Chapter Thirty-Six
Lady Phoebe
I wake up next to Digby, sweaty, spent and a little achy—and not in a gross way. Dinner with Athena last night was a little liquid-y. I mean, that’s just what hits me the second I open my eyes, what follows when I fully wake up is a lot more complex.
I really love Arthur—we know I do—and I feel really sorry for Digby because any time I look at him now I just see myself when I was sixteen.
I’m asking myself why he won’t leave me but I think that’s what Arthur was asking himself all those years ago.
Digby’s wondering why I’m letting him hurt me again and again but that’s exactly what I was asking myself. This entire relationship is a parallel.
Last night was weird, though. Like, really weird.
You know when the air changes and not because it’s suddenly pouring down.
Something had shifted. Everyone was acting strange.
Athena and I got back, a little tipsy. Spencer didn’t drink.
The minute I walked in, Digby was on me—like he just had to be, not because he wanted to be.
Connie came up to my room, told me not to bother Arthur because he was already in bed but I didn’t mention Arthur or ask after him when I came in so that was weird.
I recall Sullivan being here. Arthur was with him. So were the twins. I think that pulled the thread into whatever is unraveling.
Digby didn’t let me think much about any of it, though. He tore my clothes off and took me to bed. He was here last night while I was out, maybe he overheard something? Maybe he knows his place, though, and would quite like to keep his ears so maybe he didn’t?
When I drink—even just one glass—I tend to wake up at dawn. I don’t know why. I sleep in till noon almost every day. I go downstairs, into the kitchen where Athena and George are necking on.
Clear my throat, kind of rock back on my heels.
Athena pulls back, wipes her mouth, smiles at me. George gives me a nod and goes back to whatever it was he was doing.
“Do you guys not ever give it a break?” I ask, slowly walking into the room.
Athena shakes her head innocently.
“Seen her?” George nods at me, points to Athena.
“Is Arthur awake yet?”
George freezes for a tiny second before quickly recovering and giving me a look. “Don’t think so.”
I frown. I don’t like this. “George, did he relapse?”
He whips his head around. “I fucking hope not.”
“So why is everyone being weird?”
“No one’s acting weird?”
“Feel like they are, though?”
“Nah,” shakes his head. “Maybe you’re just acting weird?”
“I’m not being weird!”
He gives me a funny look, his lips twitch. “Well, you’re being weird right now?”
“She isn’t weird!” Athena chimes in.
“Fuck sake,” I cross my arms. “Can someone just tell me what’s going on?”
“There isn’t anything to fucking tell!” He raises his voice, walks past me with his coffee.
“George!” Athena runs after him. “Don’t talk to her like that!”
Nothing to tell? Sure. Yeah, George, I fucking believe you.
I fill a cup up with water, run up the stairs and barge into Arthur’s room, half expecting to see some lines on the side or a girl in his bed. I see neither. Just him, asleep.
Wouldn’t be the first time he’s cleared all the evidence.
I throw the water over his face.
He wakes up—fucking obviously—chokes a bit, spluttering.
“What the fuck?” He asks, all groggy.
He finds his bearings, wipes his eyes and laughs when he sees me standing at his bedside. “What is wrong with you?”
“Have you relapsed?”
Arthur jumps out of the bed, runs a hand through his dripping hair, takes a deep breath. “Am I still fucking dreaming?”
“No!”
“Alright!” He takes a step back, hands up. “What was that for, then?”
I walk over to him, try and find something that will give it away. Eyes look normal. Nose is fine. Arms are clean apart from the track marks that are already there. My heart is racing. Why can’t I see anything?
Stare up at him. “Have you relapsed?”
He places both hands on my shoulders, bends down, gets in my face. “No. Stop acting like a nut job.” And then he presses a small, light kiss on the tip of my nose.
If I was a cartoon character there would be steam coming out of my ears.
Part of me knew he didn’t. But then why else could everyone be balancing on the edge of this cliff? I can’t think of anything worse than Arthur relapsing. I’d rather him tell me that he’s killed someone then him relapsing.
“Why you being weird for?” I ask him.
“I’m not being weird! I just fucking woke up!”
He takes a step back, tilts his head. “Are you going fucking loopy or something, Phoebs? What is going on?”
“Don’t turn this around on me!” I point at him. “That’s psychological mind fucking, Arthur!”
He turns around, thinks I don’t see him yawn.
“Can I go back to bed?”
“It’s wet,” I say, looking at the soaking bedsheets. Feel a bit bad for it now.
“Normally is when I wake up with you in here,” he says sheepishly.
“Pig.”
He smiles.
