He hesitates some more, still standing with his feet apart and his shoulders back. Battle mode.
When I clear my throat, he finally moves—taking the spot on the far end of the sofa and leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. (He’s moving stiffly. I wonder if he’s sore. I wonder if Dr. Wellbelove took his tail as well.) He scrubs at the caramel-coloured curls at the top of his head. They already look thoroughly scrubbed.
“I could make tea,” I say.
“No,” he says. “Just”—he makes a fist in his hair—“say it.”
“Say what?”
“That it wouldn’t have mattered. That it doesn’t matter.”
I turn more fully towards him. My voice is getting haughty again, I can’t help it. “The question on the table is whether it would havemattered,to our relationship, if you hadtried?”
He looks over at me, infernal chin raised. “Yeah.”
“Of fucking course it would have mattered!” I say. “What kind of question is that?”
He’s nodding, too quickly, looking at my aunt’s rug. “Right. Right. Of course.” He scrapes his fingers up the back of his hair to the top of his head. “Right.”
I want to grab his wrists. I want to shake him. (I want to cast spells over his shoulders and make every pain in his body go away.)
“Iwas trying,” I say. “Every minute.”
Simon nods. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t.”
“All right. Sorry. I mean. Just—”
Use your words, Snow.
He turns on the sofa, pulling one leg up, to face me. His fists have dropped to his thighs. “How?”
“How what?”
He looks in my eyes. He looks like a dog trapped in a snare. Like he’s begging me to set him free from something. “Howwould it have been different if I’d tried?”
I huff out a breath. “I can’t answer that. How would I know that?”
“Baz . . .”
“What do youwantfrom me, Snow?”
He’s breathing through his teeth. “I just—”
“You just.”
“I mean—”
“You mean.” I wonder if I sound cruel. I wonder if I mean to be.
“I want to try!”
SIMON
That came out wrong. Like a threat. Like an armed robbery.
Baz is looking down at his lap. He pushes a lock of black hair behind his ear.
