Chapter One
Simon
I should've stayed in California with Agatha.
No, probably not a good idea. Not with Penny and Micah leaving too.
I could've stayed with Penny, in Chicago. Would've been a bit awkward. This is the first Christmas she's spending with Micah's family and all. I didn't want to barge in on that.
It's looking like I might end up stranded in New York City, on my own, for Christmas.
They've delayed my flight to London twice already today.
Not like I won't be by myself even if I do get home. I've not got anyone to spend the holiday with, not with Penny and Agatha here in America.
I could've stayed. I just didn't want to do that to them.
Agatha's made a life for herself here. She's got her friends and her new boyfriend. Dr. and Mrs. Wellbelove flew in the day before yesterday to spend Christmas with her. It would have simply been too awkward for me to stay, what with them meeting Tyler for the first time.
Penny offered. To let me stay.
Micah did too. Told me this kind of storm usually shuts down the East Coast.
But it's their first Christmas together. They don't need to be dragging me along to Micah's family home.
He's got a big family, Micah does. Like Penny. Three or four sisters, I think. One brother? I can't remember. And cousins. Penny says it'll be a whole scene.
I'll be fine on my own. I want to get home, to my flat.
The flight status just changed on the monitor again. Now it's blank—not even a time estimate or 'delayed' anymore.
And then the announcement I've been dreading comes overhead. Flight's cancelled.
Fuck.
It's chaos at the counter now. I'm leaned up against this pillar, right close so I can see all the people queueing up. There are no seats left anywhere at this gate. Haven't been for hours.
That's how I ended up sitting on the floor.
Close enough to hear all the frustrated travelers arguing with the clerks.
Close enough to hear that voice.
The one I'd know anywhere.
Baz.
Baz
I fix my gaze on the ticket clerk in front of me. "There must be a flight going out tonight."
"No, sir. Storm's shut down all flights."
"I need to get to London."
"You and everyone else."
This is unacceptable. I need to get home. "You don't understand. I need to get on a plane to London. Tonight. I need to be there by Christmas. Whatever the price for a change fee."
The clerk narrows his eyes at me. "Listen. I told you. No flights going out tonight. They're shutting it down. Now what's it going to be? Rebook or refund?"
"What?"
He waves my ticket at me. "Rebook you once flights are cleared or do you want a refund? I haven't got all day."
He damn well does have all day if there are no flights leaving this hellhole of an airport.
"I need to get to London as soon as possible."
He rolls his eyes at me. "Listen, mister. I'm telling you. No flights. Big storm. You want a rebooking voucher or a refund?"
"Are flights leaving Newark? Can you get me on a flight out from there?" I'm wracking my brain to think of options. This blasted storm is blanketing the entire northeast with snow.
I should have left earlier in the week. I knew I shouldn't have left it to the last minute. I'd been so sure I'd make it home in plenty of time.
Then this storm had come up out of nowhere. My co-workers had been nonchalant about it, inured to the vagaries of weather in the tri-state area. I assumed the airports here were better equipped at handling snow. Better than Heathrow, at any rate.
Obviously not these amounts of snow.
"They're all shut down. The whole East coast. There aren't any flights going out of anywhere. Period. Now for the last time—refund or rebook. You're holding up the line."
I step away from the counter moments later, a slip of paper in hand and no prospect of reaching London anytime soon.
I aggressively punch in a search for train schedules on my mobile. Perhaps I can go south. There should be less snow south of here, shouldn't there? I could book a flight out of somewhere down there.
But where? Philadelphia? Baltimore? Washington?
The weather map is grim. All those cities are under the same massive storm alert as we are. Trains don't seem to be running either.
What the hell is going on with this country? I thought they were supposed to be intrepid and blasé about weather deviations like this. Obviously the television shows have vastly exaggerated the hardiness of the populace. And of their transportation systems.
Fuck it all. My mobile battery is now well into the red zone. I scan the gate area for a place to charge it while I plan my next step. I need battery power if I'm going to be doing searches all night.
There. I can see charging ports on that pillar beyond the counter.
I stride over to it, pulling my charging cord out of my bag. There's a sudden movement to my left as I bend down to connect it. A pair of worn-down trainers come into view. "There's another port over there," I say, waving my hand at another free outlet. "I'm using this one."
It's only when I stand up that I come face to face with those familiar blue eyes. Bronze curls. Tawny, mole-dotted skin.
A face I would recognize anywhere.
The face I see in my dreams.
The face of the boy I've been hopelessly in love with since fifth year at Watford.
"Baz."
I blink at him and my mind is a blank. So, of course, I say exactly the wrong thing.
What I said to him countless times during the eight years we were roommates.
"What the fuck are you doing here, Snow?"
Simon
I don't even know why I stood up. Habit, I suppose. Even now, years later, I'm still on alert when I see Baz.
