22. “White Horse” - Taylor Swift
“White Horse” - Taylor Swift
Someone is knocking at the door. I ignore them. They keep at it for a few more minutes but eventually give up and go away. The sun saturates the drapes covering the west window like a bucket of gold poured in from outside. It will soon turn to shades of pink, orange, and red.
I’m still dressed in my jeans and bra from last night, my sweater discarded somewhere on the floor. I’m going to burn it, along with all traces of Henry’s scent.
My mouth feels dry, and I know without looking in a mirror that my eyes are puffy. I feel like something rising from the dead, barely alive, barely breathing, heart still cold.
It’s like existing in a dream world: you think you should be able to feel things, but you can’t because you’re trapped in another reality, one that doesn’t feel real at all because it can’t possibly be real.
But the gaping hole in your chest, the one that’s impossible to ignore, is still there, still aching, still reminding you that you’re alive, even if just barely.
They’ve been coming all day—Maisie, Daphne, Rosalind, even Beatrice.
The only person who doesn’t is the only one I want to see.
If he did show up, I don’t know whether I’d carve his heart out with a rusty spoon or demand an explanation.
But it doesn’t matter, because the door between our rooms remains shut.
There’s only a gaping silence on the other side.
I knew, of course, that Henry can’t be trusted. It’s in his DNA. But he caught me unawares and captured me so completely, I assumed something had changed. I forgot the most important thing: a wolf is still a wolf, even in granny’s clothing.
How is it possible to have misread so many signals?
I now recognize his concern, his thoughtfulness, his tenderness, his vulnerability—all of the things that chipped away at my resolve to keep him out—for what they actually were: traps laid for my poor heart to stumble into and be fatally ensnared by.
I am angry. Angry at him, sure, but mostly at myself. Because no matter how hard I try, I can’t murder the flicker of hope that there’s some explanation. Approximately how many times can a meat grinder be used on a heart before it finally relents and accepts reality?
I need to know why, need to understand. Does he have a fear of commitment, or does he just get off on stealing and breaking hearts?
Maybe if he explains, I can move on. But more than anything, I need to see him again, to breathe him in once more, to feel his hands on me.
Just once more and I’ll be able to get him out of my system for good, out of my head.
I recognize the toxicity of my own thoughts, but there’s no reasoning with an addict.
I pull myself out of bed and wash my face.
Makeup can’t redeem me, but it helps. Slipping into my crumpled sweater, I inhale a deep lungful of Henry’s scent—I’ll burn it later—and brush the tangles from my hair, squeezing back tears at the thought of his fingers putting them there less than twenty-four hours ago.
God, when he looks at you like that, you feel like a goddess.
After brushing the wrinkles from clothes as best as I can, I walk to his door. My heart thrums loudly enough to pass for a knock. Will he throw me out again or will he at least have the decency of offering me an explanation first? I quietly knock on the door and wait for the sound of his footsteps.
Everything is quiet.
“Henry?” I hate the trepidation in my voice. “Please, I just want to talk to you. I promise not to throw anything.” At least not right away.
Still no answer. I try the knob, and it turns under my hand.
The room is dark. Without giving a thought to what I’m doing, I walk inside and flick the light switch.
There’s no sign last night ever happened—the Monopoly game cleaned up, the wine glasses gone, the candles snuffed out and cleared away.
It’s like the whole evening was a dream. Or a nightmare.
I won’t be getting any answers tonight. As I turn back toward my own suite, my eye catches on the bucket on the bar, the champagne still inside.
The ice has melted and is now nothing but a lukewarm bath.
I can’t help feeling like this stupid wine ruined everything, even though I know that’s ridiculous.
It was simply the catalyst for the next act in Henry’s game: tear Celia’s heart into a myriad of minuscule pieces.
I lift the bottle, water dripping off it into the bucket.
At least he didn’t open it after I left.
I swivel the tag strung around the neck around and read: Best wishes to the happy couple.
It isn’t signed. Somehow William must have known about Henry and me, and as much as I dislike him and want to see him rot in prison for what he did to his son, it was a thoughtful gesture.
It’s a shame to let such nice champagne go to waste. I carry the bottle back to my room. I may not be getting any answers, but at least I’ll have some company.
