Within/Without

chapter twenty-nine.

Simon

It's late and I don't exactly want to be here. The only reason I am here, even, is because my brother insisted.

Though I've made an amateur hobby out of trying out different cocktails at home, I'm actually not much of a drinker myself. I'm a casual, more opportunistic consumer of alcohol, which cannot be said of Noah. He's toned down a bit since undergrad, when he'd get so blackout drunk he wouldn't remember the entire night, but nevertheless he still enjoys a couple sips to take the edge off.

He's going out with a few of his work friends—a guy named Randy that I've met before, and another guy named Quinn that I haven't—one night when he pauses at the door and looks back at me. "Simon?"

I'm on the couch, reading one of my books of poems. German. Rilke. What will you do, God, when I die? "Hm?"

"Come with me."

The next fifteen minutes I spend trying to weasel my way out of accompanying him, which is unsuccessful. That's how I ended up here—in a loud, crowded bar, sandwiched between Noah and Randy as they shout office gossip over my head. I should be happy. I told Val I loved her yesterday, and I think she believed me. Also, I kissed her.

So I've done that before. A few times. But somehow, last night felt like the first.

She's been on my mind all night and all day. I dreamt of her last night, and I'm pretty sure I'll dream of her again when my head hits the pillow tonight, too. In a way it's no different than it has been ever since I met her that first day of sixth grade—I loved her then, and I love her now. Perhaps the only difference is that, now, I'm allowed to.

"Get him a refill!" shouts Noah from my side. He's spastic, constantly moving around even while sitting still, somehow. It's how I know he's already tipsy, if not completely drunk.

The bartender nods and slides my beer away from me, refilling the glass and placing it in front of me. I give him a brief nod of thanks.

Randy gets up to go have a smoke, the bar's door jingling as he exits. I look out over the crowd of people, ranging from slightly buzzed to blackout drunk. I smell savory cologne and sweet perfume, sweat and salt and alcohol. It's too loud. The beat of the overhead music seems to thud somewhere beneath my skin.

"Sure this is your brother, Noah?" says Quinn from the other side of Noah, leaning over to look at me. He lifts a dark eyebrow at me, and I spare a halfhearted wave. "He's awfully quiet."

"I'm just in my head," I say, taking a sip from my glass.

"He's always in his goddamn head," Noah comments. "Thinking about—" He pauses, blinking slowly for a moment. "Shit. What do you even think about all the time? Words?"

So he's more than a little tipsy. I roll my eyes. "I'd imagine we all think about words. That's how we talk, isn't it?"

Quinn laughs. In truth, it's more of an ugly guffaw. "I take it back. He's obviously your brother. You're both smart-asses."

I smirk. "Noah's always been a bad influence on me."
Noah combs a hand back through his hair, which, as it commonly is, is annoyingly perfect. No wonder all the girls in here keep stealing glances. "And yet," he says, pointing a trembling finger at me, "I'm the one person who's put up with all this crazy shapeshifting shit—"

I clamp a hand down over his mouth in horror. There's too many people in here. One person's bad enough, but over a hundred? "Jesus, Noah! I don't care how drunk you are, you can't just say that out loud!"

Noah smiles giddily. "I'm not drunk, man."

Quinn's just watching us, perplexed. I take this moment of stunned silence as an opportunity to make a getaway, which I've been trying to do practically since I got here. I grab Noah's arm, dragging him from the bar and out the door.