I've not seen him since the leavers ball, almost five years ago now. I knew he was in London. Penny ran into him about a year ago, at Foyles. Of course.
He's not changed a bit. Still as pale as ever, tall and posh and impossibly fit. Can't even be arsed to say a proper hello.
His hair's longer. That's different.
There was a moment, when our eyes first met just now, that something else flashed across his face. It's not often you can surprise Baz Pitch. He's always got that cool, indifferent expression.
Except then, for that split second. He looked . . . well, I don't know how to describe it.
"You on this flight too, then?" Great snakes, what a stupid thing to ask. Of course he is. Why else would he be at this gate? I tense up, waiting for that sneer of his, the perfect arch of his raised eyebrow.
It doesn't come.
Which surprises me.
"The one to London? Yes. Doesn't look like anyone's getting out of here tonight." He bends down to check the connection on his mobile.
I shove my hands in my pockets and glance over at the queue. "They rebook you, then? I suppose I should get in the queue."
Baz shakes his head. "They've no idea when flights will be cleared." He stands up and waves a slip of paper at me. "I took the refund. I'll find my own way out of this."
"What're you planning?"
He's always plotting something.
"I've got the refund. Just need to find a way south, to an airport that's not shut down by this fucking nightmare of a storm."
I frown. I've been watching the weather on my mobile. This storm is huge. It's covered the whole eastern part of the country. "Where're you going to find an open airport? This thing's massive."
I know that expression. A muscle in Baz's jaw twitches and I see his knuckles whiten as he grips his mobile.
"I'll find a way."
Honestly, if anyone could it would be Baz. He's an absolute prat, a complete wanker of a human being, but he's bloody brilliant. And determined. Even I have to admit that.
"Well, good to see you again, Baz. I'll be off." I tilt my head at the long queue. "May as well figure out what to do next."
Baz
It's probably been our most civil interaction in years. I'm at my wits end with my travel plans all bollocksed up but I can't find it in myself to snap at Snow. Not when the sight of him makes my chest feel tight. When I can't keep my eyes from hungrily taking in every detail of him.
He looks the same. Worn trainers, track bottoms, hoodie—just like always. His hair is longer, the curls disheveled and falling over his forehead in that familiar way. I want to reach out and push them from his face, sink my fingers into the mass of them. My eyes follow the trail of moles along his neck, dart up to the one on his cheek that I've longed to kiss for years now.
I want to keep him here, talking to me, letting me soak up the sight of him.
But he's already moving away, waving his hand as he steps to the back of the queue.
"Snow." His name wrenches out of me.
He stops, tilts his head and gives me a puzzled look. "Yeah?"
I clear my throat. "Are you rebooking or getting a refund?"
His brow furrows. "What?"
Classic Snow response. I roll my eyes and repeat myself.
He shrugs. "Dunno. I'll probably see if they can rebook me. I've got nowhere else to go." He looks around. "Don't fancy spending Christmas in an airport, mind you, but I suppose it could be worse."
I don't know what I'm thinking. I don't know what I'm doing. I just know that I haven't seen him in years and he's still making my heart pound like it did when we lived together. I can't let him walk away. I'm surely making an arse of myself but the words are out of my mouth before I can summon the strength to keep them in.
"Get the refund."
"What?"
"Get the refund voucher. I'll find an airport that will get us out of this fucking country and back home in time for Christmas, Snow."
"You mean leave here? How? There's a bloody great blizzard out there, Baz. Snowmageddon or whatever they're calling it."
"Go get the refund. I'll figure things out while you're in the queue."
To my utter shock he shrugs, nods his head and makes his way to join the mass of people in front of the counter.
Simon
I don't think his hair is all that's different about him.
Baz has never directed that many words at me without an insult slipped in somewhere.
He's probably just preoccupied. The travel inconvenience has him off his game.
My eyes keep going back to him as I wait in the queue. He's leaning against the pillar, head down, furiously tapping at his mobile.
I like his hair this way. Falling down around his face in soft waves.
He always used to slick it back at school. It gave him such a severe, distant look. Went with his personality, I guess.
The only time he tied it up was when he was on the pitch.
Why am I thinking about Baz's hair?
I shake myself and take a step forward in the queue. It's slow and I'm bored. Everyone around me is complaining and arguing.
My eyes are drawn back to Baz. He's still hunched over, scowling at whatever is on his screen. I let my eyes roam over him.
He's still fit, the twat.
I don't think I've ever seen Baz in jeans before. They look expensive, tailored like they're made for him. He looks really good.
Fuck.
I can feel my face grow hot, even before I turn away from him to scan the waiting area, trying to find something to focus on that isn't Baz. I don't know why I'm being like this. I know I haven't seen him in a while but it's just Baz. It's not like he's one of my friends. Far from it.
