Within/Without

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."