Page 146 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
“I don’t want Digby, Connie,” I shake my head, almost begging him to save me with my eyes. “I don’t want to marry him. I want Arthur. I want to marry Arthur.”
He licks his bottom lip, sighs, nods, pulls me into a hug.
“I know you do, Phoebs.”
Isn’t it telling that he didn’t even try to get me to go with Digby? He wants me with Arthur, Arthur wants me with Arthur,I want Arthur. I think deep down even my sister wants me with Arthur—fuck.
I pull back, look into his eyes. “What am I going to do?”
He bites the inside of his cheek, winces a bit. “Whatever it is that you need to do.”
I wanted to shut the door on Digby and throw away the key.
I sniff, recover. “Should I ask about Primrose?”
He shakes his head, smiles.
So I leave it.
Maybe it was the wrong girl I asked after?
But then, is there a right girl? A right boy? Wrong, right, good, bad—we can’t put human beings into boxes. They don’t fit. And if you feel as though it’s in your right to shove a person into one box, then you’d need to squish them down, break their arms and their legs and watch them as they wither and become restless until they break free and then we don’t like what they’ve become.
I go upstairs, to Spencer’s room because I kind of owe it to her.
“I’m sorry,” I say. Walk in, sit on her bed.
She sighs, looks up from her book and closes it.
“He was embarrassed of me.”
“Connie?”
“Yeah,” she nods, looking away. “He thought I was embarrassed of him so he turned it around.” She shakes her head in quick succession. “But I was never embarrassed about him, Phoebs. I think I loved him at some point but there was always Primrose.”
“When did it start?”
“It never ‘started’ I was just someone he went to when he felt like nobody else wanted him. Living together intensified it, though.”
I frown. “If it never started how will it end?”
She gives it a think.
“When he realises that there are people who love him. Why do you think it’s never lasted with Primrose? He thinks he can read minds, thinks he knows exactly what people think about him—but they’re just projections of his own insecurities. It’s true when they say that no one can love you if you don’t love yourself.”
“Do you still love him?”
She lifts one shoulder. “I can’t really, can I?”
“You can love whoever you want.”
Isn’t that crazy? Falling in love isn’t illegal despite how cruel and chaotic and dangerous it can be. There are no rules to love. It’s a free for all. Probably why so many people end up going mad. I think being in love is one of the most insane human experiences. It isn’t even that comprehensible—you can’t explain it or talk about it—you just feel it as it hits you in big waves.
It’s been scientifically proven that being in love changes your brain chemistry—gives you the same pleasure as taking cocaine or drinking alcohol. And how many people do you know that are addicted to those illegal substances?
Probably why so many naive people ask why you do drugs when you could be in love. But I don’t think those people have ever been in love. With drugs, you can stop, you can go to rehab—get better. What is there for a broken heart?
“I don’t know,” Spencer says quietly. “I think part of me will always love him.”
