chapter forty-one.

Val

Most of the flights back home were booked, so I end up settling for a later one. I spend a listless number of hours in the airport, ordering coffee and tacos and more coffee and trying to console myself. A part of me wants to believe Simon, wants to trust all the good parts of him that I know exist. The other, bigger part of me is—frustrated. That's the only way I can think to describe the scathed feeling inside of me, like a wire that's been split open. He lied all these years, and I forgave him, and then he does it again. Who else do I have to blame but myself? I trusted him, after all. I did.

I'm on my third cup of coffee when Jo finally picks up. I called her as soon as I left the hotel, but she must have been at work, because it went straight to voicemail. All I've been thinking about since I found out why Simon really brought me here are worst-case scenarios. What if whoever's looking for him and Larry come after Jo and Charlie, too? If Simon's in danger, I'm in danger, which means Jo and Charlie are in danger, too. Not that Simon, obviously, cared to consider that.

"Jesus Christ! Look who finally decided to call," Jo answers, her voice so loud that it sounds sort of staticky. "I was beginning to think that boy had kidnapped you and left you in a ditch somewhere."

"He did."

"J—what?"

"An emotional ditch."

Jo pauses.When she speaks next, her voice is both quieter and less intense. "That is a very dramatic way to put it, which I don't appreciate, but please tell me what happened."

I thank the barista for my latte and turn to head back down the terminal. Another plane must have just landed, for a sea of people suddenly come flooding down the terminal hall, the rumble of their suitcases against the tiles like a low warble of thunder. I step to the side, out of their way. "Simon's connected to some...not so great people," I explain, unable to think of any better way to put it. "Turns out he took me out of town just to get me away from them."

Jo seems confused. "And he didn't tell you?"

"No. He lied about it. Showboated around like it was some nice, romantic trip he wanted to take me on, when in reality he was holding me hostage," I say. It's a brutal way of putting it, but it's the truth, is it not? "Not to mention he didn't warn you and Charlie, either."

"Bastard," Jo agrees. "But still, who—who would be after him? You said he's an English major, right? I just can't see a book nerd involved in a drug ring."

"It's not that," I say, taking a seat at my gate. The sun has started to set, the sky beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows a vibrant pinkish-purple, stars beginning to pepper in between the clouds. "Look, there's something I should have told you a long time ago. About Simon. And I'm sorry I kept it from you, but it's sort of a big deal."

"What are you talking about?"

"So I'm going to explain now," I tell her. "I'm going to explain everything."

And I do.

At first it's hard to say anything, but soon enough, it all comes tumbling out. I tell her that Simon's a shapeshifter, that he was born that way and hasn't been able to change it ever since. I tell her that, though I technically met the most real, honest version of him a few months ago, we've known each other since the sixth grade. I tell her about Larry and how Simon described him as dangerous, how he's the likely reason people are looking for Simon. I tell her absolutely everything, because I'm afraid I'll burst from the inside out if I don't.

Jo is silent for a moment, an awful moment where I'm worried, really, that she doesn't believe me.

But then she says: "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay, Val. I believe you. I'm sorry he did all this to you. Just—come home," she says, and I don't know why, but it almost sounds like she's near tears. "Please come home."

I glance at the clock. One more hour until my scheduled flight.

I tell Jo, "I'm on my way."

When I finally shuffle back in to the townhouse, dragging my suitcase behind me, Jo is waiting. I hear the hiss of the stove in the kitchen, the scents of cheese and basil and oregano filling my nostrils. Even before she appears from behind a pocket of steam, I already know what she's making.

"Fettucine alfredo?" I ask, though I already know. "You made my favorite."

Jo doesn't say anything. She just reaches behind her, switches the stove off, then crosses the room and pulls me tightly into her arms. For a second, I'm stunned, but soon I settle into it, wrapping my arms around her and burying my face in her chest and staying there until it feels like I can breathe again. Everything I was holding in at the airport, on the flight, even on the drive home, comes tumbling out of me so fast, I can hardly stand.

Jo strokes my hair with her hand, back and forth, back and forth. "I'm sorry," she keeps saying. "I'm sorry."

My voice is muffled against the sweatshirt she's wearing. "What are you sorry for?"

"That I couldn't protect you."

I shake my head. "That isn't your responsibility."

"No," she agrees, letting me go, "but it's a choice I've made."

I want to tell her not to worry about me. I want her to focus soon Charlie, on her job, on her own hopes and dreams. Jo has too much on her plate, too much ahead of her, to worry about me.

But it's a choice I've made.

I know Jo, however. I know she doesn't go back on a decision, not once her mind is made.

She gestures to the dining table, flicking on the overhead light fixture. "Sit. How much do you want?"

"A lot," I say. "Get one of the big plates from the top shelf."

Jo laughs. "That's my girl."

I leave my stuff by the stairs, and we sit and eat pasta while the night drones on outside. It's nice, for a while. I don't have to think about Simon or his cousin or anything else; I can forget the defeated look on his face as I shut the hotel room door; I can ignore the reluctant pit of worry sitting in the bottom of my stomach.

Jo doesn't ask any more questions, either. She tells me how well her new job at the local bank is going, how Charlie's settling in to school here and making a lot of new friends, how Mom and Dad called the other day and they want to talk to me when I get the chance. It's normal. It's usual. It's like it was before...before everything.

We're soon interrupted, however, by the chime of the doorbell.

I freeze up a little. What if whoever Simon was running away from is still here, and they've found us? What if—

Jo nods at me. "It's okay," she says, but she's frowning, her eyebrows knitted, every one of her muscles tense. I see her eyes flit to the hall closet, where we keep a baseball bat and a stun gun. "Maybe it's just a delivery?"

I certainly didn't order anything, and I don't think Jo did either, but just because she told me to, I get up from the table and open the door.

It takes me a second to recognize him because of the black eye—the immaculate blond hair and slim, freckle-dusted nose, the brown eyes like a golden version of Simon's.

Noah says, "Hear me out—"

I slam the door in his face.

Jo stands up, alarmed. "Who was it?"

"No one important."

"Okay, that's mean," calls Noah from the other side of the door, causing both Jo and me to abruptly turn in its direction. "Look, Val, can you just open the door, please? I know you don't want to talk to Simon, but I'm not Simon. Would you please talk to me?"

"I barely know you!" I yell at the door. "What the hell are you going to say, anyway, that Simon hasn't already?"

There's a grunt of frustration from somewhere outside, and then a moment of silence that lasts long enough to make me think he's gone. I turn back to finish my pasta, which is growing colder by the second.

"I'm the one who told him to go, Val," says Noah, now. "I'm the one who made him go and take you with him. He didn't want to; he wanted to stay, but I made him. So if you want to blame someone, blame me."

I pause.

It doesn't change the fact that Simon lied. It doesn't change the fact he left the rest of my family in harm's way. But it does, somehow, make me feel slightly better about the circumstances. It wasn't his idea. He was forced.

I glance back at Jo, who rolls her eyes.

When I open the door, Noah lets out an audible breath of relief.

"You have five minutes to tell me everything, and I mean everything. About Larry and who's after him and whatever the hell you two did to make it all clear," I say. Noah blinks at me. "Don't look at me like that. You'd better start talking."