chapter eighteen.

Val - present day

Simon's car smells like new ink and pine air freshener, which I suppose makes sense when you take a closer look at it. Yellowing pages ripped out from journals, covered in illegible black scribbles, are stuffed in the cupholders, clipped to the visors, shoved down in the back pockets of the seats. A little paper tree with a smiley face drawn on it dangles from the rearview mirror. The coin holder in front of the radio is filled less with coins and more with broken pens and pencils.

Somehow, I get the feeling I could have told this was Simon's car even if he had not led me directly to it.

Once I'm inside, Simon shuts the door for me and tours around to the driver's side. He shuts the door, fastens his seatbelt, and then sits a moment, as if he's waiting for something.

I lean forward a little, trying to see his face in the shadows of the night. The green numbers from the dash clock blink in his eyes: 1:43. "Simon? Everything okay?"

He shakes his head, as if drawing himself back to center. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah. I'm fine."

"Okay," I say, pulling my legs up in my seat, then drumming my hands across my knees. "Where are we off to, then? The suspense is killing me."

Simon reaches to put the key in the ignition, then pauses, glancing sideways at me. The smallest of smirks forms on his face. "How do you feel about pastries?"

"This late at night?"

"It's technically morning."

"Didn't we just eat greasy diner food?" I say, and then sigh. "Oh, forget it. If you can find a bakery open at this hour, so be it. Though I would like to see you try."

"I'll do more than try," Simon announces, his smirk widening. He turns the key, and the engine roars to life underneath us. "I'll succeed."

The city's calm at this hour, believe it or not. Feels less like a city and more like a dream of one, like we're here but we're not, like I could just as well peel my eyes open and wake up in my bedroom, bleary-eyed and warily conscious. The night sky paints everything in vague shades of purple and blue and indigo: buildings, streets, Simon, me.

For a while I let the whir of the tires against asphalt, the faint babble of human voices, the rhythmic switch of the traffic lights from green to yellow to red and then to green again, all lull me to near unconsciousness. Fifteen minutes later, though, Simon parks the car on the curb in front of a squat, burgundy brick building.

As the engine dies, he looks over at me. "You awake?"

"Fairly so."

"Good," he says, then gestures toward the street. "It would be a shame if you fell asleep before we even tasted the cinnamon palmiers."

I glance out at the unassuming building beside us: a faint yellow light glowing from behind a somewhat foggy window, a red-and-white striped awning, a standing chalkboard advertising Today's (or Tonight's) Specials. Then I look back at Simon. "What is this place?"

"Seppe's. It's a bakery, but it's open pretty much twenty-four hours. So now you don't have to wait for the brunching hour to go out and get yourself a croissant," Simon answers, already clambering out of the car. He comes around, opening the door for me. Along with the rush of cold, Boston air, a flurry of warm, bakery scent hits me in the face. Cinnamon. Sugar. Cream. Toasted bread. I'd be lying if I said it isn't heavenly.

Simon locks the car, jogging up to the bakery's front door. He turns a grin towards me, his freckled face beaming, and swings the door open for me like a bellhop. "After you, m'lady."

I flick him on the nose on my way in. "You're a cheese."

"No," he says, following me inside. "I'm a gentleman."

The scent carries me further into the bakery's front, as does the wonder of it all. A glass case displays more pastries than I've ever seen in one place before. Butter croissants and madeleines and macarons and scones and strudels. Banana cakes and lemon cakes and blueberry cakes, fresh loaves of bread. Everywhere I look, there's something to try, and the way both Simon and the cashier behind the counter are looking at me, they know I'm excited.

As a slow, French-sounding song plays gently over the speakers, Simon takes my hand and leads me toward the case. He points to a display of golden elephant ear pastries. "The cinnamon things I mentioned."

"Elephant ears?" I say, and scoff. "You called them what—palmiers? God, you're just trying to make yourself seem cultured, aren't you?"

"No. I just find French things fun to say."

I roll my eyes grandly. "Tu es tres stupide."

Thank you, three years of high school French, for the vaguely bewildered look on Simon's face. He opens his mouth to ask, but I cut him off, telling the cashier I'd like to try some of the cinnamon palmiers (and yes, I say palmiers, just to please Simon) and maybe a macaron or two. Simon agrees, the cashier packs our order up in a cardboard box, and we pay.

I'm about to ask what happens now, if we sit at one of the little marble-designed tables by the window and contemplate life, or go to some other hidden destination to scarf down our loot, when Simon simply says, "Val," and nods his head in the direction of the hallway.

We're the only ones in Seppe's; I follow him silently, thinking at first we've reached nothing but a dead end. We round a corner, however, that reveals a narrow wooden staircase, up which Simon urges me to precede him. The higher up we get, the warmer the air seems to be, and the more I detect the earthy smells of sage and wood. Soon, I reach the top of the staircase, and let out a little breath of surprise.

It's an attic, or at least once was an attic, though it's been transformed into a chic, mini cafe of its own. String lights hang from the rafters, drape over the window. Oriental rugs cover the floors and rest beneath small, round tables. There's a mini bar set up near the window with drip coffee and small mugs and cream and sugar. The same French song satiates the well-warmed air.

"Simon..." I say, as he beckons me to sit down at one of the tables. "Simon, how did you find this place?"

He sets our box between us. "To tell you the truth, I didn't. My brother did. Ever since he moved to Boston he's had this bucket list of places he wants to visit, wants to find. This was just another box to check."

Simon hands me a napkin and a macaron, which I take delicately into my lap. "You sound like you're really close. You and your brother, I mean."

"Yeah," Simon agrees, with a private grin. "I guess you could say that."

"Is he like you?"

Simon tenses, if only slightly. He takes a bite out of one of the palmiers, chewing it so slowly it's almost painful to watch. "In what way?"

