Page 58 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
“So, what was rehab actually like? I’ve never been.”
“That’s actually really shocking.”
“What? That I’ve never been to rehab?” Her eyes go wide but she’s still smiling.
“Yeah,” I nod, laugh a bit. “It was boring, mostly. Did a lot of colouring in, lot of card games, got really good at chess. Writing, drawing—all the usual crap they make the hospitalised do.”
“Ah,” she clicks her tongue. “That’s what I do when I book a spa break. I don’t need rehab, just a week in Bath.”
I laugh, roll my eyes airily.
Phoebe comes back into the room, Mia gives me a look and then gets up and leaves.
“Gosh,” Phoebe sighs, sitting down opposite me. “Sorry for that—I’m in such a weird mood today.”
“Why? Something happened with you and Dicky?”
She squints her eyes at me, purses her lips. “No.”
I hold my hands up. “Just asking.”
A kind of tense silence stretches between us. Starts to drown me, though. It’s like a thick, heavy, salty wave of all the shit I should say and all the shit that I never did. I owe her an apology, I owe her ten—owe her an apology everyday for the rest of my life, I reckon. Even then, I don’t think it’d be enough. Words are meaningless when there’s nothing to back them up. I told her I was sorry plenty of times back then—meant it every time, too. But I still went and racked up lines or stuck a needle into my arm.
I’ve always wondered if things could’ve been different. If Theo was still alive, would I have turned out like this? Was I always destined to end up the way I did? When I was born, was it already wired into my brain? Part of me thinks I was always going to be like this. Anyone can do drugs. People can become addicts at like, fifty. People can do one line and then never touch the stuff again—but I don’t think I’m one of those people. When I do something once, I do it again and again and again.
When I was in therapy, I was told I had OCD tendencies. I become obsessed with things. Not in a normal way like you have your favourite foods or whatever but mentally. My brain is different. I guess it makes sense. I always felt this way with Phoebe. Always wanted to make her happy, always wanted to please her, make her proud of me, do whatever I could so she’d stay. I don’t think I’ve ever lied to her, actually. Maybe once ortwice. But since the day I met her, I always knew I wanted to do right by her.
Even if she was to marry Dicky—which would fucking wreck me—I’d still feel that way about her. I’d still love her. I’d still be obsessed with her. But it just so happens that this obsession I have with things also slips into other things—bad things—and that’s where it all went wrong. My brain can’t understand how to be normal. How to balance things fifty, fifty. I’m all in or not at all.
And I’ve been all in with Phoebe for about six thousand, two-hundred and five days. Ruined two thousand, one-hundred and ninety of those days for her, though.
“I’m sorry, by the way,” I tell her.
She blinks away from the window, smiles. “For what?”
I swallow, stare right through her. “For ruining those years for you.”
It takes her a second but then her face crumbles like she’s just been reminded. She shifts, crosses her legs. “I’m sorry, too.”
“What do you mean? You have nothing to be sorry for.”
And she doesn’t because she’ll never know how bright her sun shined in my eyes on my most cloudy days.
“It’s my fault—for not leaving when I should’ve.”
“I didn’t let you leave.”
She shrugs limply. “I didn’t want you to.”
Chapter Fifteen
Lady Phoebe
Today’s always a weird day. The weather seems to think so, too. It’s never just ‘fine’ outside. Always way too hot for March or way too bitter.
But then again, it isn’t a ‘fine’ day.
Theodore died nine years ago.
