Within/Without

chapter thirty-seven.

Val

I can't remember the last time I put on a red dress.

I stand in front of the mirror, the bathroom door shut behind me as I pinch at the folds in the velvet fabric. I've worn dresses before, sure. But none this form-fitting, none such a deep, sumptuous shade of red. I'm not even sure why I brought the dress in the first place.

Or maybe I am.

I toy with my hair, twirling one of my locs around my finger. I strike one pose and then reconsider and switch to another one. I raise my eyebrows, lower them. Stroke a gentle hand over my jawline, flick one of the earrings dangling from my ears. Will Simon like it? I ask myself, yanking the dress down a bit, in case it's too short. When such an action reveals a fair amount of cleavage, however, I reconsider. What if it's too much?

He knows me, after all. He knows this isn't my usual get-up.

But he made dinner reservations for us. He made dinner reservations and we're at the beach and the air is clear and my heart is clearer. I just want this to be special. I just want him to feel special.

And not in the way he's felt all his life.

I sigh, giving my necklace a final twist. I'm not changing. I've already changed enough.

I back up, placing a hand on the bathroom door's handle. I nudge the door open, a wave of ocean air hitting me in the face from the open balcony. "Simon? I think I'm ready now—"

But the words falter. He's on the floor in front of the beds, convulsing, changing. Switching to one skin and then to another one, and all so quickly I can hardly keep track. My heart drops into my stomach, and then I'm on the ground beside him, shaking his shoulders. "Simon, are you with me? What can I do? What can I—"

When he looks at me, his eyes are like kaleidoscopes, washing from brown to blue and back to brown again, exploding in color for a moment before turning a dull gray. It's fascinating to watch, in a sickening sort of way. Simon shudders, curling into a fetal position, still crumpled on his side. "N-Nothing. You can't—we—wait."

Something crosses his face, then. As his cheekbones heighten and lower again, as his nose and mouth rework themselves. Nevertheless, I recognize it. It's fear. Not the pseudo-fear one feels after watching a horror movie or hearing a strange tale whispered around a campfire. The look on his face is real, like he could lose himself, lose it all, any minute now—and he believes it.

Three minutes later, he goes still again. The skin he wears is Kenzo's, his hair black and curling and his complexion a deep, cool brown. He's shorter and scrawnier and shaken, and the first thing he says to me when he sits up from the floor is, "Dinner. If we don't leave now, we'll be late—"

He starts to get to his feet, but I yank him down again. "Simon," I say, a name that still feels strange to call to anyone but Simon's face, "We can't. You know we can't."

"But..." He begins, and then looks down at me, as if just now noticing the dress I put on for him. "You're...You look so stunning."

"I can look stunning inside our hotel room, too," I say, reaching out to brush his cheek. He frowns at me, closing his eyes, his long eyelashes brushing the edge of my palm. "We'll order room service and have our dinner in here. It'll be fun. I promise."

Simon exhales. "I wanted to take you out. I wanted to treat you."

"And I just want you to be comfortable," I reply. "I want you to be okay. So don't worry about me right now."

Simon closes his hand over my own, lifting his eyes to me. In a way, it's almost like I've gotten used to it. Looking into a different pair of eyes, framed by a different face, and still knowing, automatically, that it's Simon. It's like I just know. It's like I don't even question it. "I'll figure it out," he assures. "I'll figure out what's wrong with me and I'll fix it in no time. I promise, Val."