Page 193 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
“And I mean every fucking word.”
“Cute,” I mutter, staring at him—god, you really just cannot look away from people with blue eyes, can you?—“Why are you talking to me?”
He blinks, once, twice. “Because I want you to have a word with your boyfriend.”
“About…?”
A grin slowly makes its way up his face. “Where I can find some Charlie ‘round here.”
“You’re not funny,” I say blankly. “And quite frankly really rather annoying—not to mention incredibly rude.”
“Ah,” he tuts, raises his hands. “My bad. I thought we were making jokes about that now.”
“We are.” I blink once. “You’re just not in the circle of people who can. Anywho, if you don’t mind—”
I go to walk past him but he takes one giant step and stops me in my tracks. “I’m sorry, alright? My mistake, won’t happenagain—but could you please put in a good word with him? Ev’s like a rock, there is absolutely no cracking her—and now, don’t get me wrong,” he holds a hand up, eyes shut. “I will hack at that rock everyday for the rest of my life but it would help so much if you just helped me speed that process up. I’ve heard it can take years to break a rock.” He looks up at me with big blue pleading eyes.
“That’s really sweet and whatever but there literally isn’t a single good word to be said about you.”
I take one step away from him before he stops me again. “There is,” he nods proudly. “I’m good at playing instruments—give me one instrument and I’ll play it for you—” I shake my head. “And I’m fucking funny. You know my brother, so that’s a given really—and—and I’m really smart.”
“You’re dyslexic.”
He rolls his eyes, laughs once. “Now who’s being the rude one? Dyslexics can be smart. Just don’t ask me to spell, read or write.” He shrugs, gives me a pointed look like I did actually touch a nerve and now I feel bad.
I put a hand on his shoulder. “My apologies. I’ll speak to Arthur.”
He blows me a kiss. “I love you.”
I look over my shoulder. “No you don’t.”
He’s cute, I’ll give him that. And confident. Maybe he isn’t all that much like Connie. If there’s one thing I’ve noticed in recent months, it’s that Connie is actually a little bit of a coward when it comes to love. Don’t get me wrong, love is scary. It’s so unnecessarily unreliable and confusing and a really gross murky grey colour (sometimes). There’s other parts though, when it’s steady and makes sense and feels believable and lives up to the expectation that everyone gives it but also, not everyone can see that. It can take years to see that. Some people die before they can see that. I hate to think about it, but I think Connie might beone of those people. He can’t see behind or over the fence, just what is in front of it.
When Connie and I finally leave, it’s dark outside—for him, for everyone else—but not for me. It’s midday, after a much needed cry from the sky. That fresh smell in the air? The rain sticking to everything? It’s my favourite weather and since I’ve been with Arthur, it’s stayed like that.
My stomach flips, the closer we get to Connie’s because I know he’s there and it’s so stupid because how long have we been at this? You’d think I get over it. It’s nothing special seeing him but it is. Everytime I lay eyes on him, it feels like the first time all over again. The air suddenly shifts, the smell of marigolds and daylilies attacking my lungs with every inhale.
It’s very short lived, though, like most things because when Connie puts his key through the door and we walk, every light that was glowing inside of me is snuffed out.
Arthur is slumped on the sofa, and I think that isn’t anything strange but then I walk around and see what’s on the coffee table and I tell myself I must be dreaming because it makes no sense.
Cocaine.
He relapsed.
A breezeblock settles in my stomach, weighing me down to the floor as I cover my face with my hands. I can’t look at that. I can’t look at the lines of cocaine laying in front of him. He can’t have relapsed. This isn’t allowed—how can this be allowed? He can’t do this to me. He promised. He fucking promised me with so much sincerity that I believed him.
It’s different this time, though, because we’re different. I’m different in a way I never have been before.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Lady Phoebe
I only realise that I’ve been crying when Connie sits down on the floor next to me, wrapping me in his arms and wiping my cheeks.
“He didn’t do this,” he tells me.
I sneak a look up at him, trying my best to avoid Arthur because I just can’t see him like this again. I don’t have it in me.
