BooksBarbecue
Back Any Way the Wind Blows
Chapters (100)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. 51
  55. 52
  56. 53
  57. 54
  58. 55
  59. 56
  60. 57
  61. 58
  62. 59
  63. 60
  64. 61
  65. 62
  66. 63
  67. 64
  68. 65
  69. 66
  70. 67
  71. 68
  72. 69
  73. 70
  74. 71
  75. 72
  76. 73
  77. 74
  78. 75
  79. 76
  80. 77
  81. 78
  82. 79
  83. 80
  84. 81
  85. 82
  86. 83
  87. 84
  88. 85
  89. 86
  90. 87
  91. 88
  92. 89
  93. 90
  94. 91
  95. EPILOGUE
  96. AGATHA
  97. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  98. Also by Rainbow Rowell
  99. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  100. Newsletter Sign-up

On the worst days, on the even worse nights, I used to think about all the bad things that have happened to Simon—just the ones I know about. And then I’d wonder about all the terrible things that have happened to him that I don’t know about. Twenty years of bad things. How long would it take for those painful memories to die back? Or, at least, to wither?

I’d wait.

I was going to wait.

The neighbours are tired of my music again. They’ve come to the door this time. Well, they can push right off—James Blake is a Mercury Prize winner, and this song was written by Joni Mitchell, surely Canada’s finest. They think they’re tired of this song? Once I figure out the magic, I’m going to loop the same two lines again and again:

“You’re in my blood, you’re my holy wine. You taste so bitter and so sweet.”

That’s the part that hurts the most, and I’ve decided that it helps to hurt the most. It sort of maxes out my nerve endings.

They’re knocking on the door. Fuck off.

More knocking. Seriously, fuck off.

I turn up the music. I have to use a spell to do it, because the speakers are already at their limit. “These go to eleven!”

The neighbours are really banging on the door now. I should spell off their hands. I’m not even going to answer the door—I’ll just spell their hands off from here.

Wait … They’ve stopped.

Have they stopped?

There’s no knocking …

No knocking …

I think they’ve given up. Good. Go back to your flat, and get used to this. This is our soundtrack now. Oh—my favourite part is coming around again. Sing it, James.

“You’re in my blood, you’re my holy—”

Knocking! Fucking pounding on the door!

I jump off the couch. My head spins. I give myself a moment. More bloody knocking. I plow over to the door and yank it open. My fangs might be out, I can’t be held responsible.

Simon Snow is standing there.

About to knock again.

His hand drops.

“Baz,” he says. He looks down at me. “You haven’t changed.”

SIMON

Baz is still wearing the clothes he had on yesterday. He’s wrinkled looking, and his hair is stringy. “What?” he says. I think that’s what he says. It’s so loud inside his flat, I can’t hear him.

“What?” I shout.

I can’t make out his next sentence.

“What?” I say again. “Why is it so loud in there?”

Baz walks away from me, into the living room. He turns down the music. His arms are folded when he comes back, and he’s sneering. “Oh. Snow. You’re still here. I expected you to run and hide as soon as my back was turned.”