The Lie(36)

Fate was never an option.

But for him to think it’s the force that put us in each other’s path, that says a lot.

And to be honest, I’m looking for every single excuse not to stay away.

I go to sleep and I see his face from four years ago, his eyes wracked with this strange purpose, this truth he believed, that when it was love, it was simple and pure and good.

And then I see it morph into the face I know now, the one laden with guilt and sorrow and hate.

I’m the cause of both of those faces. How strange to be the one to ruin a man in two different ways and so completely.

How terribly, horribly strange.

And so it takes me a few days to come to terms with it, and when I finally embrace the fact that I want to see him, I feel the darkness slipping off my shoulders.

It feels more right than wrong.

“Ready to go out?” Melissa asks, making me jump.

I’ve been sitting on my bed, and I quickly close the app and put my phone away before she comes in. She’s been awfully nosy lately, asking me if I’ve seen or heard from Brigs. Until recently, I wasn’t lying when I’d said no.

Honestly, I wish she wouldn’t worry about this so much—it’s my life and I can take care of myself, no matter what kind of setbacks I’ve had. I know she’s just concerned that I’m going to backslide, but at the same time I can’t hide from him.

And I won’t.

“I’m coming,” I tell her, not wanting to hit the pub scene tonight, but she’s insisting since it’s Friday. She says I need to get laid like no one’s business.

Well, that part is true. Aside from a drunken, sloppy one-night stand in France, when I was trying everything to purge Brigs from my system, I haven’t been with anyone. Even before I met Brigs, it had been a few months since I’d last been with a guy—some jerk from my class. I don’t even want to count how long I’ve been celibate—it’s far too pathetic.

I get up and quickly look myself over in the mirror, my mind flitting to Brigs. I wonder if he’s been with anyone since the night of the accident. I assumed he would have found someone. He might even be with someone right now. There was nothing in his email that suggests he wants to pursue me, just that he needs to set things right. And I get that. Even though it terrifies me, I think closure is what the two of us both need. To shut the lid on the past, move on with our lives, and never look back.

Obviously I don’t tell Melissa this. Instead I go with her to the pub, filled with drunk boys and surly men and a lot of spilled beer. The music is bad, and even though I get my buzz going, I want nothing more than to be back in my room, alone, watching a Cary Grant film. I can’t connect to anyone here, physically or emotionally. Not that it surprises me—I’ve always been this way.

That’s probably why my connection with Brigs meant so much. It was rare. It was something I’d never felt before. I’d always floated through my life, making no meaningful connections to anyone, and then he came around, the first person to ground me, to make me want to stay grounded, so long as he was there.

Somehow I end up surviving the weekend, spending Saturday at yet another bar with Melissa, while Sunday I save for myself, spending the day walking around The National Gallery, trying to distract myself with art and beauty. Then I hit the books that night, trying to finish the godawful book that Professor Irving wrote because I know he’s going to ask me all about it next class.

When I wake Monday morning, I feel slightly invigorated. I’m up before my alarm and take my time getting ready—not because Professor Irving told me to last week, but because, well, honestly? I want to impress Brigs. I know I shouldn’t even care, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t. Even if it comes to us saying a few words and awkwardly parting—and this is exactly what I’m preparing for—I want to do it looking like a new woman and not the ghost he left behind.

I leave the flat with my stomach a beehive of nerves and get on the tube. The closer it gets to my stop, the more anxious I feel, my fingernails destroyed from me picking off the polish.

It’s at the Baker Street station that I actually see Brigs get on the train.

Holy shit. Why does the world make me see him everywhere?

I stand there, holding onto the pole, but as he gets on, giving people a polite smile as he squeezes past them, he disappears into the crowd.

I’m not about to approach him now. This is just life, taunting me with him.

I remain where I am, squished between a guy who keeps sniffing and a man who keeps putting his hand close to mine and “accidently” touching me, even when we get to Charing Cross station, my stop. I know he’s getting off here, so I wait it out until the doors close and I’m whisked away. It will take me longer to walk to school from the next stop but at least I won’t run into Brigs before I’m ready.