Chapter Eight #2
“Nah but, they kept him on for so long because my dad’s like, funding the school. But apparently they’ve had enough of him now so he’s coming back to London. Dad’s going to try and get him into Darcy.”
I frown, suddenly remember something. “Is your dad still married to Spencer’s mum?”
He nods. “Yeah. They travel, though. We never see them. They’ve still got the house in Holland Park. I don’t know where Carter’s gonna live because it sure as shit won’t be here.”
“Why not?”
“He’s too young, you’re in recovery…” he waves his hand about to fill in the rest.
I guess it would be a bit impractical. Him and Connie finally living in the same place? Sounds like something that would’ve been fun in school but not now.
Connie jumps up, hands behind his head and stares out of the doors that lead out to the balcony. “They still do boarding at Darcy so maybe there. Would be nice if my dad stepped up, though.”
He walks off down the hall after that. A second later I hear his bedroom door close.
I’ve never known the full story with him.
I know his mum died, his dad evaporated, Connie was brought up by cooks and cleaners and nannies and the Stratton’s.
I think a lot of people underestimate his relationship with them.
India and Sullivan practically took him in despite him being—as what they’d refer to anyone outside of their community—an outsider.
Carter was out of the picture the day he turned twelve—sent straight off to Switzerland into some international boarding school.
He must’ve gone into year 13 this September just gone. Same age as Ev probably.
I don’t think he wants to talk about it.
He’s not that kind of person. He’s a closed book and unless he wants you in, there’s no hope in trying to pry open those glued pages.
Part of me doesn’t want to know. It seems dark and I know it’s a burden for him.
No one as happy as him is alright mentally—that’s just a known fact.
I’d like to think he knows that he can off load that burden to me anytime, though.
Connie comes out of his room maybe five minutes later, smile plastered on.
It’s weird, though. You wouldn’t think it but he is a breath of fresh air.
Living with someone who got angry after a bad day would be shit.
At least with Connie he can stew in it for as long as he needs until he feels ready.
Respect that about him, actually—a lot. Takes a lot to understand yourself in that way.
“Again?” I groan as he snatches the remote and opens YouTube. “We watched this the other day. Twice.”
He says nothing, just puts on the 1966 World Cup.
“You know what happens!” I throw my hands up. “Spoiler alert: we fucking win!”
“Shut up,” he mutters, leaning forward, hands braced on his knees as if it’s his first time watching it. “Honestly, the world ain’t been right since this, Arth—this was the last time society came together.”
“Was it?” I wobble my head, frown.
I get up, put my plate in the dishwasher, wash my hands and then there’s a knock on the door.
Quite an imminent one.
“Who’s that?” I ask over my shoulder as he jumps over the back of the sofa to answer it.
I’m not wearing a shirt, I realise. Just tracksuit bottoms so it better not be something like an emergency evacuation. I’d be well embarrassed.
“It’s alright.” I hear Connie say. Can’t see from where I’m standing in the kitchen so I dry my hands and go over.
Knocked for six when I see Phoebe standing in the doorframe, mascara under her eyes, cheeks red. She doesn’t clock me at first but it’s almost like a reflex how quickly my heart drops into the pit of my stomach.
“I don’t know what I did!” She sobs. Still hasn’t noticed me standing here. “He just got so angry!”
“It’s alright,” Connie says again, wrapping her up in his arms. “Come in.”
She pulls back, sniffs, walks forward. Sees me standing there.
“Oh,” she chokes. “What the fuck?”
“Yeah,” Connie shrugs sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s sort of moved in with me.”
Her bloodshot eyes ping pong between Connie and I.
“And you didn’t tell me?” She frowns, her mouth parts, she sucks in a shaky breath. “Why would you not tell me?”
“It never came up!” He shouts back, on the defense.
Phoebe throws her arms out, a bit angry, I think. “What? Arthur living with you never came up? You could’ve rang me, Connie! A thirty second phone call would have sufficed!”
He reaches for her, arms out. “I’m sorry.”
She puts a hand to her eyebrow, faces away from me. Embarrassed? Ashamed? Why would she be any of those things in front of me? We’ve never been like that.
