“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.”
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