I'd been so excited, that first day at Watford. I'd never lived anywhere so posh, never been around people like that.
I don't know why Watford gave out scholarships. I don't know how I managed to qualify for one. All I know is one day Headmaster Mage showed up at the care home, signed some papers and whisked me off to a place that could have come out of one of my fantasies.
He'd explained it all on the train. That I'd live at Watford, that he'd be my temporary guardian while I was there since he's the headmaster. He'd gone on about the clubs and classes and people I'd meet. It was like one of my dreams come to life but even better.
Until I met my roommate. Baz.
I'd introduced myself, stammering 'cause I was so nervous, put my sweaty hand out towards his. And he'd just glared at me.
I didn't know anything about him. Didn't know his mum had been the previous headmaster. Didn't know she'd been killed in a hit and run on her way to Watford a few years before. Didn't know Baz was in the car with her when she died.
I didn't know any of that.
I wanted to make a friend. That's what all the roommates in stories were—friends.
He'd glared at me and moved off, leaving me standing there with my hand still held out.
It didn't get much better after that. I couldn't do anything right. Not in class, not in the room, not on the pitch.
Baz even said I breathed too loud.
It was open hostility the first few years but by the end we'd gotten into a bit of a pattern. We'd stopped getting into scraps after third year.
I didn't want to get expelled—Watford was the only home I had. Being in the care homes for the summers was bad enough. I couldn't imagine being back in them full time.
I'd stay out of his way as much as possible—sit far from him in class, in the dining hall. I'd shower in the morning, he'd do it at night. I'd try to study in the library with Penny and he'd stay in the room.
Things were almost civil by the time we graduated. Almost.
If you call sharing a space with someone and barely speaking to them civil.
I'd learned all about his mum by then. And I'd learned Headmaster Mage had been the one to take her place. Figured that first day was likely harder for him than for me. Being stuck with some charity case of the headmaster's was the last thing he'd wanted to be saddled with.
I can understand that. I can understand how upsetting it was to go back to a place that meant so much to his mum.
I suppose it was easier to take it out on me than anyone else at first. I get that. But then I suppose we got into the habit of needling each other, sniping and snarking constantly. And it stuck. We didn't know how to be anything else.
At least I didn't know how.
I tried fifth year. Tried to bite back the comments, tried not to flare up when he would say things in that cool, posh voice of his.
I've a temper. Didn't manage holding it in too well. Baz has a way of going for the low blow, every time. It's maddening.
It didn't help at all seventh year, when Agatha broke up with me. I knew she liked Baz. Liked him more than me. They were a better match—everyone could see it. Both from wealthy, old families, both gorgeous and elegant, just made for each other.
Except it never happened. He'd spent years trying to break us up and then, when we finally did, he just seemed to stop caring. I've never understood that. I thought for certain he'd sweep Agatha off her feet and that'd be it.
I think Agatha was expecting that as well.
I'm finally getting closer to the counter. Three people left in front of me. I take a peek in Baz's direction again.
He's looking right at me. With that funny expression on his face. I can't place it, it's nothing like his usual sneer.
My face gets hot again and I turn my head.
But I can't get that image out of my mind.
He looked . . . he looked hungry? No, that's not it.
Longing? Is that it?
I'm sure I'm reading it wrong. He's probably just tired.
That doesn't explain why he's looking at me that way though.
Baz
The trains are as fucked as the airlines. I'm desperate enough to look at bus schedules, even if the thought of traveling by bus makes me shudder.
It's useless. Everything's shut down. Planes, trains, busses. I'm fucked. There's no way I'm getting home in time for Christmas. No way I'm going to be there for Mordelia's birthday.
And thanks to American internships and their brutal holiday leave policies I've got to be back here in another week. I'll be lucky if I get three full days at home and I'll be missing the most important ones. Fuck it all.
I hate it here. I hate this internship. I want nothing more than to move back to London. I know it's a reputable company. I know it will be a good addition to my resume.
They're planning on opening a London office in May. That's the whole reason I've put up with this misery in the first place. The hope that this internship will lead to a full-time job offer in London.
There's no guarantee of that though.
Some days I want to give my notice, walk out of there and never go back.
I've thought about it. Thought about not coming back next week. But I'm not one to give up. Not one to shirk my duty.
I'm a Pitch. I'll see it through.
I wonder why Snow is here. Probably visiting Bunce.
I ran into Bunce last spring, before she moved to Chicago. She and Snow were still sharing a flat then. It wasn't hard to get her talking about him.
I know he's taking this year off. I know he's working in a care home. I know he's planning on going to graduate school, in Social Work.
I hadn't realized how desperate I was to know how he was doing. I had assured myself I was over him. That I could listen to Bunce and not feel any emotion other than vague interest.
Seeing him now proves just how wrong I was. I can barely take my eyes off him.
