Page 100 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
Fuck, I think, this is so fucking fucked up—why am I loving every second of it?
It’s too late to think about her dickhead boyfriend, anyway. We both gasp, her nails digging into my skin so deep she’s probably drawing blood. But all thoughts of registering pain or reason go straight out of the window.
“Arthur, I—”
I hold myself up with one hand, use the other to grab the back of her neck. Her breath fans the side of my face, her hands can’t keep still and with the way she doesn’t know what to do with herself, I know Digby’s never had her like this. But Digby can’t read music and I play Phoebe like my favourite instrument.
“I know,” I nod. “I know, it’s okay.”
∗ ∗ ∗
As the evening summer sun casts a soft glow over her tanned arms draped over my body, I wonder what the fuck just happened.
We just had sex, in Paris, while she has a boyfriend.
“Was that wrong?” Phoebe asks in a soft quiet voice, eyes locked on the ceiling.
“Maybe a bit,” I nod. “But it felt right.”
“It did,” she whispers back.
We stay like that for a bit, how we used to, sweaty, spent and tangled in the sheets of our miscommunication.
I think about it—the times we spent in this room. After her mum’s fashion show, we came back after drinking too muchchampagne and fiddled with each other's clothes until they came off. I mean, we were kids back then, it wasn’t mind blowing, you know, no fireworks but sex—believe it or not—rarely is. It’s all fumbling hands, weird noises, laughing, wondering if what you’re doing feels good but having no breath to ask.
I’m not sure how our relationship got to that point at such a young age. The constant sex. Maybe it was a co-dependency thing. Giving your naked body over to someone is the most intimate thing you can do. I’m not a prude or anything but I don’t think you should just be handing it over to people willy-nilly. Not everyone knows how to take care of something so delicate.
I wonder, then, if this is us going back in time—falling into each other when our words fail us. I don’t know if she’s like this with Digby, part of me wishes she wasn’t but that part of me that knows her better than myself knows that she is.
I turn on my side, the sheet slipping down my waist. Stroke her hair out of her face, she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move, probably scared to breathe in case she’s snapped back into reality.
“You need to tell me, Phoebs.”
“It’s going to hurt you. I can’t.”
“Nothing can hurt me more than I’ve hurt myself, I promise you.” I sit up, against the headboard, look out of the window at all the sparkling city lights. “If you don’t tell me, this is just us falling back into old patterns and I can’t imagine Dr.Kane would be best pleased with that.”
She laughs, a small, tired huff, sits up, holds the sheet to her naked chest.
Turns to face me. “It’s okay if you won’t love me anymore.”
“You’re scaring me now.”
Phoebe reaches for my hand, grabs it, squeezes tight.
“You’re fixed now. I can’t fix this.”
I frown. “Every problem has a solution.”
Shakes her head, so sure. “Not this one, Arthur—and that’s okay. I’m okay with it.”
I start shaking a bit. “Have you got fucking terminal cancer or something?”
She smiles. “No.”
Grips my hand even tighter, takes a deep breath, her eyelids flutter, she sniffs, looking me dead in the eye.
“I’m infertile, Arthur. I can’t have babies.”
