Page 30 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
But that’s sort of funny in a way—we know how terrible and cancerous cigarettes are and yet, it doesn’t scare that many people. We still smoke even though it’s bad. We still press bruises on our legs even though they hurt. We still dip our fingers into hot wax even though it burns. It’s the things that catch us off guard that hurt the most—nipping your skin with a razor, pricking your thumb with a knife, accidentally tweezing your skin instead of your eyebrow hairs.
I think it’s because if we already know it’s going to hurt, it’s not that bad—we’re prepared, geared up, ready. When we’re caught off guard, we’re often relaxed, slumped, soft, uncaring, at our most vulnerable—we think we’re safe in those moments.
Getting hurt when you think you’re safe hurts more than any bruise or cigarette.
I’m on the rooftop, smoking one of those cigarettes that I know hurt, staring out into the London skyline. It’s very peaceful up here. Cold, but peaceful.
“Phoebe?”
I jump so hard that my cigarette slips from between my fingers.
I know who that is.
I know his voice.
With a rock the size of the entirety of my teenage years in the pit of my stomach, I turn around slowly to face him.
“Hi, Arthur.”
He takes another two steps closer to me, hands in his pockets.
“How are you?” He asks and I can tell he’s nervous. His voice is shaky, his right leg is bouncing slightly.
“I’m okay…I think?”
He smiles and it stabs me straight through the heart. I swear, I could’ve fallen right off this roof into the London traffic and I wouldn’t feel a thing—that’s how delirious I am right now.
“You think?” Arthur sits down on one of the chairs, legs spread, hand resting on his knee. “Sit down, tell me why you think you might be okay.”
And it’s so weird.
We’ve seen each other naked, I’ve wiped sick from his mouth and blood from his nose and yet, we now can’t string a conversation together?
But I do sit down, next to him on the other chair, half facing him. I take a deep breath, we sit in silence. He’s probably thinking about all the bad stuff while I’m still stuck on the fact that he’s here, alive and breathing next to me.
“I don’t want to talk to you if it’s just another box to tick on your 12 steps,” I tell him without thinking.
He blinks, faces me. “I don’t have a program to follow.”
Tilt my head. “But I thought all addicts did?”
I missed him so much. I didn’t realise just how much, I don’t think. All I want him to say next is that he loves me and then I can leave Digby and that we can run off together far, far away from this terribly beautiful city—
“Well, I mean, yeah I have to make amends but—”
“What?”
He shifts, sticks his tongue out to wet his top lip. “I can make amends with everyone else with a couple of conversations but you—I'll spend the rest of my life making amends with you.”
“Okay,” I say slowly. “How do you make amends with me?”
“I say sorry,” he shrugs, all a bit lost. “I tell you—I promise you—it won’t go back to how it was ever again and then I let you move on.”
I frown. “Why would you let me move on?”
“Because I didn’t back then.”
“What if I don’t want to move on?”
