chapter thirty-one.

Val

To be honest, I have a really terrible habit of setting myself up in the most awkward situations.

It's a little past nine o'clock, way past normal operating hours for the Gazette's tiny floor of the Clubs Building. I would be home, maybe watching a Disney movie with Charlie while Jo heat up leftovers for the three of us, but thanks to the revelation that Silas Wade and Larry St. John—Simon's questionably-aligned cousin—are the same person, I'm here instead. Following a difficult explanation (okay, so it was a lie, just a whole lot of lies) to Rita and the others about why I can't cover the story of the missing professor, I was assigned a brief movie review instead. The deadline, of course, was still tomorrow.

None of this would be so bad—switching stories on a whim, working late—if it weren't for the other person still in the office, working late on his story, too. Caz, too, came here to do some last minute research for his editorial. The most he said when he came in and saw me stationed at my desk was a quiet, "Oh," before he took his stuff and vanished into the conference room.

Oh.

In another life, maybe, it would have been him. If I'd never learned the truth about Simon, maybe, it would have been him. I want so badly to tell him it's not his fault, but I'm not so sure he would listen.

Now, the only thing reminding me of Caz's presence is the yellow light bleeding from the conference room window, from underneath its door. I exhale, working out the final paragraph to my review, trying to refocus my wild mind.

My eyelids are beginning to droop when the cell phone in my pocket rings, loud enough to startle me. Calming myself, I glance at the caller ID, and hit answer. "Jo? You're still up?"

"I could ask you the same," says my sister from the other line, sounding mildly irritated. "Where are you? Why aren't you home? Are you with—"

"No, Jo, he's out with his older brother tonight. Brotherly bonding, he said, though he was grimacing."

"I see," Jo says. "Then—?"

"I'm at the office. I had to switch stories last minute so I've been working all afternoon," I explain, and I pray to God she'll stop asking there, because I don't want to have to replay the crappy story I made up for Rita. I'm not even sure I remember the entire thing. "I'm almost done. I'll be back real soon."

Jo pauses, and for a moment I think that'll be it, she'll say Fine, see you when you get home, and hang up the phone. But that, I realize, would be wishful thinking. "Any particular reason you couldn't stick with your original story?" Jo demands, and though she can't see it, I pinch the bridge of my nose, worried. "Did something happen?"

"It's a long story, Jo."

"I always love a long story."

"Well, I—" For a second, I start to tell her the same lie. The same lie I told Caz and Rita and anyone else who asked. The same lie I'd told myself, originally, when I hadn't believed Simon or anyone like him could exist.

My words falter. I've lied enough.

"Val?" Jo's voice is softer, like she knows, almost.

"When I get home," I say, "I think there's something I should tell you. It's about Simon."

"Simon? What does this have to do with Simon?"

Everything, and nothing. "You'll understand," I tell her, typing a final sentence into the word document in front of me, and starting to pack up. "You'll see soon enough. I'm headed home now, okay?"

Jo sounds wary, but whatever else she wants to say, she swallows it. "Okay," my sister says. "Be safe!"

I slip out of the office without Caz noticing, heading down to the front door. My mind's all over the place, here and there and everywhere. I'm thinking I should maybe talk to Simon first, before I reveal his entire life's secret, his entire family's secret. I'm also thinking that it's alright, he would understand; he trusted me with his secret because he knew I'd do him no harm. Finally, I'm thinking of the worst of scenarios: he'll be angry with me. He'll leave me, just like everyone else.

As I step out into the night, frigid and bitter on my skin, the cool wind nipping like blades at my cheeks, a voice calls out to me: "Val! Valerie! Val!"

I jolt as a man—pale, heavy-set, dressed in a thin flannel and a pair of dusty jeans—jogs across the street in my direction. A shiver goes down my spine at the sound of my name from a stranger's mouth; I wonder, for a horrible moment, if it's someone Larry knows. Not what, he'd said. Who.

The man slows to a stop a few inches from me, closer than I'm comfortable with. "I thought I'd find you here," he says. "How's the movie review going?"

I take a hesitant step back. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

The man's face floods with realization. He turns his head, showing me the caterpillar-shaped birthmark upon his ear. "It's Simon," he says. "Sorry. I forgot."

I blink. My heartbeat slows. Relief. That's what it is. Relief. "Simon? Why—"

He takes my wrist, gazing at me deeply with odd emerald eyes I don't recognize. "Do you have a minute?" Simon asks in a stranger's voice. "I have a surprise for you."

He leads me back to his parked car across the street. Shuts and locks the doors, rolls the windows all the way up. I'm not sure what it is, but I sense a strange, frazzled sort of energy from him. Almost like something's wrong.

Simon clicks his teeth. "Ah. I'm gonna, uh, change back into myself. You should close your eyes. It's kind of weird to watch."

I don't doubt that. Not one bit. "Okay," I say, doing as he says.

"Open them in 3, 2, 1," Simon tells me, and though I can't see him, I hear his voice changing, becoming softer, less gravelly, and slightly higher in pitch as he counts. "Now."

My eyes flutter open; Simon sits before me, brown eyes black in the darkness, red hair delightfully messy. I just want to run my hands through it, watch the strands slip through my fingers, tell him how beautiful he is. It takes all my strength not to.

