protect me; you think you're protecting me. But what you're really doing is keeping me away, aren't you? Holding me at arm's length, just like everyone else—"

Simon's face flashes with hurt, his eyes lit like candles underneath the streetlight. "Val."

"What is it? Do you think I'm not smart enough to understand all of your...all of your crazy shapeshifting business? Do you think I'm not strong enough? Am I too boring? Too normal for you? Too—"

"Valerie!" Simon snaps. He hides his face behind his hand, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Enough. Please, enough. You've got it all wrong. You've got me all wrong."

The air smells like gasoline and alcohol. My nose wrinkles as I say, "Correct me, then, oh Enlightened One."

He rolls his eyes, which I pretend not to notice, and approaches me, stepping around the car to reach me. He takes my hands, and though I don't want to give him the satisfaction, my hands are freezing and his are warm, almost as if they're always ready to change their shape.

"I do want to protect you. With every fiber of my being, I do. But that's not the main reason I lied. It's not the main reason I'm so afraid."

I try to find my voice. It's much lower, much softer, than it was a few moments ago. "Then what is it, Simon?"

"I love you, Valerie," Simon says, bringing his forehead to mine, ordering me to look no further than his eyes, his beautiful, mesmerizing eyes. My heart seizes and the night is quiet again. "I have loved you, I love you now, I'll love you for as long as I'm alive. Maybe after that. Who knows. But it's...it's because I loved you that I didn't let you get too close. I was scared, okay? I was just really scared."

I was just really scared.

It's then that I realize Charlie's just like her mother. Perceptive. Wise. And more often right about the important things than wrong.

I blink at him, our foreheads still pressed together, breaths mingling. I realize there are tears in his eyes, and I'd do anything to make them go away. "Simon," I say. "Are you sure?"

He nods. "I'm so sure that it hurts, Val."

"Why?"

"Everything."

"That's not an answer."

"But it is," he whispers. "But it is."

I touch his cheek, and he smiles at me. "No amount of Larry's could ever make me run away from you, you know. I'm not that much of a coward."

He laughs, if only a little. "Somehow I knew you'd say that. Matter of fact, I was counting on it."

"Then next time, save your breath, idiot," I say, and we share a look, a brief exchange of his eyes on my lips and my eyes on his—the kind of look only two people who are about to kiss each other can give.

He tells me: "Val, I'm sorry."

And he means for everything. For all the years he kept his secret from me. For all the years he hid from me. For all the years we could have been something more, if only one of us had taken the step to bridge the gap. He tells me he's sorry, and then he kisses me.

Except this time it's different. At the bakery that night, his lips were sweet—cinnamon, coffee, sugar. That night, his hands were hesitant, as if still exploring a novel field. Our bodies wavered to fill the space between them.

This kiss, however, is fervent, passionate, impactful; I feel it with every nerve in my body, I feel him. His hands gently tug on my hair and curve around my waist, drawing me closer to him. My own hands find their way beneath his sweater, over his chest, down his back. Our mouths slide towards and away from each other, tongues sliding over tongues, the taste of him like mint and tea. I want him, as he is. Not all the identities he tries on, but this one, this Simon, the one truth behind all the lies. I'm so sure that it hurts.

So sure that it hurts.

I think I sort of understand what he meant by that.

We break away, however reluctantly. Simon tips my chin up with his finger, grinning down at me like he's discovered the rarest gem in the world. And I feel like it, too. "Are you okay?" he asks. "You have a...a look on your face."

I frown a little. "I'm just trying to figure out what I'm supposed to tell my editor," I say. "'Hey, by the way, the reason that professor went missing is because he literally put on a different face'?"

"About that," Simon says, leaning in to whisper in my ear: "Some stories are better left untold."