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

I shake my head. Then switch to nodding it. “Of course,” I say. “Make yourself at home. There are sandwiches in the kitchen. The kettle’s on.”

“Right,” Simon says. “Thanks.”

I nod again, backing towards the bathroom door. “I’ll just be a minute.”

The bathroom is still steamed up from Simon’s shower, and I swoon a little, thinking about him in here, even though it smells like he used my aunt’s shampoo. (Smoke and mirrors, how did I survive sharing a room with Simon Snow through my entire adolescence?) (Oh, yes, I remember: furious wanking. Furious everything.) I wash up more thoroughly than usual. Paranoid about the rat blood. And the fact that Simon said I smelled “rank.” I’m rather less thorough than usual with my hair, just towel drying it and combing it off my face. Chomsky, I used to spend so much time on my hair every morning when Snow and I shared a room … Carefully parting it and slicking it back. I thought it looked dramatic.

When I walk out of the bathroom, Simon is on my bed again. He’s got the plate of sandwiches, and there’s a pot of tea on the side table (sitting right on top of a stack of books, for pity’s sake). I clear my throat. “You didn’t have to bring them in—”

“Oh.” He stands up. “I thought that’s what you…” He picks up the plate and motions towards the door. “Should I?”

“No, it’s fine. This is fine. Better to stay out of Fiona’s path, anyway. Aren’t you hungry?”

“I was waiting for you.”

“Oh.” Why is this so strange? Why am I being so strange? “Thank you.” I take the plate from him and sit down against my pillows, crossing my legs and setting the sandwiches beside me.

Simon sits next to me, careful not to upset the plate. He’s pushed down the waist of his trousers to free his tail—and pulled down his shirt to hide how low his trousers are riding. It must wear him out, the constant adjusting and manoeuvring and tucking. He’s got his wings held close to his body to keep from knocking everything off the bedside table as he pours me a mug of tea.

Our fingers touch when he hands it to me. I’d be blushing if I had enough blood in me. Why am I being so weird. Is it just relief? Is it the novelty of having Simon here? In my room? Or is it because we’re starting over, so everything feels new?