Within/Without

chapter twenty-two.

Simon   

Larry's ruffling through Val's and my leftover palmiers, taking one for himself and licking the cinnamon sugar off his fingers. He smells like motor oil and smoke, and worse, he won't get out of my car.

    I'm driving, though I don't know where to. I just need something to distract me, to take my mind off the fact that Val knows now and she's disgusted by me, just like everyone else. I grip the steering wheel tighter, tuning in to the low rumble of wheels against asphalt and the click of my turn signals, trying to ignore the pit in my stomach, the pain in my chest. She won't ever talk to me again. Why would she?

    "Fucking hell," mutters Larry, suddenly. "Pull over."

    "What?"

    "You deaf? I said pull over. Stop this car."

    The nearest stopping place is a vacant gas station, lit up by buzzing white lights. I take a sharp turn into it and park beside the "free air" tank.

    Larry reaches over and yanks the key from the ignition. He's his usual self: fifty-one years old, graying hair pulled back into a greasy bun at the nape of his neck, the same old sweatshirt he's worn since I was a kid. To think I was afraid of him. Afraid of this.

    "I can't stand it," Larry snaps. "You over here, looking all depressed and shit, like someone stole your last cookie. What is it? Something to do with that girl?"

    That girl. "Her name is Val."

    Larry's face freezes with realization, his eyes going round. "Oh. That Val?"

    So he's heard about her. Most people in the family have, by now. Val and I have run into each other enough that the stories have slowly diffused around. I shouldn't be surprised that they reached Larry, too.

    Larry sits back in his seat, laughing a bitter laugh. "I wasn't sure you were still going on with that. What made her walk out on you this time?"

    I close my eyes. "I told her the truth."

    Larry is silent for long enough that I think—or hope, truly—that he's gone. When I open my eyes again, however, he's just staring at me blankly, like none of this is making sense.

    "You're kidding," Larry says, and when I shake my head, he laughs again. "Well, no wonder she stormed off! She'd have to be crazy to stick around after hearing something psycho like that—"

    "Is it psycho?" I say, folding my hands in my lap, examining them. All the times these hands have held hers, whether they were mine or someone else's. Was it crazy, really? To think she could have grown to love me—in one form or another? "Is it so crazy to hope, just one of these days, it would work out?"

    Larry rolls his eyes. "Let me tell you something, squirt—"

    "It's Simon."

    He rolls his eyes again. "Let me tell you something, Simon. Love and all that? It's not made for people like us. People are too used to one face and one face only. You can't love someone who looks like a different person every day. Would you?"

    "I—"

    "Don't waste your time chasing after things you can't have," Larry says, finishing off another one of the pastries. "This whole shapeshifting thing? It is good for something. Making lots of money without a lot of work. That's what."

    "Fraud, you mean," I say, looking away from him. I watch a familiar duct-taped sedan roll over to one of the gas pumps, a slight flower of relief blooming in my chest. "Robbery. Swindling. All that crap you taught me as a kid."

    "Don't give me that," Larry says, prodding me in the chest with his finger. "Look, kid. We were born cheaters. That's just how it is. No one's gonna trust us. We can't act like they will."

    I smack his hand away. "I'm not like you. I've built a life for myself, despite all of this."

    Something in Larry's face tightens, his eyebrows knitting. "You're not like me? That's rich. You know how you feel right now? Like you're disgusting, like no one wants you? Like you should just go shut yourself up underground somewhere, because it's not like anyone will care, anyway?"

    "Larry—"

    "That's how I feel all the goddamn time in this family. You're just like me. Which is why the only thing we've got now is each other—"

    The car's rear door opens and shuts again.

    "And me," Noah says, leaning over the console. He grins at the horrified look on Larry's face. "He's got me, too."

    Larry's gaze shifts from my older brother to me, betrayal written all over his face. "You called this idiot?"

    "Texted him when you weren't looking," I say. "Ever since he heard you were back on the grid again, he's been waiting to get a piece of you."

    "You can take your petty crimes and go, Larry," Noah says, taking the last palmier from the bag and taking a hearty bite out of it. He says around the food: "We won't be needing them. Or you."

    Larry grits his teeth, and then his hand is knotted in my shirt collar, his grip so viselike I can barely move. Noah jolts to attention, but Larry shoves him away.

    "One of these days," Larry hisses at me, alcohol and sugar on his breath, "you'll need my help. So I'll just wait until then. I'll just wait until you come begging."

    "Larry," I start, but he's already let me go. He slams the car door shut as he leaves, leaving my heart thrumming in my chest.

    Noah cackles gleefully and skids over the console, taking his rightful place in the passenger seat. He's wearing sweatpants and an old T-shirt, with no jacket. He really must have rushed over here.

    Eyeing me warily, he asks, "Rough night?"

    I sink lower in my seat. "You have no idea."