Within/Without

chapter twenty-four.

Val

The house is quiet, the night outside even quieter. To make sure I don't wake Charlie or Jo, I avoid turning on the lights or making too much noise, moving cautiously through the dark. Keys jingle as I drag them from the rack; the doorknob clicks as I turn it. It's one in the morning, or close to it. If he's there, I'll know it's for real.

I've barely opened the door when a light flicks on behind me.

I turn.

My sister stands at the mouth of the foyer, still dressed in her pajamas (an old T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants), her newly-adjusted eyes still squinted against the dark. Though her expression's slightly clouded from sleep, I can still read the concern within it, poignant and honest.

She doesn't ask, and nor does she need to. She just says: "Are you sure this is the right choice?"

Are you sure this is the right choice?

God, are we ever sure about anything? Or are we just sure enough to risk it?

"I don't know," I answer truthfully, nudging the front door shut again as goosebumps rise on the back of my neck. Jo frowns at me, arms folded across her ample chest. "I don't know, but I just sort of get the feeling that...that maybe he needs me, somehow."

Jo sighs. I haven't told her about Simon's...abilities. I just told her something went wrong, that he lied to me, that all the trust I put in him and in us was misplaced. And she's looking at me now like I've forgotten all of that.

"He might not be there," she says. "What if he's not?"

"Then," I say, "I move on."

Jo closes her eyes a moment. I watch, and I wait. I'm going whether or not she approves, but one answer from her would make me feel marginally better than the other.

Jo's eyes open. "Okay," she says. "Just be safe."

As I head out, unlocking the car, I realize I'm not sure if she means on my trip or with my heart.

The twenty-four hour diner's as empty as it should be at this hour: only Kimmy, an old couple, and another college student that's fast asleep are in there besides me. The bell dings above my head as I enter, and I search around, hoping for a head of red hair, for the whisk of a pen against paper, but there's nothing.

I will give him time. More so, I will give myself time.

I take the same booth I always do, third one down, right beside the window. I sit and listen to the 80s synth-pop song play overhead, a careful undertone beneath the blares of car horns outside, the slight hissing of the grill in the kitchen, the tap-tap-tapping of Kimmy's fingernails against her phone as she sends a text. I am alone in this oil-scented, brightly-lit place, and though I told myself I would move on, there's so much hope swelling in my lungs that I feel like I'm drowning.

Be scared together.

All these years, he's found me; I've found him. That has to mean something. I want it to mean something.

Kimmy finally sets her phone down and comes over to take my order; I get black coffee. Waffles, because I'm snackish. Kimmy brings the food out, and he's still not here. I eat one waffle, and he's still not here. I eat both waffles, and he's still not here. The elderly couple gets up to leave.

I realize I've wasted my time.

I leave a ten dollar bill on the counter, shouting to Kimmy that she can keep the change. She wishes me a good night, and I step out of the diner again, swiping at a tear I'd barely noticed had fallen. I move on. I move on. I move on. I repeat it to myself until it feels real, until I'm sure I understand what it means. What's not mine to have is not mine to have.

I look up when I hear the jingle of a key ring as it's spun around someone's finger. A jolt, like lightning, shoots through me. It's him. It's the gingery hair curling behind his ears, the freckles dotted across his nose, the scattered pen marks on his fingers. It's the birthmark, shaped like a caterpillar, glinting upon his ear. It's him, he's here, it's him.

I clear my throat; his eyes meet mine.

"Simon?"

He stares at me, just stares, for a second. "I'm sorry; I didn't think—I'll just—"

He pivots to turn in the other direction, but I jump forward, gripping his wrist. A shudder goes through him; I feel it beneath my palm. "No, Simon," I say. "I don't want you to go."

He turns, however slowly. The wind on my face is cold but I scarcely feel it because Simon is here and his wrist in my hand provides all the warmth in the world. "I thought...you said you wanted me to stay away from you. I just don't want to make you upset."

"Upset?" I say, releasing him. The only reason I do so is because he seems so uncomfortable, so put off. Is it so impossible that I could have made a mistake, that night? "The only thing that will make me upset is if you walk away from me right now. Simon, I—I said all those things because I was just really freaked out, okay? I was just scared, and I know that now. I still am a little freaked out, and I have a lot of questions, but there are a few things that I do know, and that's—"

"Val—"

"It's that I like you, Simon," I tell him. He stiffens, almost like the words hurt him. "I like you, this you, the you that writes poems in a little leather journal and goes to bakeries late at night and wants to try all the different sushis in the world just because he can. I like you, Simon, and I get the feeling that I'd still like you, whatever you looked like, whatever form you were in."

Simon blinks, slowly. In the night, his eyes are dark, fathomless, even more so as he looks at me like I'm not making any sense, none at all. I watch his face: the little knit between his eyebrows, the frown forming at his lips. He's confused. I'm the one that's chasing after a guy with more than one body, and yet he's the one that's confused.

"I don't understand," he says, finally.

"I don't, either. Not exactly. But I know that I have fun when I'm with you," I tell him. "I don't want that to go away."

When he exhales, his breath clouds in front of him. He touches my cheek, gently, with the back of his hand. "I don't want that to go away either, Val," he tells me. "I'd like to stay. Stay with you. But only if...are you sure about this?"

The same question Jo had asked me, fired back at me again. Are you sure about this? Like it's strange, and he knows it, and as much as he wants to chase this—whatever it might be—he doesn't want to put me through something I'm not ready for.

Maybe I'm not ready for it, even.

"No," I tell him, and his expression dips towards disappointment for a moment. "I'm not sure, but I'm at least sure enough to try."

Simon pauses.

Then he laughs.

It's the best noise I've heard all day.

"Crazy as always," he says with a chuckle, and gestures in the direction of the parking lot. "Do you want to get out of here?"

"With you?" I say. "I'd go anywhere."