Within/Without

chapter thirty-three.

Val

It's ten minutes till boarding—the flight attendant has come over the intercom at least three times, groggily advising us to get in line—and Simon still hasn't come back.

    I never would've asked him to find me coffee if I'd known it was going to be a cross-country endeavor; regret leaves a sour taste in my mouth as I hesitantly get to my feet, eyes shifting this way and that way. I hope to see a flash of red hair, a slightly lilted walk, the collar of the worn teal sweater he threw on before we left. But all the faces I see belong to strangers.

    Swallowing, I get up, walking to the edge of the gate.    

    A flight attendant stops me. "We'll be boarding soon, ma'am."

    "I know. But my—uh, boyfriend hasn't come back yet. I'm just gonna go get him and let him know it's time."

    My voice sounds a lot calmer than I feel; nevertheless, the flight attendant gives me a wary, almost piteous look before she nods and turns away.

    As soon as she does, I'm off. I'm not running, but I'm not walking, either. I'm somewhere in the middle, clearly in a hurry and yet trying to act as though I'm not panicking. When I am, in fact, sort of panicking.

    As I rush down the terminal, pass all the empty shops and fenced-off restaurants and people sitting half-asleep on benches, my mind runs through all the worst scenarios. He could have gotten lost. Larry may have found him and taken him away. What if he's dead, somewhere? Bleeding out in a parking deck, cold and all alone—

    I shake my head. I won't...I can't let myself think like that.

    "Simon!" I call, shedding my dignity and peeking into every men's bathroom I pass. "Simon, where'd you go?"

    The airport smells faintly of cleaner and stale food. That is, until I'm one terminal away from our designated one, and the strong aroma of coffee beans and caramel and chocolate fill the air. I see the coffee shop first—well, in reality it's a small coffee counter—mostly empty save for a quiet old man.

    Then I see the two crushed cups on the floor a few feet away, rolling around in a slew of lukewarm brown liquid.

    Whatever relief I'd previously felt vanishes.

    In the nearest bathroom, I find him.

    "Simon?" my voice echoes off the walls, sounding hollow and strange and not like my own. In the mirror, not even my face looks like my own. My eyes are red, bloodshot, my mouth screwed in a frown. Is this what it looks like to care for someone? To care for them so much you ruin yourself over it? "Simon, please. It's Val. If you're in here—"

    "Don't come in," comes Simon's voice, sounding even hollower than mine. It's strange and gritty, like he's been screaming. I pause, turning away from the urinals and instead towards the stalls. Underneath one I can see a pair of polished brown loafers. Simon's favorite pair of shoes.

    "I'll be—" He cuts off with what sounds like a sob of frustration, or pain. "I'll be fine. Just don't come in."

    In one respect, it should feel strange to be loitering around in the opposite sex's bathroom. But as I nudge the stall door open with my foot, as I swallow the gasp of painful surprise that tries to escape from my mouth, I forget where I even am.

    Simon's on the ground, curled around the toilet, head in his hands and knees pulled to his chest. His hair is lank with sweat, and he's shaking: shaking in short, uncontrollable bursts, the jolts severe enough to move him across the floor a few inches.