I’m living second by second. All of this with Baz is petrifying. All of this without Baz is intolerable. I’m just making whatever decision I have to make in the moment to keep him in the picture, even though I can’t look at the whole picture without shitting myself.
I just told him to come home with me.
A few days ago, I broke up with him.
I just told him to come home with me, and he said yes. We’re on the Tube to his flat, and he’s sitting next to me. I’ve got my arm slung around his shoulder. There’s at least one guy giving us a dirty look, and I kinda hope he speaks up, because I would dearly love to punch something right now. That’s a decision I could wrap my brain around.
Second by second.
Now I’m holding on to Baz.
Now I’m standing up.
Now I’m going to follow him.
39
BAZ
“Is your aunt home?” Snow asks, hiding behind me while I unlock the door.
“I don’t think so,” I say. “I don’t hear Joe Strummer, so probably not.”
“Is that her boyfriend?”
“She wishes.” I step into the flat—there’s a blur of movement and a noise like a door slamming.
Fiona is home. She’s standing in front of her bedroom door. Awkwardly.
Her legs planted too far apart. “Basil!” she says. “You weren’t here.”
“I was not,” I say slowly. “Now I am.”
“Okay, fine,” she says. She leans against the wall. I’ve never seen her stand in that spot before. She puts her hands in her trouser pockets.
“Fiona … Did you just hide a man from me?”
“No,” she says.
“You did.”
“Big talk from someone hiding a man at this very moment.”
I glance over my shoulder. “Stop cowering, Snow.”
“I’m not cowering,” he mutters, stepping out from behind my back. I have my hand on my wand, just in case Fiona tries something.
“Hello, Simon Snow,” she says, trying to look dangerous.
“Hi,” he replies, barely audible.
Fiona puts something into her mouth. It looks like a whistle. Or a recorder.
“Fuck me,” I say. “Are you vaping?”
She immediately pulls it away and hides it behind her back—then realizes she’s hiding it and lets her hand hang at her side. “It’s better for your lungs than smoking.”
“Is it?”
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’t really do 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. （There is a 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.