Instead, I touch his face gently with the backs of my knuckles. "There's the Simon I know."

He chuckles, turning his head, pressing his lips to my palm. "Hello again," he says, his voice low—husky, almost. His eyes flit up to mine again, and he grins. "Okay. Now, the surprise."

I inhale the inky smell of the car, of him, of the air. Like lofty dreams and cautious words and surreptitious smiles. I don't think there's anything that can surprise more than he has. He chose me. All these years, he chose me. There's nothing more surprising than that.

I watch as Simon rustles around in his coat pockets. The sweater and coat he's wearing are a little big on him, likely thanks to the size of the body he was in before now. He looks younger, here. Like the flustered teenagers we were a few years ago. I only wish I'd known sooner. We are a lot now. We could have been so much more.

"Here they are," Simon says, and I have only a few moments to question what they are before he thrusts two pieces of paper into my hands.

I squint down at them; Simon flicks on the overhead lights.

I squint some more before I realize what it is, and then I look up at him, stunned. "Plane tickets?" I say. I'm barely able to get the words out. "And to—to Florida, of all places? Simon, I don't—"

"I wanted to surprise you. I wanted to take you somewhere."

"Uh, sure, but in the middle of the semester? Simon, I have class."

Silently, he plucks the tickets from me, setting them on the dash. He takes my hands again, beckoning my gaze to his. The boyish smile on his face is so wide, so genuine, so warm, that I almost feel bad for wanting to say no. "Forget class," he tells me. "There will be many more in the future. Just take these few days with me, Val. Picture it. You, me, the ocean. It'll be like we have the whole world to ourselves. It's just—all these years, I really screwed up. I want to fix it. You'll let me fix it, won't you?"

"But my sister and—"

"It's just three days. They'll be fine, Val. I promise."

I blink at him, almost waiting for him to say he's joking. Looking at him, though, at the wonder trapped within his eyes, at the hopeful lift to his lips, I don't even know why the thought would cross my mind.

I exhale, leaning my forward against his. He sighs and my voice falls to a whisper. "You're not going to let me say no, are you?"

"I really, really hope you don't. Because these are non-refundable."

"Simon."

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! It was super last-minute," he says. He kisses my nose, so gently I scarcely feel it but for the faintest shiver. "Well?"

"I need to go home," I say, and get the slightest kick out of seeing him momentarily deflate, "to pack a few things."

He brightens again, leaning back far enough to see my face. "Yeah. Yeah! We can do that. I'll take you. I'll take you right now."

"You dork," I say, flicking him in the head as he starts the sedan's engine. "I better not regret this."

Sure enough, when Simon pulls up in front of the townhouse, Jo's left the porch light on. I climb the stoop, glancing back at Simon, who gives me a thumbs up from the driver's seat.

He's crazy. He's absolutely crazy, but I'm so in love with him. That has to make me crazier.

I glance at my watch, wincing; it's closer to ten o'clock now. Jo must be pacing, worried out of her mind. Dammit, Simon. Dammit.

I'm not even entirely through the door before Jo bum-rushes me, jumping up from her perch on the living room couch and taking both my hands. She peers at my face, my neck, examines all of me with a brisk, observing gaze. "Are you okay? Did you get kidnapped? Raped? Murdered?"

"I don't believe I'd be here if I'd gotten killed, now would I?" I say, and Jo sighs sheepishly. "I promise, I'm fine. Sorry to make you wait up. It's just—"

"It's just?"

I hesitate, though I'm not sure why I do. Jo just stares at me, her eyes gold-flecked underneath the foyer's vintage light fixture. The house smells like pizza again. They must have ordered delivery. "Simon's outside," I tell her. "He caught me on my way out of the office, and, well, he's surprising me with a trip."

"A trip?" snaps Jo, stepping back a little. "But it's the middle of November. You guys have classes still, don't you?"

"He's insisting. And the plane leaves in about four hours, so I guess I'd better get moving."

Jo isn't saying much, and nor does she need to. I can see it all in the way she's looking at me: the frown on her face, the slight knit to her eyebrows, the way she subconsciously nibbles at the nail of her index finger. She doesn't like this. I know she doesn't like this. "You guys have a thing for doing random stuff way too late at night," she says, raising her eyebrows at me, "don't you?"

"Guess so."

Jo looks at me. "Do you trust him?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to go?"

"More than anything."

She nods, then steps aside, gesturing up the stairs. "Then God knows I can't stop you. You'd better pack fast, girl."

Excitement beginning to bubble up within me, I start for the staircase, a renewed pep in my step as I do. I'm halfway to the second floor when I hear: "Wait, Val?"

I pivot. Jo's standing at the base of the stairs, both her hands on her ample hips. "You said you were going to tell me something when you got home," she says. Of course. I'd nearly forgotten. "What was it?"

It could be my hurry to get out of here, to run off with Simon. It could be the fear that he'd get angry with me if I said anything. It could be the thought that maybe she's better off if she doesn't know, right now.

I'm not exactly sure what the reason is, but I lie.

"Oh. It was nothing," I tell her. "Nothing important."