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.

Val's eyes scan the bottles as I lay them out. "So, do you think it's genetic?"

Cocktail glasses clink as I set them down. "The whole shapeshifting thing?" I glimpse her, and she nods. "No idea. My parents seem to think so, but that would have to mean one of them passed it down to me, somehow. And considering my cousin's also a shapeshifter, that would mean it came from one of our grandparents. None of my grandparents can shapeshift, far as I know."

"Okay, weird," Val agrees. "If it's not genetic, then how the hell did it happen?"

I shrug dramatically. "That's the big question," I tell her, popping the cork off the Vodka with my thumb. The scent of alcohol stings my nostrils. "Some sort of mutation, maybe. Who knows. Doesn't matter how I got here, really, because that's just the way it is."

She pauses a moment, her eyebrows still furrowed, a frown on her face. She's thinking, the gears turning within that beautiful mind of hers. I've seen this look multiple times before, usually before she makes a big break on a story. I suppose I'm one of the craziest investigations she's ever seen.

"I'm sorry," she says, gnawing at her lip. "I just—you know. I just have so many questions."

I pause my cocktail-making, looking her in the eye—one brown, one blue. "Val," I tell her, "I have been waiting for the day I could answer all those questions."

She blinks. "You don't mind?"

"Not one bit. It's a relief, actually. To not have to hide anything, anymore."

"Good," says Val with renewed enthusiasm. She runs a hand through her locs, brushing them from her face. "So let me get the crazy stuff out of the way first."

I chuckle, tipping the apple schnapps into the drink mixer. "Shoot."

"Can you change into animals?"

"No."

"Inanimate objects?"

"No."

"So just people?"

"Men, specifically. I can't change myself into a girl."

"So if I could shapeshift," Val starts, frowning again, "would I only be able to change into members of my own sex?"

"Probably."

"That's very limited," Val grumbles, and before I can respond to such a statement, she's already moved on. "How about this. Does it hurt?"

Drink mixer in hand, I pause, remembering the backseat of the car when I was five years old, how my parents looked at me in horror, like I was possessed. "Not when I'm in control of it."

"In control...?"

"If I get stressed or upset, or if I'm really, really, really sick," I say, giving the mixer one more hearty shake before tipping it upside down, "I can lose control of my shapeshifting. I won't be able to stay in one skin for more than a few seconds. Imagine—a glitchy computer, or a scratched DVD. It looks something like that."

Val shudders visibly, and I don't blame her. "That sounds...awful."

"It's not fun."

I finish off our cocktails with some green olives poked through with a toothpick, and hand off one to Val, who's quiet for long enough that I figure she must have run out of questions to ask.

Taking a brief sip from my glass, I ask, "Have I told you everything you want to know?"

She thinks about it for a moment, then looks up at me from above the rim of her cocktail. Her eyes are wide and hypnotic, drawing me into their depths. She shakes her head. "One more."

"I'm all ears."

"How long?" She asks, only she's not frowning, this time. Instead, there's a strange, poignant look on her face, an odd mix of hope and sorrow I don't think I've ever seen before. "How long have we...known each other?"

I questioned for a long time when I was younger if soulmates even existed, or if the idea of a soulmate was just something made up by lonely people to give themselves hope. Then I met Val, and met her again after that, and again, and again. Now, in a life where nothing else makes much sense, what other explanation could there be?

I set my cocktail down. "Ten years," I tell her. "It's been ten years that I've waited for you, Valerie Love."

And there, as I watch, something within her breaks.

"Simon," she starts, but I shush her, already knowing what she's going to say.

"Don't apologize, okay?" I tell her, daring to bring my hand closer to hers, to brush her knuckles with the pads of my fingers. "Maybe there's a reason. A reason it had to be this long. All I know is, for you, I'd wait a million years more."

She closes her eyes as a tear slips down her cheek, and a jolt goes through me, wondering if I screwed up already, if I said the wrong thing. "Shit," I mutter, reaching for her. "Val? Did I—"

She catches my hands in her own, resting them against her face. Her eyes rise to meet mine, and she smiles, ear-to-ear, a full display of joy. "No, Simon. I'm just happy. I'm just so, so happy, I don't know what to do."

"How about you let me make you another drink?"

She laughs and leans closer, close enough that our noses brush. "Are you trying to get me drunk, St. John?"

"No," I whisper to her. "Though I'm sure it would be terribly entertaining—"

The apartment door bangs open, and Val and I jump away from each other, searching frantically for the source of interruption. None other than Noah stands at the front door, keys still in his hand, hair ruffled, and looking extremely confused.

"Ginger Snap?" he says, then squints. "And...holy shit, it's Val."

"Noah! You're home early!" I say, laughing uncomfortably. "And you're sober!"

"Unfortunately," he grumbles, then blinks at the two of us again, as if still trying to piece together the entire picture. "Did I...interrupt something here?"

"No!" says Val, at the same time that I say, "Yes!"

Val and I make eye contact for a moment. Noah's still standing by the open door. I'm sorry, I mouth at her.

She shrugs lightheartedly, though there seems to be a hint of disappointment in her face as she gets to her feet. "I'd hate to overstay my welcome. It's late, so I'll head out."

Noah opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off. "I'll drive you home, then," I say, following Val as she heads for the door.

Noah's still looking at the two of us like he's somehow arrived in an alternate universe. Val heads out the door, and I brush past him, catching momentarily at his sleeve.

"Noah?" I whisper at him. "You have terrible timing."