Page 155 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
“Maybe you freaked me out! About to ask me to marry you. Jesus Christ, Digby, what world are you living in!”
“One where I love you and want to spend the rest of my life with you but it seems I’m here on my own because you don’t, do you, Phoebe?”
I tilt my head, roll my eyes. “Don’t what?”
“Love me,” he says quietly.
No, I don’t. Love is such a strong word. Happiness, anger, sadness and love—pretty much the core four emotions. They take up so much of our lives and yet people just throw them around like they mean nothing. Even the Greeks who lived long before us knew the power of the word. I don’t think I can bring myself to stand here and lie to his face like that. About Arthur, sure, yeah—but not that. I’m not sure there’s anything worse than someone lying to you about love. Feels cruel.
And honestly, I think I lost a lot of the love I thought I had for him when I realised that being with him was turning me into a not very nice person.
I stand there, in our room, facing him, unsure of what I’m going to do next.
“Phoebe,” he says and takes a couple of steps towards me. “Whose shirt is that?”
I look down at myself. “What?”
“That isn’t my shirt.” He comes closer, pinches the bottom of it between his fingers. “This isn’t mine.”
I rip the shirt from his fingers. “Don’t be silly, of course it is.”
“Turn around,” he says evenly. “Let me see the tag.”
“You,” I point at him. “Have lost the fucking plot.”
He whacks my finger away. “If there isn’t a problem let me see the tag.”
“And what do you think the label is going to prove? Don’t tell me your mum is still ironing your name into your shirts.”
He rolls his eyes. “Stop messing me around, Phoebe! Just let me fucking see it!”
“Stop swearing at me!” I scream, putting some distance between us.
Hands gripping his hair, jaw clenched, he stares at me with these dark eyes. “Fucking grow up will you!”
I blow out a deep breath. “I’m leaving.”
He pulls back. “You’re what?”
“I’m leaving,” I say, walking out of the room.
He follows me as I grab my trench and throw it over the shirt that isn’t his.
“You’re leaving me?” He says softly, almost vulnerable.
I slip my heels back on, stand up, shrug. “Why should I stay?”
“Answer my fucking question!” He shouts. “You’re leaving me for him, aren’t you?”
I get close to him, my heart pounding, my stomach turning acidic. “And why should I fucking stay? You disrespect my friends, me, my family, everything I do? Give me a good reason as to why I should stay.”
He breathes heavily, staring down at me, our chests almost touching. “Why him? Why not me?”
“Why not him?”
His tongue darts out to wet his top lip and he walks back.
“Say it,” I dare him. “Go on.”
