Page 131 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
And there’s plenty of times where I can speak up and go back home to her but I don’t for some reason. Even when she looks up at me with her big blue eyes before unzipping my trousers and then when she pulls back for a second and then slips the straps of her silk nightdress down her body—there’s a quick second, short, but long enough for me to walk away.
I don’t, though, I stay.
Even before I turned up and she texted me, there was at least twenty minutes when I could’ve decided not to go through with it.
Astrid trails her hands up my shirt, unbuttoning it until it falls open and onto the floor with the rest of our clothes, looking just as disgusted as I feel. We both wonder why we’re doing this. We both don’t really want to be doing this so why are we?
It doesn’t make sense. None of it does.
Not even when she walks over to her bed and lays down, her movements are rigid, slow, unsure. When I get on top ofher, I keep my eyes locked on the headboard, Phoebe’s face a hologram in my mind.
We don’t kiss. I know that doesn’t make it any better but still, we don’t. There’s no movement to imply it’s a memorable time for either of us. Unforgettable in a different way, though. It’s a night we’ll both look back on a year or so when we no longer keep in touch with each other and remember it as a significant time when we realised there was lower than rock bottom.
Maybe she’ll go back home after the summer and tell her ‘Phoebe’ and maybe I’ll tell mine or maybe we’ll keep it a sordid secret but I think we all know that makes it worse.
Phoebe wouldn’t want to know, I know that, but she has to.
And I know it isn’t cheating, but to me, in my mind, it’s worse.
But then again, until Phoebe breaks up with Digby, we can’t be together.
I’ve made a lot of mistakes already and there’s one that will remain my greatest, but this, right here, this night, will be one I’ll never be able to bury.
Astrid turns her head to the side as we both finish, wishing we were with other people.
It wasn’t nice or satisfying, it just was…you know?
And you know after you’ve had sex you typically lay there for a couple seconds, sweating and panting? There’s none of that. We both lean over the side of the bed and put our clothes back on.
She looks over at me, her cheeks flushed. “Sorry.”
I button my shirt back up, look at her. “Me too.”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “You’ll tell her?”
I nod, she gives a small smile.
I sit on the edge of her bed to put my shoes on, she follows me, draws her legs up to her chest.
“Are we bad people?” She whispers.
“I am, you’re not.”
She shakes her head. “You didn’t cheat on her, Arthur.”
“No,” I agree. “But I was sleeping with her.”
“While she was sleeping with her boyfriend.”
“Fuck,” I laugh once. “Maybe we should all take a joint trip to the clinic.”
I get up, ready to leave.
Her friends aren’t here, if you’re wondering. They’ve gone out.
She stands up, too, frowns, bends down, picks something up.
“You dropped something.”
