Page 196 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
I picked it up—didn’t open it straight away. My heart sort of plummeted because I hadn’t been in such direct contact with drugs since coming back. I hadn’t even really thought about using. But it was there, right in front of me and I just—
In fact, I’m not sure what I did or what I was thinking. I don’t think I was thinking because If I was, I wouldn’t have touched it. I told myself over and over to call someone. Anyone. But I didn’t want them to judge me or think I went out and bought drugs. So I didn’t. I sat on the sofa, staring at the bag forwhat felt like all of two minutes before I opened it and took two lines.
It wasn’t coke. I’m not sure what it was.
I push myself up on the bathroom floor, feel some of my bones crack into place. I’m embarrassed. I don’t know what to say to Phoebe. Says a lot that she’s here, though, right? But then again, she’s always been here. So maybe all that says is that we’re right back to where we started.
I lean against the sink, feel her arms wrap around my back, her holds digging into my stomach. Holding me with so much force like she’s scared that it has gone back to the start—but it hasn’t because I’m never doing that again. I feel like shit.
Clear my throat, look at myself in the mirror. “I’m sorry.”
She nods against me and then pulls away, goes over to the shower, turns it on and then holds her hand out to me. I shouldn’t take it, should I? I shouldn’t but I do. I let her wash my hair and my body and watch as her tears mix in with the water running down her face. I hold her to me. Told myself that if this happened that I’d let her go but now I’ve got her, I really, really don’t want to let her go. I honestly don’t think I can and I honestly don’t think she’d let me.
We start playing this fucked up game that we invented about seven years ago where she finds me at my worst, takes my hand, washes away the dirt and then reinvents me with her kisses and soft touches.
I know we should talk but as she leads me out of the shower and wordlessly over to the bed, I don’t find the words. There aren’t enough words in the dictionary for me—for us. Me and her, we’ve invented our own world with our own language that no one understands. And every time she throws her head back and moans out my name, I hate myself just a little bit less while I think she hates herself just a little bit more.
It’s selfish and you might think me a bad person for going along with it—feeding into her—but this dance is so ingrained into my memory, I don’t know how to not do this. But you know what? I’ll die a happy man as long as I’m with her. There isn’t a single other person alive on this earth who I could love in the same way and I know she feels the same and maybe that’s where we’re going wrong—I don’t know.
Phoebe lays on my chest, the sheets twisting around her body. “I love you.”
I smile to myself, staring at the ceiling. “You can leave me if you want.”
Her hand sneaks up from its place on my stomach, touches my jaw, turns my face towards her. “I could never,” she swallows. Her lips trace my cheek, my ear, the side of my face. “I love you so much,” she whispers before quickly pulling away and laying on her back, her hands covering her face as her body shakes with sobs. “I love you so much that it physically fucking hurts me, Arthur. I get a sharp stabbing pain in my chest whenever I think about it—” her voice cracks. “I don’t know what to do.”
It might be the rawest display of love I’ve ever seen. I lean up, pry her hands away from her red blotchy face. “I know,” I tell her because I do. God, don’t I fucking know how she feels. “I’m sorry for last night—it was—” shake my head, lick my lips. “It will never fucking happen again.”
She nods, jumps up, wraps her arms around my neck, buries her face in my neck. “I know, Arthur. I know what happened and I am so fucking scared.”
Before I can say anything, a knock on the door brings us back to earth. “Can I come in?” Connie says, already half way through the door.
Phoebe rolls her eyes, snatching the sheet to cover herself. “And if I said no?”
He shrugs. “I’m already here, ain’t I?”
George then barges through.
“Jesus!” Phoebe throws her arms up. “Did you invite everyone in London or…?”
George smiles, gives me a nod, a silent question. I nod back, run a hand down my face. “Have the papers got hold of it?”
“Not yet,” he mutters.
“When can we go back home?” Phoebe huffs. “It’s nearly Christmas and I have nothing here.”
George gives her a look. “I don’t know if it’s safe for you to go back yet—I’ll let you know when it is.”
`She tilts her head. “Well, when is that going to be?”
He narrows his eyes at her. “I don’t fucking know.”
Phoebe sticks her nose in the air. “Well, I at least want a fresh pair of clothes.”
Con frowns. “What’s wrong with the clothes you have?”
“Oh my god,” she mutters under her breath. “What’s wrong with them? What’s fucking wrong with them? I don’t have any!”
“Yeah,” he nods. “Just put your clothes from last night on.”
