Within/Without

chapter twenty-six.

Val

I half-expect the next day to be something miraculous, something golden, maybe because the past night has placed a rose screen over my vision. It's not, however; the sky remains a wintry, cool gray, the subway remains full enough to drag the breath from my chest, the sewer outside the Clubs Building remains putrid enough to sting my eyes.

Things are so normal, in fact, that I nearly forget.

It takes me a good hour to remember at all. I'm scrolling through more info on the disappearance of Silas Wade, ruffling through various internet pages and social media accounts, trying to pick up more than just the scraps of useless facts I have for now. I'm not having much luck, when a hand comes down on my shoulder, firm but at once gentle.

"Val?"

I jolt at the sound of Caz's voice, suddenly remembering the dark front seat of his car, the way he'd reached for me, the way I'd turned him away. We haven't seen each other since then, haven't talked, haven't texted. And now it's coming back to bite me.

"Caz," I say, swiveling to face him. His eyebrows are knitted, a frown on his face. He lifts his palm from my shoulder, placing his hands in his jean pockets instead. "I—"

"Can we talk?" he asks, then nods his head toward the hallway, discreetly. "About...things."

"Things," I repeat, rising uneasily from my seat. I glance back at the computer screen, but leave it up, following Caz as he drifts out into the hall. My palms are suddenly sweaty, my heart hammering in my chest. I should know what to say, exactly what to say, but I don't. I don't know a thing.

The hallway smells faintly of bleach cleaner, and as Caz leans against the wall beside the Terrier's Gazette entrance, I fight the urge to wrinkle my nose. I'm seeing Caz as I never have, here: quiet, thoughtful, resigned. The goofy smile, the harmless banter, is gone. A flower of anxiety blooms in my chest.

He exhales, dropping his head for a moment, eyes on the floor. "Look, about the other night—I'm sorry I came on to you like that."

I shake my head, trying to ignore the goosebumps rising on my skin. "Caz, it's—"

"But I meant it," he adds, drawing me to silence. He lifts his head, just enough to shoot me a sideways glance. "I mean...I wanted to kiss you, Val. I have wanted to, for a while. I've been meaning to tell you."

I'm so struck, it takes me moment to respond. All this time spent here at the Gazette, in meetings and interviews and out covering sports games, and I haven't noticed. Why didn't I notice? "Meaning to tell me what?" I ask him, though I already know.

"That I like you, Val," he admits, turning to face me, centering himself away from the wall. His brown eyes, black in the dim hallway, bore into me, and it's enough to fill my chest with guilt. "I like how smart you are, how charismatic, how you're not afraid of anything. I like you, and I don't know, maybe I just want to be..."

He reaches out, taking my hand. "More than friends?"

I stare down at where our hands meet, remembering Simon's skin on mine the night before, the gentle way in which his fingers had brushed my knuckles, my wrist, my face.

"Caz," I say, wincing as I brush his hand away. I meet his eyes. "I can't. I'm sorry."

"Is it too soon?" He asks. "Do I need to—"

"No, Caz. It's not you; it's just that I'm..." Simon's face flashes in my mind. His reddish hair and freckled cheeks and the constant look on his face like he's stunned someone would agree to spend time with him. I think of the ink smudges on his fingers, the overstuffed journals shoved in the bottom of his bag. I think of him, and even though he's not here in front of me, I blush anyway. "I'm seeing someone."

Something in Caz's face breaks. "Oh."

I pinch the skin between my eyebrows. "I should have told you, but I just...it's very recent. So it's not you, Caz, it's just that I'm seeing someone."

I thought it would comfort him, make him feel better, to give him a reason. Rejection is rejection, I suppose; because his face remains frighteningly blank, as if he's no longer even on this plane.

"Caz?"

"I'm happy for you," he says, his voice low. He turns to face the door again. "I am. I'm...sorry about this."

"Caz," I start, but he's already gone, disappearing back into the office again. In a way, I'm nearly glad. I wasn't sure what I was going to say to him anyway.

I take a moment, a brief moment, before I follow him inside, just in case Rita or any of the other staff writers want to get any ideas. Back in the office, however, Caz is nowhere to be seen; he's vanished. And somehow, I'm nearly relieved.

I reach my seat, sucking in a deep breath of the fresh-brewed coffee, stale bagel scent of the office and trying to tune out the constant clacking of fingers against keyboards. The age-old MySpace page I had pulled up before Caz got my attention stares back at me, and that's when something clicks.

It's the same names connected to all of his social media accounts, same faces. Could it be that they all belong to the same person?

Silas Wade. Kit Newman. Watson Gross.

I scroll down.

Larry St. John.