Wayward Son (Simon Snow, #2)(22)

I sigh. “All right, fine. Show me the grounds. Because I’m so special.”

“Exactly right,” he says, offering me his arm.





19





PENELOPE


I wake up in an empty hotel room. It’s already noon, and someone’s knocking on the door.

“Housekeeping!” A small woman has keyed in.

“Just a minute!” I say. “Can I have a few minutes?”

“Ten minutes!” she calls, and closes the door.

My eyes are so swollen that they won’t fully open. I slept in my clothes last night, even though I was coated in North America. I’ve got dust up my skirt, in my ears. When I push down my knee sock, there’s a line of grime at the border. Also, my hands smell like Buffalo Blasts.

I decide to take a very fast shower. The room really is empty; Baz and Simon must have taken their stuff out to the car already. I glance out the window. The Mustang is still in the car park. Baz is standing beside it, not so discreetly casting spells at the broken top. Simon is sitting in the front seat, possibly pretending to drive.

Right. Shower first. Then decide where we’re going. Then decide what to do with the rest of my life.

Not much has changed, I suppose: All those things I was going to do with Micah waiting at home for me? Now I’ll do them with no one waiting.

If I’m being rational, nothing has changed. I hadn’t seen Micah for a year. Who knows when I would have seen him again? Would I have even pushed for this insane trip if I hadn’t felt like something was wrong between us?

(For a cheap hotel, this shower is massive.)

If I’m being rational, if I’m being honest, I never wanted to move to America. I didn’t want to go to university here. I couldn’t see myself living here—or maybe I should say that I couldn’t see myself living anywhere but England.

So what did I see?

Micah coming around eventually. Seeing things my way …

Is that so wrong? Is that such a fatal flaw? Simon’s never said it, but Baz has: “You think you’re always right, Bunce.”

So what if I do? I usually am right. It’s just good sense to go through life assuming that I am. It’s the law of averages. Better to assume I’m always right and occasionally be wrong than to fiddle about doubting myself all the time, saying to everyone, “Yes, but what do you think?”

I’m very good at thinking!

Would things have been so bad for Micah if he’d just followed my lead?

My dad does exactly what my mum tells him to, and he’s happy. They’re both very happy! My mum makes all the decisions, they’re mostly correct, and it’s an incredibly efficient operation all around.

Micah could have had a good life with me. I’m intelligent, I’m interesting, I’m at least as attractive as Micah is. I would have given him very bright children! I’m a genetic upgrade in most ways; both of my parents are geniuses, I have very straight teeth—

He never would have been bored with me.

I might have been bored with him. It’s something I’ve considered. But I’d have my work! And I’d have Simon, I’m never bored with Simon.

Micah was supposed to be the stable element in the equation. The constant.

He’s right. I’d ticked off the boyfriend box; I thought I’d got it settled early. Everyone around me wasted years trying to fall in love. I wasted nothing! I’d crossed it off my list.

Now I suppose I’ve wasted everything. And the worst part is—

The worst part is …

The worst part.

Is that he doesn’t want me.

I put my hand on the shower wall. There’s that cold feeling washing through my middle again.

I’m not being rational.

“Housekeeping!”



* * *



The boys are leaning on the car when I get down there. Simon’s eating a banana. Baz is wearing his giant sunglasses and a beautiful floral shirt. (White with blue and purple flowers and fat striped bumblebees. It probably cost as much as my tuition.) He’s tying a pale blue scarf around his hair.

“You can’t wear that,” Simon grins.

“Shut it, Snow.”

“Where did that even come from? Do you just carry a ladies’ scarf around with you?”

“It was my mother’s,” Baz says.

“Oh,” Simon says. “Sorry. Wait—do you carry your mother’s scarf around with you?”

“I wrap my sunglasses in it when I’m travelling.”

“Are those your mother’s sunglasses, too?”

Baz is rolling his eyes, but then he sees me, and his face goes gentle. It’s intolerable. “Good morning, Bunce.”

“Hey, Penny,” Simon says, just as kindly, “how are you?”

“Fine,” I say. “Right as rain.”

Baz looks doubtful, but busies himself rubbing sunblock onto his nose.

“You slept through breakfast,” Simon says, “but it was awful.”

“Snow was very excited about continental breakfast,” Baz says.

“It’s not what you think.” Simon frowns. “It’s not French stuff. It’s just really sad pastries and bad tea. Oh and you missed Baz eating a squirrel.”