The Lie(41)

“It’s really good to see you, Natasha,” he says. “Just like this.”

Like it was. My memory slides back a hundred frames to the few times we went to the pub together after a long day of compiling research for his book. Those days seem so long ago, and yet they shine in my mind like they just happened yesterday. I would get my snakebite, or maybe a glass of wine if I was feeling classy, he would have his beer, and we’d get a table or a booth and just talk for hours. How easy it was, comforting, just to be in his presence.

And whenever he wasn’t looking, I would drink him in like a sponge. All of his features, the lines at the corners of his eyes, the faint cleft at the end of his sloping nose, the sharp cut of his square jaw, the crooked twist to his smile that made you imagine he was planning all sorts of devilish things—I would take them all in with a sense of unbridled fascination.

Even now I feel like I’m losing my footing a bit, because my eyes keep being drawn to that same face, and my fascination is growing into something like hunger. As much as we are sitting here at a pub, just like old times, the air between us dances with electricity much brighter than before. It hums. The obstacles are still there—this time it’s our mutual shame, the destructive grief, instead of what’s right and wrong—but dare I say they are nearly buried by something much more powerful.

Rebirth.

Lust.

Need.

A cocktail more potent than the one in my hands.

Still, I finish the rest of my drink, my head warm and swimming. I’m aware I haven’t said anything in response to him, but it doesn’t feel awkward. Maybe that’s the drink talking.

“Want another?” he asks me while Max hovers around, waiting. I notice Brigs’ beer is gone too.

“I’ll just have a cider this time,” I tell him. “Magners, please.”

Max nods, seeming relieved. I’m sure if I ordered another snakebite, he’d cut me off.

“How’s your book?” I end up asking Brigs. It seems like a safe topic.

His brow twitches and he gives me a wry smile. “Oh, I’m still writing it.”

I want to remark on how slow he is, to make a joke, but I’m sure he hasn’t done much writing over the years.

And I’m right. He says, “Honestly, I stopped writing after you left. I haven’t looked at it since.” He tilts his head at me. “Would you want to be my research assistant again?”

I raise my brows. “Me?”

“Aye, you,” he says. “You were practically a muse.”

I offer him an apologetic wince. “I can’t. I have far too much work to do. So much to catch up on. You know, I can’t screw up this year. This is my second chance.”

He nods. “No need to explain. I understand.”

And yet, the idea of seeing him every day pulls at me like an addiction.

“But, maybe you could bounce ideas off of me,” I say slowly. “It might help. I feel I know almost as much about the subject as you do.”

“You probably do,” he tells me. “Tell me what you remember.”

“I remember nights like this, sitting at a bar. Long days in your office, you on your computer, typing furiously. Me being subjected to very dry, boring text describing very funny topics.”

I remember the night I kissed you.

I remember the night you kissed me.

A softness comes into his stark blue eyes. “What do you remember about the actual research?”

He’s testing me, my knowledge, ever the professor.

I decide to impress him. I remember everything.

I launch into it with perfect confidence. Keaton, Chaplin, Lloyd. I describe their history, their early work, their critics. The rise and the fall. The inevitable tragedies that remind you that no life is safe from pain, even the life of the clowns.

All the while his eyes are transfixed on mine, rapt, cycling between pride and something darker. Deeper. He’s leaning in closer, and my eyes take a long drop to his mouth, my mind briefly put on pause, wondering what it would be like to kiss him again. How wonderful would it feel? How badly would it destroy me?

“So there,” I say when I’m done, my breath short from talking so much. I take a few big gulps of my cider while he stares at me, rapt. I give him the side-eye. “What? Don’t tell me I got any of that wrong. I know I didn’t.”

He licks his lips then swallows. I watch his Adam’s apple move. “No,” he says, a quick shake of his head. His eyes light up. “That was bloody impressive.”

I grin at him, loving the look on his face. “It seems you’ve forgotten who you’re dealing with here.”

“No, no. I haven’t forgotten.”