My heart slows down a bit when she sits down on the sofa, kicks her heels off. She’s going to stay. I like the fact she will for some reason. However, I am still wondering why she’s crying.
“Cuppa?” He asks her, scratching his bare chest.
Her voice is low, too low. Hate it. “Can you make it Irish?”
He nods. “Course I can.”
Connie walks over to me standing by the kitchen. I pull him aside, into the hallway. “What the fuck is going on?”
He pulls an uncomfortable face, a bit pained. “Digby.”
“Digby what?”
Blows out a breath, he hates to say it. “Digby made her cry.”
I can’t explain what happens to me but an all consuming anger takes over.
A bristling one. One I haven’t felt for a very fucking long time.
Never met Digby before, hope I never have to.
I was all for making pleasantries with the bloke but not now—fuck him.
How anyone can look at her face and watch it crumble into tears is beyond me.
Now, don’t get me wrong—I’ve made her cry more than anyone, I know that. I’m all too aware of that so don’t think I’ve suddenly changed my tune and become all hypocritical but this is different. He was the one that was meant to swoop in, make her better, kiss the scars and bruises I left behind.
Connie starts making her tea, adds in probably about four shots of Jameson. “This ain’t the first time, Arth.”
“What do you mean?”
“Everytime they argue, she turns up here, spends the night. I don’t know why but she won’t leave him. Between us—she doesn’t even love him.”
I roll my eyes. “And how would you know that?”
I fucking hate thinking about the fact that while things got better for me, they got worse for her.
Me going away was meant to heal things. Truth be told, I only went because of her.
Because she deserved better. She needed better and I couldn’t be the better she so desperately craved.
Some days, on the particularly long ones, I’d hope that she did find someone who could be the man I never was.
I wanted her to be happy—it was the only thing I wanted for her.
I loved her so much that I was more than prepared to let her go.
Con turns to me. “I just fucking know.”
Before he walks off with her drink, I pull him back. “Will she stay tonight, do you reckon?”
“Why?” He grins. “Your bedroom open for business?”
“Piss off,” I scoff. “I don’t know.” I shrug helplessly. “I just want her here?”
“Course you do,” he grins. “But yeah—she’ll stay.”
Connie goes over to her, she takes the cup. Doesn’t say anything, though. She probably would’ve if I wasn’t here so I make it less awkward and go into my bedroom.
I don’t sit or lay down, I can’t. I’m pacing back and forth, waiting for something—I don’t know what.
My stomach twisted up seeing her in that way, knowing I’ve put her there. If I hadn’t left, she wouldn’t have met Digby therefore she wouldn’t be sitting on Connie’s sofa crying over him. But then again, she might’ve? Crying over me instead of him and I think that hurts me way more.
There was no other way me and her could’ve had a possible happy ending if I didn’t go away. I wasn’t going to stop. It wasn't in me. I would’ve kept on going until one day, I didn’t wake up and that kind of leaving would’ve left a wound so big in her that she wouldn’t have healed.
A little while later, Connie knocks on my door, walks in, sighs heavily and drops down onto my bed.
“She’s a mess, Arth.”
“I know.”
He gives me a look—more of a glare, really. “But don’t go in there thinking you can fix it all, mate. It’s not your mess, remember?”
“Fair enough,” I shrug. “Digby isn't my mess but she sure as shit is and I will do anything I can to fix what’s gone wrong for her,”
He swallows a bit nervously. No one wants me to go there with her because they think I’m still unstable. Back then, in school, that would’ve been a fair statement but not now. If I can change it, I will because she didn’t deserve this.
“Just don’t start sticking your nose in, yeah?” He tells me, stretching his arms above his head.
I nod but he doesn’t buy it.
“Alright,” he gets up. “I’m gonna go bed.”
I watch him leave my room and the second I hear his door close, I’m straight out of mine and into the living room.
Phoebe blinks a few times, eyes locked on my chest.
“Hello.”
Nod my chin at her. “I’d ask if you were alright but you’re not are you?”
She pouts her lips, looks upwards. “Nope.”
I think the issue is that we know each other too well.
We’re connected in ways that no one else is.
We can’t marry other people while still giving each other the looks we’re giving right now.
Her eyes bore deep into me like she’s seeing the last six years flash right in front of her.
