chapter fifty.

Val

I don't sleep. Noah gingerly carries Simon back down to his bedroom, careful of the ribs that broke and the shoulder that dislocated during his last episode, and I stay there at Simon's bedside, holding his hand though he can't hold it back. I sit there and watch his face and I wait for him to wake up. I talk to him. I read to him. I sing him a terribly off-pitch version of "Hey Jude." Noah comes in and tells me I should go to sleep; he can watch Simon, for a while. I shake my head no, and when Noah gently takes my arm and tries to pull me away, I shove him off of me.

"I'm staying," I say. "He told me not to let him go so I'm staying right here till he wakes up."

Noah frowns at me. I turn back to face Simon, and a moment later I hear the bedroom door shut.

At some point I look up and notice the sun rising above the trees at the edge of the St. John property, the sky a gentle pink, then a fervent blue. The door opens again, this time with more force. Noah stands in the door frame, clothed in a fresh T-shirt and pair of sweatpants, his hair dark and wet like he just showered. I don't know how he does it. How can he remember to care for himself at a time like this? I can't even fathom it. So much of me feels...numb.

"Valerie Love," Noah says, narrowing his eyes at me. "You're coming downstairs and you're eating the breakfast Rose made for us."

"I—"

"Simon will be okay for half an hour," Noah insists, casting a glance at Simon's unconscious form. "I know my brother. He's a fighter."

He's a fighter.

I hope so.

"Val," Noah says. I look up at him wearily. "Please eat something. As soon as Larry gets back with the antidote, you know, everything will work itself out."

"We don't know that. Larry said it himself. We could still lose him."

"Maybe," Noah admits, leaning on the jamb, "but that doesn't mean you have to lose yourself, too. So, how goes it? There's eggs, pancakes, grits, whatever the hell you want. Rose's cooking is heavenly. Come along, princess. Your feast awaits."

I roll my eyes, but let him lead me from Simon's dark bedroom and down the stairs. The smell hits me as soon as we're in the foyer: maple syrup, sweet batter, freshly squeezed tangerine and grapefruit juices. Something still sizzles in the kitchen; Noah and I walk into the dining room and Mrs. St. John immediately looks up with a smile. "Oh, good job, Noah, you found her!"

Noah shrugs. "Not even Val is immune to my overwhelming magnetism."

Abbie scoffs and pokes at one of the tongs on her fork. "You mean your overwhelming arrogance?"

Noah softly flicks her on the temple, settling into the seat beside her and motioning me over. My mind isn't here, exactly. It's still back in Simon's room, eyeing the small furrow between his brow, monitoring the breath as it leaves his lips. It's saying silent prayers that whatever Larry's cure is, it works. It's wondering and wishing and watching. That is where my mind is.

It's not here, surrounded by Simon's family—his mother and father in front of me, his siblings beside me. Everyone, I realize, looks as world-weary as I feel. Mrs. St. John's thinning dirty-blond hair escapes from the bun tied at the base of her neck, hanging in a few loose, wiry strands around her fine-lined face. Mr. St. John's dark eyes seem airy and aloof, like he's not exactly on this plane. Abbie's face is dry and red, but her eyes are fierce, like she's trying hard to look like she's okay when, in fact, none of us are.

If anyone, Noah is the most okay of all of us, but even I notice the way he keeps scratching at his wrist, his gaze never staying in one spot for more than a few seconds.

The dining room doors swing open; Rose enters, bearing edible gifts. She, too, looks troubled, but she smiles nonetheless as Noah jumps up to help her set out the food. Noah was right; it's certainly a feast. There's a platter of pancakes, surrounded by smaller tins of chocolate chips, maple syrup, fresh strawberries, and thinly sliced bananas. A bowl of hard-boiled eggs sits between Simon's parents and me. There's toasted bread and bagels and muffins beside an entire assortment of jams, creams, and jellies—some of which I haven't even heard of. As I sit here, watching the St. Johns pass around large dishes of scrambled eggs and potatoes and oatmeal, I wonder how any of this even makes sense.

Take away the worn look in their faces, and they look like a happy, wealthy American family. One could never guess the secret they all held, the strange shapeshifting propensity that had showed up in a more distant family member first, and then their very own son. One could never guess the turmoil this family had gone through all their lives.

But that's the point, isn't it?

Rose leaves to go give a plate to Great Granny Etta—who apparently keeps to herself in the guest room, most of the time—and the room soon fills with the clinking of silverware and glass.

Mrs. St. John offers me the pitcher of orange juice; I take it gratefully. "Thanks for being here, Val," she says, quietly. "I think it's—I think it's really good for Simon to have your support right now."

I sigh, placing a pancake on my plate. My support isn't going to save his life. My support isn't going to wake him up. My support isn't going to take us back, back before his body started destroying itself, back before I realized that if I lost him I'd have no idea what to do anymore. "I wouldn't be anywhere else, Mrs. St. John."

"Please, call me Mary," she corrects, and I jolt a little. "We're practically family, after all."

Mr. St. John seems to snap back to the present, wherever he was before. He nods his agreement. "I'm sure you know by now, but Simon has cared for you for a long time, Val. That boy..." He pauses, laughing quietly. "Well, I guess you could say he's always been persistent."

"Aren't you creeped out?" Abbie asks.

"Abbie!" Noah says, his fork clinking as he drops it to the table. Hank and Mary regard their daughter sharply, but if Abbie notices, she ignores them without care.

"I mean," Abbie goes on, leaning past her oldest brother to look at me, "I would be creeped out if all these guys I thought were different people were actually all the same person."

"Abbie," Hank warns.