I don't know what I'm thinking. I don't know why I told him to take the refund. I don't know why I'm letting myself hope.
Nothing's going to be different. He's not going to be friends with me.
He's not going to realize I'm in love with him. That I've been in love with him for years.
There's no hope of him falling in love with me.
I'm not sure he even likes me, to be honest. I wouldn't, if I were him. I've been beastly since the first day we met.
I square my shoulders. I'm certainly not going to let on how I feel about him. I've kept it to myself for years. I can keep it under wraps a bit longer.
It would be so much easier if I hadn't just told him I'd find us a way home though.
I've booked us a rental car. Which is likely one of the stupidest ideas I've ever had. How we're going to manage driving through this blizzard is beyond me but it's the only option I've got left.
Miraculously I have managed to secure us a Range Rover. The rental rate was obscene, which is likely why it was still available.
But money is no object to me at the moment. I need to get home.
I'm an excellent driver. I'm familiar with the vehicle. It's a more manageable size than some of these American behemoths and I know it should handle well in snow. At least the kind of snow we get back home.
I've no idea how it will handle in this blizzard. But it's all I have so I am putting my faith and my energy into making this work.
It takes four hours to drive to Washington in good weather. Likely double in this muck. Planes are still flying out of there but I'm not sure how long that will last. They've got freezing rain at the moment but that could change rapidly into snow.
If Washington shuts down then my next option is Richmond.
I'm plotting this all out on my map. If we get to either of those places tonight we can fly out on tomorrow's flight. That would get us to London by Christmas Eve. Not ideal but it will do.
Better than Christmas day, but I'll even take a Christmas day arrival if I have to.
I save the flight data and maps on my mobile. I don't want to book a flight yet, not sure if Washington or Richmond will be my best option.
Snow is still in the queue. I let my eyes rest on him, drinking in the sight of him. I've not let myself think about him. Not since I saw Bunce. It's too hopeless to let myself dwell.
It hurts to think about him. To know he's been in London for all these years. To know that I can't simply call him up and ask him round to the pub. Because I've been such a wanker to him for so long.
Because he'd never say yes.
Because I don't even have his number.
He's filled out a bit. He'd always be so thin when he'd come back at the start of term. Painfully thin. Wan and anxious. And then he'd settle in somehow, the light coming back into his eyes.
I'd watch him shovel Cook Pritchard's food in at mealtimes. And then in a matter of weeks his color would be back to that golden glow, his face would lose its sharp angles, he'd be back to the Simon Snow I knew and loved.
He looks like that now. I suppose he must look like that all the time, since he's out on his own and doesn't have to go back in care every summer.
I don't know why Mage did that. Sent him back to those homes at end of term. Surely he could have stayed at Watford.
Mage was there. The caretaker was there. There were always some staff on hand to keep the place up during the summer. Some of the professors lived just off the grounds.
I'm sure the Wellbeloves would have taken him in.
Simon spoke about it once. Seventh year. I don't think he intended to reveal as much as he did. He'd always spent Christmas with Wellbelove's family and I asked him why he didn't go home with her in the summers too. They'd broken up by then so it was a bit cruel of me to ask. Which means I probably did it intentionally.
Christ, I am such a pillock sometimes. Most of the time.
He'd said then that Mage made him go to the homes in the summers. Said it would keep him closer to his roots, his origins. Make him a stronger man.
If I hadn't already hated Mage I think that would have made me do it. I can't imagine forcing Simon into that situation when he didn't need to be in it.
It was cruel.
But it was the next part that gutted me.
"I'm old enough to sign myself out now." He'd said it so softly I'd barely caught it.
"What?"
"I can sign myself out. If you're over sixteen you can leave. Be on your own."
"So why don't you? Certainly it's better being anywhere but there?"
He'd looked down at the floor and shrugged. Snow can carry on entire conversations using shrugs. It's maddening.
"Nowhere else to go. It's better than being on the street. Three meals a day and showers."
"But surely . . ." and then I'd stopped. Because I wasn't sure of anything all of a sudden. He had no family. He had no income. I could have let a small flat for the summer, paid for my expenses on my own. He didn't have that luxury.
"Surely you could stay with someone—Bunce, Wellbelove?"
He had shaken his head. "Too many people at Penny's. There's barely enough room for all of them. And Micah's visiting this summer."
He hadn't mentioned Wellbelove. I suppose that would have been awkward, spending the summer with your ex-girlfriend. I don't know why I had brought it up.
"You could . . ." I'd managed to stop myself in time. I couldn't believe I'd almost asked him to come home with me for the summer.
No, I couldn't do that. Couldn't have invited Mage's charity case home with me. What would my father have thought?
Snow wouldn't have come anyway. He'd have assumed it was some elaborate plot to humiliate him or make him wretched.
He's always thought the worst of me. With good reason, of course, but it still twinges.
