Within/Without

chapter seven.

Val

When it's too cold to be outside—which is most of the time during autumn and winter here—I camp out inside the architecture building, though I am far from an architecture student. It's one of the most aesthetically pleasing buildings on campus (which I suppose kind of makes sense)—with broad glass windows at unconventional angles and plants dangling from the ceiling like living curtains and soundless concrete floors. Not to mention there's a tiny coffee bar nestled in the corner of the main atrium, which is always a plus.

Normally the building's fairly quiet this late in the afternoon, so late it could as well be called evening. The sky is orange-blue and the grass is frost-kissed by the time I reach the building after my algebra class. I step inside, shaking frost from my boots, and don't get much further past the threshold before my heart sets to thrumming.

"Simon?"

He's standing a little ways down the hall, examining the architecture program's bulletin board. It's a sort of collage of famous architects and their projects and some of the projects of Boston University's own students. I'd never peg Simon as the kind of guy interested in the way bricks are assorted, but he has a hand to his chin and his eyes are narrow, like he's genuinely enamored.

So enamored I have to say his name again: "Simon?"

He jolts, pivoting to face me. "Oh! Val!"

One of the professors walks hurriedly out of her office and nearly bowls me down as I approach Simon; both of us watch her go for a moment. "Um," I say, coming up to his side, "what are you doing here?"

"I thought I'd find you here, is all," he says, and I wonder how in the hell he thought that, because the only other person I've told about this spot is Oliver, one of my old friends from school that I dated briefly and now only see in passing. "Architecture?" Simon goes on. "Do you have classes here?"

"No," I say, dropping my bag on the floor, since it's grown sort of heavy. "I just like the ambiance."

Simon laughs, but it's an obviously uncomfortable laugh. He pushes a few strands of his hair behind his ear; miraculously, he's tied his hair back into a miniature ponytail at the nape of his neck, a few gingery strands hanging in his face. I'm not sure how I feel about it. Okay. So I'm fairly sure how I feel about it, because my heart is thudding, for some reason.

"You were looking for me, then?" I ask, shoving my hands into the pockets of my dungarees. My sister hates these things—she told me this morning, actually, that they make me look like a hobo—but they're comfy, so I wear them anyway. "I mean, I thought we'd agreed to meet Friday, but if you want—"

"Yeah, about Friday."

I try to fight it, but that needle of disappointment jabs me anyway, right where it hurts. He reconsidered. He reconsidered and now he doesn't want to go out. What was it this time? Something I said? I am trying to be patient, but after a while it just gets...tiring.

I run my fingers through my curls, detangling a knot. Jo said she would put locs in for me later this week, which is a relief. I'd like to not have to think much about it for a while. "What about Friday?" I prompt, trying to seem nonchalant.

"I..." Simon exhales and whirls around, leaning his back against the bulletin board. He tilts his head a little, exposing a side of his freckled, graceful neck. I look away. "I live with my older brother, you know? He's a pain, really. But anyway, apparently our dad called to remind us that it's our great grandmother's birthday this weekend, and we have to head back there to celebrate with her."

I try not to think too hard about the fact I'm being ditched for an old woman; it seems selfish of me. Instead, I just say, "Oh. That's okay. I get that."