"What?" she shrugs, and in that shrug I see Noah's nonchalant attitude, Simon's careless curiosity. A pang reverberates in my chest, seeing a bit of Simon's personality in his sister's. If he goes, that will be all she has left of him. "I'm just trying to look from a different perspective."

"Yeah," Noah begins, "but that doesn't—"

"I was creeped out at first," I answer, and a hush falls over the table. Noah slumps his face into his hand, while Abbie and their parents just blink at me. "I was so creeped out that I walked away from him. I was content, in fact, with that being the end of it. But I realized my mistake."

Abbie rests her chin in her palm, her eyes alight. God. They're just like Simon's. A milky brown, like a morning cup of coffee. "Which was?"

"You can't run away from fate," I say.

"Fate?" Abbie repeats. "You think it's—it's fate that you met Simon?"

Noah and Hank and Mary have all stopped trying to shut her up, and that's when it dawns on me that this is the question they have all been tiptoeing around. I understand. They've spent their whole lives watching Simon with a wary eye, wanting to encourage him to go after what he wants, but also having already convinced themselves that the likelihood of him reaching those normal milestones is low for someone like him. And now, here I am, ready to dance in those flames with him, ready to give it all away.

Is it that they don't trust me? Do they not understand why I'm here?

"I don't know if it's fate," I say, taking a slow sip from my glass, "but at some point I think it's foolish to keep considering it a coincidence."

"But he's...a shapeshifter," says Simon's father. "He isn't like a normal person. He has issues most of us will never have to face. He faces questions most of us will never have to ask. How do you put up with all of it?"

"I listen," I say. "And I learn. Just like you all had to."

Abbie, content, eases back in her seat. "I like her. Val, you have my blessing."

"Your blessing?" Noah asks, before I can. "For what?"

Abbie smirks. "Their marriage, of course."

I choke a little on my orange juice, nearly spilling it on myself. Hank turns a bright shade of red, but Mary, directly across from me, is just smiling gingerly. I'm not sure whether I like it or not—talking about this, talking about Simon's future like we're positive he has one beyond today. In one respect it's a good thing to be so positive. In the other, what use is it to lie to ourselves?

When the uproar Abbie caused has died down, Mary reaches across the table, brushing my hand with her own. I look into her eyes, those St. John eyes, pensive and all-knowing, and somehow I can sense it. The hours she spent dragging a younger Simon to a million different doctors. The money she spent on research and strange alternative remedies. The nights she spent rocking his nightmares away. This woman loves her son, no matter what skin he's in.

It's the most comforted I've felt since Simon shook himself to a cold sleep last night.

"Valerie?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you," says Mary. "Thank you for giving Simon hope, all these years."

I don't know what to say. I don't know what she wants me to say. All I can think is that it has to be enough. If I really gave him all this hope, over the years, it has to be enough to keep him alive right now.

I'm still trying to figure out what the right response to this is—You're welcome just doesn't feel right—when I'm saved by the bell. A low chime rings throughout the house, followed by a few knocks. Hank and Noah both jump to their feet almost automatically.

"Is that Larry?" Hank demands, a dangerous edge to his voice.

"Yeah, Dad. Unless you were expecting other visitors?" Noah replies, holding his father's gaze.

"I just—" Hank sighs. "I don't trust that man. Especially not with the lives of my children."

"No dip. But he's our only shot right now, and he's been doing a hell of a lot more than any of us have."

"Noah Gideon," Mary warns, but Hank waves her off.

He gives his son one last appraising look, eyebrows risen, then shakes his head. "Go."

Noah nods, then turns and looks at me. A silent exchange is made as I get up to follow him to the front door. This happens here. This happens now.

By the time he throws the front doors open, Noah is out of breath. "Larry!" he exclaims, smiling at the man in front of us. Larry somehow seems more exhausted now than he looked before. I didn't think the gray skin under his eyes could get any grayer. "Not a second too late. Simon spazzed again last night; he broke three ribs and dislocated a shoulder and he hasn't woken up since."

Larry winces. "That kid..." Concern floods his face for a moment, but he wipes it away, rummaging in his pocket before producing a small vial of brownish liquid. If I'm being honest, it looks a lot more like sewer water than a cure-all.

Larry presses the vial into Noah's hand. "Give this to him. If he's still asleep, just open his mouth and pour it down his throat."

I peer over Noah's shoulder at the vial. It's unlabeled, unmarked. All of Larry's freedom, gone, and for this tiny, two-ounce bottle? "And then what?"

"Then you wait," Larry says. "Then you wait and see."

Noah swallows, nodding his head. His nose and cheeks have turned a bright pink from the cold, his shoulders shuddering a little. He rolls his hand into a fist around the vial. "Thank you, Larry. Thank you for doing this."

Larry pauses, then nods slowly. He glances back at the black SUV sitting in the driveway, parked in front of Noah's rust bucket. "I have to go. Good luck, okay? And like I said. Tell Simon I said goodbye."

He starts to turn away, then reconsiders, taking notice of the slight shiver of Noah's shoulders. As Larry laughs, his breath plumes in front of him in a small cloud; he unwraps his scarf from around his neck and wraps it around Noah's instead.

Noah blinks at him in silence.

"Take care of him for me," Larry says, patting Noah's head. "Both of you."

He disappears behind the tinted windows of the SUV, and then he's gone, and I don't realize until the car is out of sight that it very well might be the last time I ever speak to him.

Noah lifts the scarf to his nose, and drops it with a grimace.

"What?" I say.

"It smells like old mustard."

"Whatever," I scoff, turning to head back into the house. My heart beats with a renewed rhythm. "Let's go. Simon's waiting for us."