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A month ago, I would have walked to the sofa and touched his shoulder. Three months ago, I would have dropped a kiss on his cheek. Last September, when he and Bunce first moved into this flat, I would have had to pull my mouth away from his to ask the question, and he might not have let me finish.
Baz always looks like he’s in an ad for expensive watches. Even when he isn’t wearing one.
And the lady with the cross can’t get mad at us because we have to sit this close. It’s sitting in economy that’s making us gay.
The last time Baz and I held hands in public, some girl with a nose ring took offence. If you can’t trust people with nose rings to be open-minded, who’s left?
Myself, most of all. 14. My soft heart. 15. My foolish optimism. 16. The words “road” and “trip,” when said together with any enthusiasm.
24. Penelope Bunce, who came up with this idea. An idea not accompanied by a plan. Because all she cared about was seeing her rubbish boyfriend, who clearly cocked it all up. Which we all should have expected from someone from Illinois, land of the damned—a place that manages to be both hot and humid at the same time. You might well expect hell to be hot, but you don’t expect it to also be humid. That’s what makes it hell: the surprise twist! The devil is clever!
Simon Snow, it hurts to look at you when you’re this happy. And it hurts to look at you when you’re depressed. There’s no safe time for me to see you, nothing about you that doesn’t tear my heart from my chest and leave it breakable outside my body.
“You’re supposed to get out and see things, meet strange people—lotus-eaters and sirens.” “That’s not a road trip,” Baz says, “that’s the Odyssey. When did you read the Odyssey, Snow?”
Penelope Bunce has decapitated one vampire and set two more on fire. She’s my mother’s daughter.

