Within/Without

chapter nine.

Simon - present day

I make Noah do most of the driving on Friday, mostly because I'm still bitter about the whole thing. Though he argues, all it takes is for me to glare at him for a few awkward moments and then he says, "Alright, fine. Jesus."

The little duct-taped beater Noah bought when he graduated three years ago is not the ideal car for road trips. It barely has enough space for the two of us and our luggage, not to mention the road noise is deafening and the heating is terribly finicky. Noah's got an engineering degree; he even landed a job (somehow) at one of the biggest tech companies in Boston. He's clearly a capable person. For some reason, though, he refuses to work on this damn car.

Needless to say, I'm sitting in the passenger seat, bundled up in blankets with a beanie pressed down over my ears. The radio's on, though I couldn't say what station it's on or what song it's playing, because in the midst of the roaring tires it's mostly tinny background noise. I rest my head against the window, watching my breath fog the glass.

I'm, in a way, averse to driving; it brings back sour memories. Most people only have to take their driving test once or twice, but I took mine about six times, once for each of my main identities. I never want to get pulled over on the road and not have my face match the one on my driver's license. I hadn't thought about it before Noah brought it up, which, at the time, I both loved and hated him for.

My family was worried about me at first, which I guess they still are. But I can't say they haven't always watched my back.

"Hey, Ginger Snap," Noah says, flicking me in the ear while keeping one hand steady on the steering wheel. "What are you thinking about over there? Pondering space and time?"

"Been there, done that," I say. "I'm thinking that it was probably a bad idea to buy Great Granny Etta a snow globe. What the hell is she going to do with a snow globe?"

Noah scoffs. "Shake it and watch the glitter twirl around. Ooh. Aah. Duh. What else do you do with snow globes?"

"Nothing useful, is my point."

"I swear to God, Simon, if you're gonna be like this all weekend, I'll drop you off on the side of the road now," Noah scolds. I turn away from the window, and he's rolling his eyes, drumming his fingers across the wheel. "I know you're upset about your lady friend. But just take this weekend to give yourself a bit of a break. Come back refreshed."

"I've had enough breaks," I tell him. "Every time I screw up again, I get a break from her."

Noah exhales through his nose, and though I could be imagining it, it almost seems as if he grips the steering wheel a bit tighter. I watch him for a second, trying to understand the sudden stiffness in his shoulders, the frown at his mouth, the furrow of skin between his brows. I've never been able to read people particularly well, but my brother is a whole different story. He's inscrutable, an enigma in human form.

I lean away from the window, unable to fight a jolt of concern. "Noah?"

"You said—this is the first time she's met you as...as you?"

I hesitate, unsure of where he's going with this. "Yes."

He glances sideways at me, brown eyes caught in the afternoon sun. I know that glance. It's questioning. It's reticent. It's judgmental. I have seen it all too many times before. "Why?"

"I don't know," I reply automatically, my automatic reply for most queries. "I don't know, Noah; that's just how it happened. It's not like I've been...hiding from her."

"I just—you keep all these faces, Simon and I..." He trails off, hitting the gas more forcefully. The beater sputters, lurching forward, and though I grip the side of the door and the dash to steady myself, Noah doesn't seem to care. "I'll be honest with you."