I roll my eyes and storm out of his room, just in time to bump into Digby.
“Morning,” he says gruffly. He looks so good in the morning. Don’t all men, though? Face all puffy, hair all messed, lips bigger than usual. I love Arthur but I love waking up next to him a little bit more.
“Hi,” I smile up at him.
“What was all the fuss?” He nods at Arthur’s door.
“Oh,” I look over my shoulder, can see him aggressively ripping his bedsheets off. “Just thought I’d wake him up early—it’s such a lovely day out, hate for him to miss it.”
He nods, kisses me.
Digby and I rent a little boat and spend the day together.
Probably one of my favourite days that we’ve spent together as of late.
There’s been so much arguing and shouting and throwing things.
He tells me he loves me at least a hundred times, kisses me twice as much, jumps off a big rock with me because I was too scared to do it alone.
Reminds me to drink water when I start complaining of a headache, takes me to a small restaurant for lunch that hangs just over the cliffs.
Smiles and laughs and looks so much like the Digby I met.
Later that afternoon, we’re lounging by the pool, Spencer, Connie and I.
“Do you think he’ll propose?” Spence asks.
“No.”
“I think he will,” Connie adds in.
Spencer lifts her head up from her book, frowns at me. “Would you say yes?”
I look at her bizarrely. “He’s not going to ask so why would I need to think about it?”
“Yeah, but what if he did?”
I turn to Connie. “He won't, so stop talking about it!”
“Why you getting angry?” He smiles.
“I’m not.”
“You are getting a bit touchy,” Spencer nods.
“Oh, shut up,” roll my eyes. “Why did we stop talking about you two fucking?”
They both go quiet. Spencer grabs her book and walks inside.
Connie nudges me. “Little Miss Clever Clogs over here.”
“Fuck off.”
“You made her upset.”
“Yes,” I grit my teeth. “I know that—but she made me upset first.”
“We were only talking about Digby proposing.”
“Excatly!”
“Would you not want him to?” He asks then, his voice lower, more serious.
“I don’t—” shake my head. “I don’t know.”
“You know, Phoebs,” he sits up. “I think he might.”
I whip my head around to face him. “Why do you say that?” I demand.
He shrugs. “There’s been signs.”
I laugh. “Like what?”
“Today,” he nods to make a point. “Spent the whole day with you, didn’t he? Acting proper sweet, real nice all of a sudden. Asked you the other day if you liked your nails—I mean, what lad do you know cares about nails unless they’re thinking about rings?”
I swallow. My stomach dips and suddenly it’s too hot out here even though the sun is setting.
“It’s alright if you say no. He’s the one that will look like a knob, not you,” he tells me.
I shake my head, can’t stop shaking all over. I feel really out of control now because what if it’s true? What if Digby does want to propose? I can’t say no. You can’t turn down an engagement—what will people think about me then?
Fuck, I feel really sick.
“You’re fine,” Connie rubs my back.
I didn’t realise I had said that out loud.
“It’s not that,” I mutter. “It’s—um, fuck—it’s not that.”
“What is it, then?” He frowns, titling his face to get a look at me.
“I don’t want that—I don’t want him.” I can’t even find the courage to look him in the face. My eyes are glued to the floor.
“What do you want?”
And he asks with so much sincerity and concern that I pull my eyes away from the ground and look at him.
“I don’t want Digby, Connie,” I shake my head, almost begging him to save me with my eyes. “I don’t want to marry him. I want Arthur. I want to marry Arthur.”
He licks his bottom lip, sighs, nods, pulls me into a hug.
“I know you do, Phoebs.”
Isn’t it telling that he didn’t even try to get me to go with Digby? He wants me with Arthur, Arthur wants me with Arthur, I want Arthur. I think deep down even my sister wants me with Arthur—fuck.
I pull back, look into his eyes. “What am I going to do?”
He bites the inside of his cheek, winces a bit. “Whatever it is that you need to do.”
I wanted to shut the door on Digby and throw away the key.
I sniff, recover. “Should I ask about Primrose?”
He shakes his head, smiles.
So I leave it.
Maybe it was the wrong girl I asked after?
But then, is there a right girl? A right boy?
Wrong, right, good, bad—we can’t put human beings into boxes.
They don’t fit. And if you feel as though it’s in your right to shove a person into one box, then you’d need to squish them down, break their arms and their legs and watch them as they wither and become restless until they break free and then we don’t like what they’ve become.
I go upstairs, to Spencer’s room because I kind of owe it to her.
“I’m sorry,” I say. Walk in, sit on her bed.
She sighs, looks up from her book and closes it.
“He was embarrassed of me.”
“Connie?”