Page 180 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
“Hi,” she mutters, glancing away from my face.
“You alright?”
I shove my hands in my pockets, rock back on my heels.
“I’m sorry,” she sighs, relenting. “Nothing happened on Halloween with Digby and I, Arthur, you completely misread the situation.”
“I know,” I tell her and she looks up at me. Eyebrows raised, mouth parted a couple inches. She looks shocked. “I know I did.” I shake my head. “I’m sorry—I just jumped to the first thing that came into my mind.”
She nods, swallows. “I know, but I just—”
“Stop it.”
“Huh?” She frowns.
“Stop,” I shake my head. “Phoebe, I’m so fucking tired of these games. I don’t wanna play anymore. If you want to win, then you’ve won, okay?” I take a couple steps over to her, grab her elbow and pull her in closer to me. “The sneaking around, cheating on your boyfriend—”
“He isn't my boyfriend.”
“Have you broken up with him, then?” I ask, an anchor of hope dragging me down.
“Well,” she shrugs. “Not in so many words but it’s pretty obvious—”
“He’s still your boyfriend then, ain’t he?”
Her face falls and her eyes go with the rest of her, hooded and tired. “I will, though. I will break up with him.”
“I know you will.”
She glances to her feet and then back up to me. “Will you wait for me?”
Fuck. Been waiting for her this whole time, have I not? We know this by now—I’ll wait for her until my very last days on earth and if she wants me when I’m already gone then I’ll dig up my own grave and crawl over to her.
“Yeah.”
“You will?”
“Yeah, Phoebs,” I swallow thickly. “I will.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Lady Phoebe
It’s only been three days since I last spoke to Arthur at the ballet. But now it’s November 5th and my birthday and I feel sick. I’ve felt sick all morning and all afternoon and for the majority of the evening.
As I sit on the edge of my bathtub, wrapped in my towel, I stare at myself in the mirror above my sink opposite me. I don’t only see my face, though. I see the time Arthur put his fist through the glass and the time I caught him bent over my counters and the countless other times we took our clothes off and washed ourselves together. I wonder if we’ll do that again.
I tried for so long to erase him but he was everywhere. He’s all over this house, all over my room, and my bed and my walls and my furniture. I still have his clothes from secondary school tucked away in my chest of drawers.
As I start to get dressed, I think about the look Cynthia gave me when she came over earlier to give me my presents. The same one she gave me the day I started my period, before I had told anyone. The first time she saw me after losing my virginity even though no one knew. It isn’t a dramatic look or anything. She just stares at me, unblinking, but her eyes talk. They say everything I haven’t yet. Which is terrifying and also maybe comforting because for as long as she’s alive, I’ll never carry a burden on my own.
I stare at my reflection, trying and failing to flatten my dress over my hips. It isn’t sitting right. My hair doesn’t look good either and I noticed a new spot on my chin this morning.
“Mum!” I shout at the top of the stairs.
She walks around from the living room, tilts her head at me. Removes her glasses off her face. “Different colour, maybe?”
“No, it’s the hips, I think—”