Once the wine and I have become thoroughly acquainted with one another, I pull out my phone.
Henry might be able to avoid me by not coming home, but his cell goes everywhere with him.
It takes reaching his voicemail twelve times before it occurs to me that he can just as easily ignore my calls as my knocks on his door.
Damn him.
Damn the way he can shatter me with a single word.
Damn the way he makes me feel electrified.
Damn the way the world turns technicolor just because he’s in the room.
Damn the way my heart keeps insisting just one more time.
Just one more kiss, one more night, one more adventure.
Once more in his arms, once more seeing that look in his eyes, once more hearing him say my name like he’s caressing the word itself.
And damn the fear that’s rising in my chest.
Fear that I’ll never be whole again.
I wake with my very first hangover, although fortunately it’s a mild one. The empty champagne bottle taunts me from my bedside table. I sit up and rub my temples gently so as not to disturb the beast.
My phone is lying next to the wine, and the embarrassing number of phone calls I made last night trots across my memory.
Drunk Celia makes a lot of really dumb decisions, and I suspect she’s not done making an idiot of herself.
I delete Henry’s number from my contacts and erase my call log and our text thread. Call it saving me from myself.
I’m in love with a fantasy. The Henry that fills my head is nothing but a projection of my desires onto a phantom that looks an awful lot like him. The real Henry is selfish and manipulative and breaks hearts like he breaks the tops of his soft-boiled eggs at breakfast.
I can’t do this anymore. Wesbourne isn’t worth it.
I drag a large suitcase from one of the numerous cabinets in my dressing room and hoist it onto the bed. It’s time for a strategic retreat.
Fifteen minutes later, when I answer the door to find my sister on the other side, the suitcase is nearly full. Only a few more items, then I’ll be ready to leave. I let the door gape open and return to my task.
Bea follows me into the bedroom. “Where are you going?”
Until she asked, I hadn’t given it any thought. “I’m not sure. Maybe New York? It’s large enough to get lost in, right?”
“And you want to get lost because . . . ?”
“Because I’ve had enough.” I toss a pair of sneakers into the bag. Not much use for heels when you’re hiding from society. “I need to get out.”
“You’re running? For how long?”
I slam the lid of the suitcase and zip it shut. “Indefinitely.”
To her credit, Bea looks stunned rather than gleeful. “I don’t understand,” she says.
“That makes two of us.”
“You’ll be back in time for the coronation, won’t you?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“But—”
“I’m sure Parliament will figure something out. They always do, don’t they? Maybe they can find another victim to throw at Henry.”
Her eyebrows draw together, and for a second, I see our father reflected in her face. “Does this have something to do with him?”
I turn away to grab a few books from the nightstand, even though I gave up reading them weeks ago. I’m not sure how much I can trust my face and its propensity for honest expressions right now. “Why would it be about him?”
“Because you’re acting strange?”
“I’m perfectly normal.” To prove my point, I look at her chin and smile.
It’s the kind of smile you give your great aunt June when she kisses you for the third time and tells you that you remind her of a cat she once had.
You wonder if her mind is getting foggy or if you should be concerned about the vibe you’re giving off, so you plaster a grin on your face that you hope conveys not a single one of the thoughts running through your head at the moment.
Bea points to my bag and the shoddy job I’ve done packing it. A bra strap and several shoelaces peek out where the zippers meet. Several items managed to escape the tornado of my manic packing and are still on the bed.
I lift my shoulders, then let them drop. “I’m in a hurry.”
“You’re not following him, are you?”
I meet her eyes for the first time. “Following who?”
“Henry.”
“Why would I follow him? Where’s he gone?”
“The last I heard, Monte Carlo.”
This is news to me, but I school my features into indifference. “Good riddance,” I say, and adjust my suitcase to look more like a reasonable human packed it.
“I don’t understand why you’re so determined to hate him.”
The irony of Beatrice’s words is not lost on me, but I am in no state to set her to rights about my actual feelings for Henry.
“Because he’s a lying, scheming, manipulative bastard.
He doesn’t care about anyone but himself, and he thrives on inflicting as much hurt as possible.
” I close the bag a little more violently than necessary.
“There’s more to him than that.”
“You are so blinded when it comes to Henry that he could chew your heart up, spit it out, and you’d thank him for it.”