Page 83 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
I shrug.
“You’re not even bothered with this relationship, are you?”
“I am,” I mutter. Lean back on my bed, cross my ankles.
He stands up, at the foot of my bed, arms out. “Do you want to break up?”
My heart plummets. Like, I actually feel it drop to the pit of my stomach. I throw my magazine to the side. Crawl over to him on my knees and wrap my arms around his neck.
“You know I don’t want that.”
He cocks his head. “Do I?”
I nod, pull my vest over my head and kiss him.
He goes to lean back on my bed but I push him to the floor and straddle him because we’ve never had sex in my bed before and I don’t intend on starting now.
Not when I know Arthur is just a stone's throw away from me, a constant shadow that looms over me—always has done and always will. When—and if—I slide that ring onto Digby’s finger at the altar, it won’t be my doing, it’ll be Arthur’s.
Chapter Twenty-One
Prince Arthur
I’m having lunch with a friend I met in rehab at Chiltern Firehouse. Really genuine guy, actually. Five years older than me, in there for alcohol. Got really bad. He almost died.
“So what about you and that girl?” Rhys asks.
I smile. “How’d you know about the girl?”
He laughs, puts his fork down. “All you banged on about when you were in there, mate—go on, how is she?”
“Ah,” I wobble head. “You know…”
“She got a fella now?”
I give him a look.
“Shit that is.” He looks sorry, shrugs. “But what can you do? Is he a nice bloke?”
“He’s alright. Nothing special.”
He’s a total fucking wanker, truth be told but I can’t tell him that. He’ll think I’m right up my own arse prick.
“And, uh, your sister? How’s she?” He looks up at me, arms resting on the table. Choppy waters, our sisters. I don’t know why. But I think it’s why I was so drawn to him in rehab. He got me. Understood.
“She’s alright, yeah. Coming round slowly,” I nod, fake smile. “And yours?”
Not in the public eye, the Rosier’s. They’re rich, sure, but not famous. They live up in Cheltenham, his sister, Alice is the same age Ev. First time Rhys and I met was in a group therapy session where our families had written and sent us letters. We both cried while reading our sisters. Phoebe never sent me one but then again, I wasn’t expecting that she would. I mean, whatwould she even say? There is a point where you get hurt so much that not even words can explain it. It’s almost invisible, this air of pain and suffering that all you can do is just wallow in it for a bit.
“She still hates me,” Rhys says. “Tried talking to her. But I don't know about you, but for the last year or so, all I’ve been doing is reliving all the shit moments. It’s like, I didn’t remember doing it then but now it’s all coming to the forefront—and I just feel fucking awful.”
“To be honest, mine still hates me, too. She’s barely spoken to me since I came back. I think she just hates how much I hurt her, not me as a person.”
Rhys lifts a shoulder. “But what’s the difference between that? What’s the line? I hurt my sister so much that she probably does just hate me as a person.”
I shake my head, try to tell him that’s not true because I’d hate for that to be true for me as well.
I like to think that Ev’s old enough to see it. To see that there’s two versions of me. The one she grew up with and the one she watched turn into an addict. I think Phoebe can see it but then again, it doesn’t matter to her how many versions there are of myself—she’d love them all. The difficult thing is—and this is what I think Rhys is trying to say—is that when you are an addict to the extent of myself and the guy sitting in front of me were, it becomes you. It isn’t just a switch you can flick on or off. It’s who you are when you wake up, when you brush your teeth, when you eat your breakfast, when you leave the house and it’s the you that smiles and talks with friends and has dinner with your family. It’s the you that goes to bed at night. You don’t wake up a different person. You wake up the same, as if you weren’t an addict.
