Within/Without

chapter forty-six.

Val

It's been half an hour since Noah bailed Simon out of the police's custody, twenty minutes since Noah dragged him to the car and I realized how—how tired Simon looked, fifteen minutes since we stopped on the side of the road, watching Simon's whole body shake furiously as he switched from skin to skin, none of us able to do much other than pray.

    The original plan was to take Simon back to his apartment; I'd talk to him there, I thought, I'd apologize and tell him I was overreacting and then maybe we could start over. Larry, however, sees a massive Denny's sign looming above the freeway and orders Noah to stop the car.

    Considering it's barely past six o'clock in the morning, I'm surprised when we enter the dilapidated, grease-scented breakfast joint and it's fairly populated. And it's not the pleasant sort of surprise.

    Simon notices the amount of people and immediately shrinks. I want to reach out and take his hand and lace our fingers together. Half to convince him that everything's going to be fine. Half to convince myself.

    But something stops me. Something keeps stopping me.

     A random Rockabilly-esque song plays over the speakers as Noah peruses the menu and the rest of us pretend to peruse the menu. Noah gets black coffee and eggs Benedict. Larry orders a chocolate pancake stack. I get waffles (Simon gives me a weird look) and Simon gets nothing until Noah makes him drink coffee, at least.

    The food isn't here yet, but God, it couldn't come any slower. As long as I've been thinking it over, rehearsing it all in my head, I still have no idea what to say to Simon. Doubly so now, after what I just watched. I knew what was going on, didn't I? I knew. And I didn't say anything.

    The window beside me presents a fogged view of the city outside; when I press my hand against it, it's cold enough to make me jolt. I close my eyes, listen to the whir of Noah's spoon as he stirs cream into his coffee, the hiss of something cooking back in the kitchen, the warble of voices around the diner. I want to look at Simon, but I don't. I want to talk to Simon, but I don't. More than anything I want one of us, any of us, to say something—but I don't want it to be me.

    "You know," announces Noah, suddenly, his voice singsongy, "I believe the last time I was in a Denny's I was hungover—"

    "Shut up," Larry says, and jumps up from the table. All three of us look at him, concerned, but he just gestures silently for the door. "Noah? Valerie? Can we talk?"

    I stand, carefully. I don't want to go outside, partially because it's absolutely abysmal outside, partially because I'm not sure I want to leave Simon alone yet. "Simon?" I say, and I realize it's the first time we've spoken to each other since the Hotel Room Incident but I don't want to think about it. "Are you gonna be okay—?"

    He waves me off, slumping his head into his hands. His voice sounds hollow, a synthetic copy of the one I know, a remake of Simon St. John's voice that mimics it well enough but lacks any true emotion. "I'm okay," he says, and when he says it again, I know he's not even really talking to us. "I'm okay."

    Noah and I exchange a questioning look, but by then Larry's bulky form has already disappeared out the restaurant's front exit.

    We stand in somewhat of a huddle underneath the awning, trying to avoid the slow trails of sleet falling from the grayish-black clouds. Noah flips his collar up like a vampire, until Larry notices and scowls at him, flipping it back down again.

    Noah starts, "But my neck is col—"

    Larry unravels his scarf and tosses is at his cousin. Then he folds his arms, leaning against the wall beside the door. For the past hour or so, I've been looking at this older, scruffier relative of Simon's, trying to pick out any resemblance—however, I've yet to find anything. Simon's narrow, fair-skinned, with a long nose and round eyes and of course, that irreplaceable galaxy of burgundy freckles. Larry's face, though, is freckleless. Sunkissed. Lines splinter from the edges of his eyes and mouth like he's been frowning the entire forty or so years he's been alive. Larry's shoulders are broad and his stomach protrudes a bit noticeably from underneath his shirt and his hair is thick and wavy and yellow-gray.