Chapter Twenty-Three
Prince Arthur
There’s a knock but I close my eyes but then it happens again, more insistent, three knocks in a row—bang, bang, bang.
I blink, register that I’m in bed and that it’s pitch black outside. Another three or four knocks follow so I jump out of bed in nothing but my boxers and go to the front door, flicking the hallway light on as I go.
I wasn’t sure what I was expecting but it wasn’t Connie three sheets to the wind with Phoebe slumped at his side.
Before I can say anything, he pushes past me, goes to the couch, sits down with Phoebe.
Rub my eyes, follow them, frown at him.
“What—?”
Connie shakes his head. “She’s fucked. We went out for a few but she got carried away.”
My stomach dips. “Why?”
He shrugs, yawns, rests his head back against the sofa.
She sits there, her head rolling to rest on her shoulder, her eyes half open. I think it’s my fault. She wouldn’t have done this if we were together, right? This isn’t the sort of thing she does—but, what if it is? I’m then slapped in the face by the reminder of my absence.
I’ve been thinking that going away has done more harm than good.
If I stayed, we would’ve been together—sure, I probably would’ve been in a grave but I would’ve had her.
I mean, we can be together now, there’s nothing more I want but she doesn’t seem to want that and I can’t for the life of me understand why.
For as long as I’ve been conscious, I’ve known my reason for living was her.
She’s all I’ve ever known, all I’ve ever seen, all I’ve ever loved.
The love I have for her isn’t the kind of love that just passes by you like a fleeting kiss with a stranger, it’s the kind that hits you out of nowhere and takes you flying across the world.
“Phoebe?” I nudge her foot with mine.
She jerks awake, blinks a few times.
“You okay?” I frown. “Want a water or something?”
She shakes her head but I get up to give her one anyway. I’ve been in worse states in the past—trust me, she’ll want some water when she wakes up.
Connie’s out like a light on the sofa so I ignore him, put the glass of water on the coffee table, hold my hands out in front of Phoebe. “Come on, I’ll put you to bed.”
“Will you?” She tilts her head, smiles crookedly. “That’s nice of you.”
Raise my eyebrows. “I know right.”
It takes her a minute but eventually she puts her hands in mine. I drag her full weight up, take her down the hallway and into my bedroom.
She collapses on my bed and it’s something about seeing her like this—just so not her—that makes me feel a bit sick.
I know she’s going to wake up tomorrow and be embarrassed and not talk to me.
She doesn’t drink, she hates being sick more than anything so I don’t understand why she did it which rivets me back to why I think this is on me.
And then my mind starts reeling because how many times has she seen me like this?
More than I count, I bet. And I often ask myself why I did that to her when I loved her so much.
And often I come back with the same answer; I don’t know.
But us humans have a tendency to do that—ruin perfectly good things.
It’s like putting makeup on; you don’t know what’s in the foundation you’re painting your face in, yet you use it anyway.
You look better without it, even if you don’t think so.
You’re ruining something perfectly good with something that is undoubtedly toxic.
“Arthur,” Phoebe drawls from my bed, sprawled out on her back. “Did you mean it?”
I frown, slip her heels off and throw them on the floor.
“Did I mean what?”
“When you said I wasn’t a difficult person to be around or something?”
She turns over, rests her hands under her head, stares at me.
“Of course I did.”
“Is it true?”
“Yeah,” I nod. “It is.”
“Okay,” she sighs, closes her eyes. “Good.”
I go to leave but she grabs my wrist.
“Can you stay in case I’m sick?”
I look at the bed she’s lying across. There’d be no space for me on there so I nod and sit on the floor, rest against my bedside table.
She pats my head like a dog. “You can get in the bed.”
“I really can’t.”
She scoffs. “Because of Digby?”
“No, because there’s no space for me on there.”
“Oh,” she laughs, tucks her legs up to her chest, curls up in a ball. “There you go.”
I think about it—bit intimate, ain’t it?
Sharing a bed? But then again, who’s Digby?
