Page 132 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
Opens her palm, Phoebe’s Tiffany ring stares back at me.
You could twist the knife deeper into me but it’s already there, coming out of the back of me, splitting me into two.
I snatch it from her, graze her skin, and shove it back into my pocket.
She laughs softly. “I know that ring. That’s Phoebe’s. You proposed to her when you were in school.”
Clear my throat. “Yeah.”
“And you’ve been carrying it around since—”
“Since the night I left her, yeah.”
“Do you plan on giving it back?”
“Need to tell her something first and then yeah, I do.”
“Why haven’t you told her already?”
“Because I haven’t been able to tell anyone.”
“How long have you not told her?”
“Years.”
She nods like she gets it but I know she doesn’t. She nods at a lot of things I say as though she understands and most of the time, she does but not this time. Not this.
“Do you want to stay for a drink?” She asks me in the quiet voice she’s been talking in all night.
I look out of the window, the sun is rising and I wonder if she asked because she forgot I was sober or if she asked because she thinks I need it and tonight I can make an exception.
And I’d love to tell you that I shoot down the idea straight away but I don’t. I think about it for a few seconds but then that rational part of my brain that pops in every now and then reminds me that even though drink was never a problem for me, one would turn into two and then two would turn into five and five into eight and then I’d think, ‘fuck it, I’m already here so I might as well call it in.’
“I should be getting back,” I tell her instead. “Your friends will be coming back soon, I suppose.”
She nods again, this time like she forgot the outside world exists because she was too wrapped up in our sad, miserable, pity sex. “Of course,” she gives me a small smile. “You go back to Phoebe.”
I want to tell her that I’m not sure she’ll have me but I don’t. I do really need to go back home.
“Alright,” I nod, rock back on my heels.
She smiles again, says nothing so I open the door to her bedroom and call a cab when I’m a good distance away from her boat.
It doesn’t sting anymore or any less as I put the key Phoebe gave us all when we were teenagers into the front door. It’s just a bullet in my head.
When I push open the door, Phoebe springs up from the sofa and stares at me. She’s in a big fluffy white robe, her wet hair framing her face and coming down to her waist. Fuck, her hair is so long. So are her legs. She’s pretty fucking perfect.
I ask myself for the millionth time this year why I hurt her so much.
She stands in front of the sofa, opposite me as I stay by the front door. Usually we’re like magnets. She’ll run straight to me, I’ll run straight to her but not this time because she knows. I don’t even need to tell her what just happened because the look on her face says everything.
I can tell she hasn’t slept, either which is probably making her more anxious. I can bet she feels nauseous, too—always did when she stayed up all night—so she’s probably panicking and wants me to tell her she won’t be sick but for some reason, I don’t think that’s her biggest worry right now.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her for what it’s worth.
“Yeah, me too,” she says, her voice broken.
I frown. “What for?”
