Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow #3)(24)
“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 have mattered, to our relationship, if you had tried?”
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.) “I was 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. “How would 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 you want from 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.
“It’s okay,” I spit out, trying to reel things back. “I don’t expect—You don’t owe me—”
“Shut up, Snow.”
I shut up.
I think Baz is still crying.
I’m so bad at this. At people. At him. I shouldn’t have come here. I stand up—
His hand latches on to my wrist. “Don’t you dare.”
I sit down again. “Okay. Sorry.”
Baz doesn’t let go. His hand is cold. He’s still looking at his lap. “What does that mean?” He sounds careful. “That you want to try?”
“Just what I said. That I want—That I wish I could—That I would like to
—” I clench my jaw for a second. “Try. With you. To see … if it could be different.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to give up.”
Baz scowls up at me. “Am I a video game you’re trying to beat?”
“No!”
He pulls on my arm, but doesn’t pull me close. “Then why?”
“Because you were right! I didn’t try. I gave up on us. And I can’t—I can’t live with myself—”
“I don’t care!”
I take Baz’s other hand. By the wrist. He’s holding me back, and I’m holding on to him. “I can’t go on, Baz, knowing that it could have been different!”
“That sounds like another apology.”
I look in his cold, grey eyes. I beg him to understand. I’m growling again, I know it. “I want to … try. Because—Because I love you, Baz. I love you, and I didn’t think that I could keep you. But if there’s a chance … If there’s any chance at all … I can’t—I want—I need—”
Baz’s hand goes slack on my arm.
I let go of him.
I push my palms into my eyes. They’re wet—how long have I been crying? Baz isn’t saying anything, and I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do now. I drop my hands and look up at him, desperate for a clue.
Baz’s mouth is slightly open, and his eyebrows have pulled up in the middle. “You … love me?”
BAZ
Snow nods. “Yeah,” he says, “of course.”
Like it’s obvious.
It isn’t obvious. It has not been obvious.
“You never said,” I say.
“Haven’t I?”
“No.”
He frowns. “I thought—I mean … I’ve killed so many things for you.”
I laugh. It might be another sob, but maybe it’s just a laugh. “What are you, a house cat? Am I supposed to know how you feel because you brought me a mouse?”
The corner of Snow’s mouth twitches. “I brought you a cow once, remember? And I killed that chimera for you in fifth year.”
“You killed it near me. There’s a difference.”
He reaches a hand up towards my face, then hesitates.
I hesitate, too—I feel torn in every direction—then I slowly close the distance.
Snow’s thumb connects with my chin. He tucks his knuckles under my jaw.