The Lie(13)

Melissa and my mother are in love with the idea of fame, the idea of being wanted and adored and validated, but not the reality of being an actor. Maybe that’s why when I first met Melissa six years ago, we hit it off. She reminded me of my mother, the very person I escaped LA from. How is that for irony? Come all the way to England and then meet pretty much the exact same person you were trying to run away from.

When I first met Melissa, I had gone with my undergrad class to a film set she was working on as a stand-in. We’d got to talking, clicked, and the rest was history. I guess I liked Melissa because even though she was as vain and self-obsessed as my mother—always taking selfies, posting about how much more talented she is than other actresses and that she deserved so much more—she was also a lot of fun, and I needed some of that in my life. She also looked up to me for some reason, maybe because I was a bit older or because I grew up in LA. When she found out I was going to school for film, she wanted to do the same thing. Of course she one-upped me, and by the time I was in the first year of my master’s at the Met film school, she was starting her undergrad at King’s College—a much better school.

Still, I found it flattering that she wanted to emulate me, and she ended up being a true friend through thick and thin. She hadn’t really approved of what I was doing with Brigs, even though she met Brigs only once, but she was by my side after the incident and during my breakdown. When I moved to France to be with my father to get my head on straight and piece my heart back together, we’d lost touch, but as soon as I found my strength to step back into London in May, we reconnected. And when her last roommate moved out, I moved in.

Melissa eyes me like she can hear my thoughts. “Don’t worry about me. I’m going. Besides, I haven’t seen what guys are in my classes yet. Maybe I’ll luck out and get someone with a hot arse.”

“Maybe your teacher has a hot arse,” I tell her, grabbing my bag from the back of a chair. “Text me when you’re done with your mystery class and I’ll meet you.”

She waves goodbye and I run out of the building. The rain has let up for a moment, but it doesn’t matter much since my hair is still wet from the shower. Ever since I died it honey blonde, I swear it’s gotten thicker somehow.

As I hurry to the tube station at Wembley (we have a view of Wembley stadium from our balcony, which is great for reminding you about all the concerts you can’t afford to go to), my mind flits back to something it shouldn’t.

Him.

Brigs.

All because I said her teacher might have a hot arse.

Because, fuck, did Brigs ever have a hot arse. It’s like he was born to do lunges.

“Stop thinking about him,” I tell myself. Out loud. Because I’m crazy like that. Luckily there’s no one around to hear me, and honestly that would be the least of my problems if my train of thought continues. Brigs is a trigger. He was once the man I loved more than anything in the world. But he was also the man who would never be mine. There was that beautiful, brief period where I thought we had a chance. We were so close to being together, to putting an end to the guilt. Then it all fell apart.

And by falling apart, I mean his life imploded and I was sucked into the blast.

It was my fault.

It was our fault.

And I’ll never stop blaming myself for what happened. For what happened to them, and what I did to him.

If I didn’t exist, if I had never met Brigs and fallen for him the same way he fell for me, his wife and child would still be alive.

My love killed.

My love ruined that man’s life.

I’m shocked to find a tear rolling down my cheek. I wish I could blame it on the rain like the song says, but I can’t. I haven’t cried over Brigs, over the incident, in months. It’s what my old doctor would have called progress. And this tear is what my father would have called “humanity.”

“Embrace your humanity, Tasha,” he would say to me. “For if you didn’t cry, your soul would never heal.”

It hasn’t healed, and I don’t think it ever will. But I don’t think crying has anything to do with it. It’s just that there are some things in life that you can’t walk away from.

But I’m trying. I’m trying.

One foot in front of the other.

Starting over.

As long as I keep focused on the future and not the past, maybe, maybe I can come out of it. This is a new life, a better life. I’m even going to a better school now: Kings College. If I can just keep moving forward, maybe then my soul will have a chance.

I get on the train and head to school.



***



Well that was a fun class, said no one ever, I think to myself, getting out of my seat. The lecture hall is absolutely crammed with students leaving, and I have a feeling that myself and the other two TAs, Devon and Tabitha, will be expected to stay behind and talk to Professor Irving.