Page 120 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
“Haven’t stopped—I miss her when she’s right in front of me.”
She nods against me. “I understand that.”
I laugh a bit. “I feel like you’re the only one that understands me these days.”
“Probably because we’re the only two people in the world in the same boat,” she mutters. “What happens if they ask us to marry?”
“Then we do and we spend the rest of our lives unhappy.”
“And you’ll think of her while you kiss me at the altar.”
“And you’ll think of him.”
“And when we’re in bed, you’ll see her.”
“And you’ll see him.”
I stare ahead, the truth obviously unsettling. It’s not a far fetched scenario—it could be our reality a month from now.
“But at least we’ll have each other.”
“Yeah,” I sigh, rest my lips on her head.
She sits up on her knees, the blanket falling onto the floor.
“Like right now,” she says, hands gripping my face.
I frown. “What do you mean?”
She moves her legs over my lap, one on either side and looks down at me. “You want to be with her and I want to be with him but we can’t and all we have is each other.”
My eyelashes flutter, my cheeks get hot. “Yeah, I guess.”
She nods, moves in closer. “It’s okay, I’ll never think of you and you’ll never think of me.”
I manage a small nod before she presses her lips to mine. It’s soft, sad, tragic. Her hands stay gripping my face. I’m struck for a second before I fall into it and move my hands to her waist.
It’s wrong in every sense of the word. We don’t love each other. And kissing someone you don’t love has a very distinct feel to kissing someone you do. It’s not melting, burning—it’s cold, desperate. There’s no fucking fireworks. Our heads are elsewhere, picturing our respective people in our minds and it’s obvious. She kisses me like she’d kiss him and I kiss her back the same way I kiss Phoebe.
Just as she starts to move her hips, voices come down below. She jumps off me, flushed, cheeks plumped, dress creased.
“My friends are back,” she mutters, wiping her mouth.
I nod, stand up, run a hand through my hair and readjust my shirt.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers looking up at me.
I shake my head. “Don’t be.”
I pass her friends as I make my way off the boat, say a quick hi and then book it back to Phoebe’s.
Feel a bit sick as I step on, as though I shouldn’t be allowed to after what I just did.
Should I tell her?
No, that’s fucking stupid.
I find myself outside of her bedroom door.