Who’s the one she wanted? Who’s the one she came running to?
All that shit she spouted about Digby proposing?
Bullshit. I know it was, she knows it too.
I know she only said it to push me out but just like in school when she didn’t leave, I climb up onto the bed and lay next to her.
She’d let Digby put a ring on her finger and a baby in her belly all to prove a point to me but I’m like a fucking boulder; I’m not going anywhere this time around.
? ? ?
When I open my eyes the following morning, Phoebe’s on her back, staring blankly at the ceiling beside me.
Shocked she stayed, to be honest.
All night I was thinking she was going to pull a ‘me’ and book it in the middle of the night.
“You alright?” I ask, sitting up, clearing my throat.
She shakes her head stiffly. “I feel terrible.”
Raise my eyebrows, reach over to my bedside, slip my watch on. “Not surprised.”
She shakes her head again. “I don’t mean because of that.”
I lean back on my shoulders, tilt my head. “What do you mean?”
Her throat bobs as she swallows. “Can’t tell you.”
My heart speeds up. “What can’t you tell me?”
Licks her lips, sighs, turns over with her back facing me.
I sit up, panicking a bit. “What have you done?”
“It wasn’t my fault.” Her voice is small, scared. “But if things were different, I’d be with you, you do know that, don’t you?”
I nod, swallow, rub my eyes. “Yeah, of course—but what can’t you tell me, Phoebs?”
I watch her hair sway as she shakes her head yet again. “I can’t tell you because we’ve hurt each other enough.”
I’m about to ask again but then there’s a knock on my bedroom door followed by, “Everyone decent?” From Connie.
He pokes his blonde bed head through the small crack in the door, gives me a small frown. I give him a ‘I’ll tell you later’ look. He nods. “Digby’s here, Phoebs,” he says before popping back out.
Phoebe swings her legs over the side of the bed, stretches her arms out in front of her and picks her shoes up from the floor. I stand up, as well.
“What’s Digby doing here?”
She’s sitting on the bed, slipping her heels back on, not looking at me. “I called him to pick me up.”
“Why?” I say but I think it comes out more like a demand.
“Because I need to go home.”
She reaches for the doorknob, I follow her out, well aware that I’m just in my pants but so is Connie and if Digby don’t like our Saturday morning house rules, he can fuck off.
“Can’t you just stay for a bit?” I ask, following her down the hallway, my heart pounding, afraid that when she walks out of the front door, she’ll never come back. I literally feel like I’m clutching at straws here.
Digby gives me a look when he spots me chasing after her. Phoebe doesn’t respond nor look back at me, just goes straight to him.
“Is she okay?” Digby looks me up and down.
I roll my eyes. “She’s untouched.”
Connie stands in the kitchen, blowing on a mug of coffee.
“Phoebe?” I reach for her but she doesn’t acknowledge me, just nods when Digby whispers something in her ear.
That’s a bullet in the foot, I think but then Digby reaches down, clutches her face and kisses her while locking eyes with me and then I think fuck that—that’s ten bullets to the heart.
With sweat coating my back, my heart slamming against my chest and my hands shaking, I watch as Digby puts his arm over Phoebe’s shoulders and walks over to the door. No bye, no thanks for keeping her safe, nothing.
He slams the front door shut so hard that the 1950’s wood mirror that Connie hung haphazardly on the wall falls, the glass shattering all over the floor.
“Bellend,” he mutters, going over to pick it up. “I knew I should’ve had that fitted, fuck sake.”
But I’m stock still, can’t help but think it was more than that mirror that shattered when he closed the door.
She ain’t coming back.
I go back into my room, drag that box from under my bed out, lift the lid, hold the ring I stole from her the night I left.
I know I should give it back but I can’t. I thought about it, when I first got back—maybe I should’ve given it to Digby for when the time comes but I didn’t. Something stopped me, the delusion that maybe I’d have the chance to put it on her finger for a second time.
I rest my head in my hands, drop the ring into the pile of letters I’ve never given her to read.