I used to say that her eyes were like mirrors, too good at reminding me of when I’d fucked up.
That mirror is shattered. All I can see is my face, disoriented in a thousand shards.
They never looked like that, not even on the worst of days.
Part of me is starting to think that leaving her hurt her more than if I was to stay.
Phoebe hates change. I know she does. She once cried when I told her that our dinner reservation was at eight instead of seven because she’d been prepared all day to eat at seven.
She’s calculated in her own way—not a sick way.
She just knows her own brain too well and thinks no one else on this planet will ever understand her or think in the same way she does but she’s wrong.
I know her.
I know her brain.
I’ve folded myself into every crevice.
I walked in there at five years old and engraved my name.
“I’m just exhausted, Arthur,” she tells me.
“You’re not a hard person to be around, Phoebs.”
Her head whips around to face me. She blinks.
“What?”
Shake my head, swallow, lick my lips. “You’re not a difficult person. All these things that you or Digby think are bad qualities, they’re not—they’re just you and if he can’t see that then…”
“You don’t think I’m difficult?” She whispers.
“No,” I say, proudly. I’d scream it from the rooftops, tattoo it on myself because that’s how truthful it is. There isn’t an inch of doubt inside of me when I tell her. “I think you’re the best person I’ve ever known.”
She shakes her head, closes her eyes. “Don’t say that.”
“Why?” I shrug.
She chews her lip, looks conflicted. “Because I have a boyfriend.”
“And he doesn’t think the same as me?”
A second goes by, tilts her legs to the left instead of crossing them because my mum told her it was the way women should sit when she was about seven—done it ever since.
“How can he think that about me if I don’t think that about myself?”
My eyes don’t leave her face.
I never want to leave her again.
“Because I think it.”
“That doesn’t matter—”
I stand up, about to go to bed before I lean over and kiss her, point at her. “If you want to believe in something, believe in the fact that you are the best person I’ve ever known. Phoebe, I’ll die the happiest man on earth knowing that there was a time when I loved you and you loved me back.”
I start to walk off, she turns, looks at me over the back of the sofa.
“I still love—”
“Don’t.” Shake my head, want more than anything for her to finish that sentence. It’s a thousand pins in my eyes. “You have a boyfriend.”
Her eyes well up, the hand clutching the cushion begins to tremble. She sucks her bottom lip in. “But you know, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” I sniff, glancing away. “But don’t tell me until you’re ready because when you are, I’m going all in, Phoebs. I’m not running away this time.”
She doesn’t bother to wipe the tears that stream down her cheeks. “Okay. Goodnight, Arthur.”
I stand there for a second, hands shaking, heart rattling, thoughts evaporated.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, go over there and kiss her.
It’s rough, unplanned but perfect nonetheless. Hands cupping her face, I smash my lips to hers. She’s taken back, doesn’t move but I feel the warmth of her tears as they slide into my mouth.
When I pull back, she blinks a good few times, a small smile on her face and that’s the cost of it—that smile is fucking priceless.
I wipe away my own smile, glance out of the window, then back to her. “Don’t tell me yet.”
“But…” she trails off, giggles a bit,
I laugh. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
Her cheeks blush as they used to whenever I kissed her and I wonder if they do when Digby does, as well. She covers her face with her hands, starts laughing uncontrollably.
I just fucking love her. There’s no other way to put it.
I love the bones of her. I love her mood changes and her schedules and her spending habits and her Barbies and her vintage films and her love for Paris.
I love the love she has for everyone else, too—because trust me she gives out a lot of it.
There isn’t one thing I don’t love about her.
And as this realisation hits me as I am now—sober, clear eyed and aware—I genuinely start to feel warm.
Staring at her on the couch, lips twitching with the urge to laugh again, the mascara smeared all over her face, I get an overwhelming urge that this will work.
Maybe not now or tomorrow or even in the next year, but it will.
Etch it into my skin that I said it will.
“I haven’t had a bedtime kiss since I was a kid,” she giggles, cheeks and neck both bright red now. “Do you give Connie a quick peck before bed, as well?”
I roll my eyes. “Goodnight, Phoebs.”
“It sure is.” I hear her mutter as I walk down the hall.