She curls her lip at me. “I thought you objected to the open flame.”
“I also object to you looking like a yob.”
“Don’t be classist, Basil.”
I look at her bedroom door. “Is that it?” I whisper. “Are you hiding a Normal in there? I already know you date Normals, Fiona.”
“Oh, and you don’t?”
“I’ll just—” Simon is backing out the front door.
I snatch his wrist and drag him towards my room. Fiona watches us, smiling like she’s won. I shut the door behind us.
“Maybe I should wait outside?” Snow is still cowering.
“You’re safer where I can see you,” I say, walking over to a clothes rack.
“She wouldn’treallydo anything to hurt me . . . All that’s over . . . Right?”
“My aunt is a lunatic.” I flip through my shirts. I’m not sure what to bring to Simon’s flat. Enough for a few days? For a week? I wish there was a spell that would shrink my whole wardrobe down, so that it would fit in my pocket. (Thereisa spell like that, but the reversal is a bitch.) (Reversals are always a bitch. Bunce could make herself famous if that Missy Elliott song sticks.) I have a garment bag somewhere—would that make this arrangement too formal? Too real? Would Simon feel better if I just threw a few things into a duffel and called it good?
Whatever. I pull my garment bag out from under my bed.
Simon has wandered over to my violin case. “Do you need this?”
I lay the bag on my bed. “ ‘Need’ is a strong word. Would you like me to bring it?”
“I didn’t know if you still played.”
“I still play.”
He looks uncomfortable. Embarrassed, maybe.
“Grab it,” I say. “Perhaps we’ll encounter a violin emergency.”
“Have you encountered one of those before?”
“Any and all emergencies are possible with you around.” Fuck it, I’m bringing a dozen shirts, a few jackets. Another summer-weight suit. I’ll need two bags. And I’ll keep both of them by Simon’s front door, just in case he throws me out.
“Can I help?” he asks.
“I’ve got it. Just sit down, Snow.”
He sits on my bed. Holding the violin in his lap. He looks like an 8-year-old waiting for the bus.
It would be easier if Iwerebringing everything. Then I could just open my suitcase and have the bags pack themselves, Mary Poppins–style.
I lay my shirts and jackets out on the bed, then find my duffel bag and take it to my chest of drawers. I open the top drawer. (Am I really doing this? Takingpantsto Simon Snow’s flat?) I rest my hand on a stack of boxer briefs and clear my throat. “Are you sure about this?”
“Are you?” Simon asks.
I turn around. “I asked you first.”
He’s looking at the floor. His tongue is in his cheek. Like he’s frustrated. Or angry.
I turn back to my pants. Right. Simon isn’t sure. Of any of this. I’m putting all of my eggs in his basket, and it’s a ramshackle basket—he already warned me.
I close my eyes for a second.Right.