"Like, an artist. A poet, a writer. Is he into that stuff too?"

The tension relaxes; God knows where it came from in the first place. "God, no. Noah hates all that idealistic stuff; he's much more pragmatic. Likes math and science and numbers and everything concrete," Simon tells me. I'm trying very hard not to stare at him, but something about the faint gold hue from the fairy lights above our head seems to soften him, to warm the honey brown of his eyes and the vibrant red of his hair. I wonder what a guy like him could possibly see in me.

"In other words," I say, dabbing at my mouth with a napkin, "he likes living in a box?"

Simon smiles at me. "Exactly. But he'd never understand if you told him that."

"Challenge accepted."

Simon grins that quiet little grin again, then sets down the palmier and rakes a hand through his hair. He clears his throat, plucking at the collar of his shirt. "I'm really glad you're here, Val. And glad I'm here. And glad we're here, together."

"You are?" I repeat, folding my hands in my lap, mostly to keep them from shaking. "I am...I am, too. I like you, Simon. It's weird, but you make me feel so comfortable. It's almost like I've known you my whole life."

God. Why did I say that? I'm so stupid. Why did I say that? It must have creeped him the hell out. Shit, I've creeped myself the hell out. God!

If Simon's put off by this, though, he doesn't show it. He just chuckles and says, "Maybe that's how we know it's real."

"What's real?"

"Us. This. Whatever this is."

Whatever this is.

The constant question: what is this, and is it what I need it to be?

I fold the macaron up in the napkin, half because my appetite seems to have dissipated, half to keep my hands busy. "Whatever this is," I repeat, looking at my hands in my lap instead of at Simon, "I'd like...I'd like to chase it."

Simon is silent for long enough that I'm worried I've screwed it up again. I'm almost positive I have.

Then I hear the slight shuffle of his jeans across the carpet, and when I look up again, his eyes are but inches from mine; I am drowning, drowning in honey and everything sweet.

"Simon?"

He lifts his hand, hesitates, lifts it again. "There's a crumb," he says, swiping a gentle thumb across my lip. My whole body shudders.

Simon lowers his hand again, and just stares at me, his eyes flitting from my mouth to my eyes and back again. I think about leaning forward or sitting back or running away. I think about the feel of this thumb on my lip. I think about the gentle, gentle scent of him: like old books, ink, sage. I think and think until I cannot think at all, because by then he's kissed me.

Simon's hand curves around my chin, into my hair, bringing my mouth to his. I fall into him, resting my body in the crook of his, letting the gently sweet taste of his lips—like cinnamon and coffee—lull me to a place I've never been before. I'm trying to remember the last time someone kissed me like this, like I was an oasis long searched for in a brittle desert, but I can't. When Simon knots his hands in my hair, whispers my name between breaths, I realize why. It's because I haven't been kissed like this before.

We break away, both of us slightly out of breath.

I stare at him. He stares at me.

We both laugh in each other's faces, giddy with newfound feeling.

"You didn't really bring me here for pastries did you?" I say, still gripping his hands, not done with the feel of him, still tasting him on my mouth. "You player, you."

"I really did want some pastries," Simon argues, raking a strand of my hair behind my ear. "But I wanted to kiss you more."

Even as Simon leads me back downstairs and out the doors of Seppe's, I'm still as giggly as a child. My heart feels strange, warm; I'm invincible, I'm real, I'm acknowledged. Simon's hand in my own convinces me of that as he holds open the door for me, and we reenter the night.

I'm not ready to leave him, and by the dazed, euphoric look on Simon's face, I can sort of tell the feeling is mutual.

Simon's sedan is a few feet from us, but Simon stops beneath Seppe's awning. Half of his face is lit by the warm light of the midnight bakery, the other half shrouded in the dark. "The night's still young," he says, touching my cheek so softly I could almost have imagined it. "Isn't it?"

I grin up at him. "Young as we want it to be."

Simon mirrors my smile. "Then it's your turn to pick our next destination—"

"Simon! Simon! Simon St. John!"

St. John? I think. Have I heard that name somewhere else?

Both Simon and I jolt as an unfamiliar voice splits through the relative quiet. For a second it's not sure who's calling his name, but then I notice a bearded middle-aged man across the street, waving his hand madly.

When I look back at Simon, he's gone sheet-pale. "The car," he orders, not looking away from the man. His grip on my hand tightens. "We should—the car."

"Simon?" I demand as he steers me in the direction of the sedan, throws the door open, ushers me inside. "Hey. Simon—you gotta tell me what's going on—"

Simon's in the driver's seat, key in the ignition before either of us can even fasten our seatbelts. The man across the street has gone still, just watching, waiting. Who is he, and how the hell does he know Simon, anyway?

More so, why is Simon running away from him?

"I'm sorry, Val," Simon mutters, reaching to turn the key. "But have you come up with that next destination yet? I could really use one—"

I snatch the key from the ignition, closing it in my fist. "Tell me what's going on. Are you in danger?"

"What?" Simon says, sharply enough that it startles me. He shakes his head, trying to grab the key from me. I tear it back from him. "No, Val. No. We're fine. I just—I just think we should go, you know? It's late, anyway. I should take you home."

"Just a moment ago you were saying the night's still young. Now you want to end it? Simon, for God's sake, just tell me," I say, jolting further back, against the glove compartment.

"I will later, if you'd just give me that key, please?"

"Simon, I trust you. Whatever it is, it can't be that bad—"

He makes one final stretch for the key, and I have no further to lean back. I jostle into the glove compartment, bumping it open with my elbow.

A shower of IDs, Social Security cards, and driver's licenses spills out onto the floor mat. I squint at the faces, shock building in my chest.

And I recognize nearly all of them.