The Lie(53)

“And how can we move on if we’re back to square one?”

“Because this isn’t square one,” I tell her, gently running my fingers under her chin. “This isn’t going backward. This is going forward. We get to start again. Now. From scratch.”

She closes her eyes briefly, taking in a deep breath. Then she shakes her head. “That’s easy for you to say, Brigs,” she says sadly, moving away from me, “when I’m feeling everything for you that I felt before.”

God, my fucking heart.

She leaves.

“Please don’t walk away from me,” I call after her, some passerby turning their heads, hearing the hurt break my voice.

But she doesn’t turn her head. She doesn’t listen. And I know this time that running after her again will be futile.

Maybe it was futile all along.

I sigh, running my hand through my hair. Then I turn and go back into the theatre to finish the rest of the film.

She was right about the movie.

I hate it.





CHAPTER TWELVE

Brigs

Edinburgh

Four Years Ago



I’ve gone mad. Bloody fucking mad.

That’s what love does to you. Your heart becomes so fucking needy that it siphons energy from everything, including your own brain cells. Your pulse beats to thoughts of her, your veins run hot with need and want. Everything about you becomes so singularly focused on one person that there’s no room for you anymore.

And you don’t care. Because as maddening as it is, love is the only time you really, deeply feel what it is to be alive. And for that, you’ll put up with anything.

I have to put up with a hollow chest filled with hornets. I feel utterly empty because Natasha is back in London, has been for two weeks now. I feel completely ravaged because I still remain married, still lost in what the hell I should do, what the right thing is.

After Natasha told me she loved me in the car, leaving me to soldier the weight of it, I grappled with what to say to her. I texted her that night asking if she was all right and she said she was fine. That was it.

Then on Monday she came to my office as usual. I tried to bring it up but she only raised her hand and said it didn’t matter.

I wanted then to tell her how I felt, that I loved her too, that I’ve been fighting these feelings for months. I wanted to tell her everything.

But I couldn’t. I don’t know why I held on to my truth like that. Maybe I was protecting myself, protecting Hamish. Maybe I was protecting nothing at all and I was just a chicken shit. The latter is probably true. In the face of it all, I just wanted to run and hide.

I wish I hadn’t though. I wish I could have manned up and told her the truth. And because I didn’t, the last week of us working together was strained. The joy, the fun, the laughs were all gone. Natasha completely threw herself into her work, saying she needed to do as much for me as she could, but I could tell she was just looking for a distraction. She laid herself bare to me and I couldn’t do the same.

Coward.

And then the last day we were together, the last time I saw her, she leaned forward, kissed me gently on the cheek, and whispered, “I still mean it.”

And I said nothing.

Fucking coward.

So here I am, in my office at the start of the new semester, wondering how she’s doing while trying to go over my course outline at the same time.

It’s five o’clock. I should be heading back home but I’m spending more and more time at the office, just like before, only now I’m alone. The only reason I head back early is to see Hamish, but even then I noticed Miranda is being more possessive over the amount of time I spend with him, which is ridiculous.

I can’t help but think back to what Natasha said about her parents and how her childhood was tainted with their fighting. I don’t want Hamish to grow up with his parents possessive over him and not even speaking to each other. In the last week Miranda said she wanted a bedroom of her own, and what’s he going to think when he gets older? We don’t talk, we only fight and now we sleep in different rooms? He’s going to realize that his family is irreparably broken from the inside out.

I exhale loudly and stand up, stretching my arms above my head. My mobile beeps.

I pick it off the desk and peer at it.

It’s Natasha.

I’ve barely heard from her, with only the occasional email.

Do you ever get lonely? the message says.

My heart sinks as I text back, Always. Are you lonely now?

Yes, I miss you. I need you.

I miss you, too.

Do you need me?

Yes. I stare at the phone, wanting to say more. But I don’t.

Did you ever love me?

Damn. Damn, damn, damn. I stare up at the ceiling, seeking answers, but there’s only plaster.

I can’t do this over the phone, I text her.