The Lie(70)

And then what? The thought floats into my head. Where is this going?

But the thing is, there’s only one place for it to go. We’re starting from square one and we might be “dating” but as far as I can tell, we’re already “all in.”

A couple of hours later, we end up near the seaside town of Broadstairs before we’re pulling into a parking lot at a place called Botany Bay.

“Ever been here before?” Brigs asks me as I stare out the window at the wide stretch of sandy beach beyond a row of sea grass.

“Never,” I tell him. “I barely made it to the seaside. Only Brighton.”

“I haven’t been here either,” he says. “I honestly did one of those point at the map things at home. Well, then I googled the hell out it. But I thought that might make it fun.”

We get out of the car, with Winter staying in the backseat for now, and he opens the hatchback, taking out a picnic basket. For a moment I’m reminded of the time I tried to have a solo picnic in the Princes Street Gardens and how lovesick I was and how much I wanted him to be with me. I also remember seeing him and Hamish and Miranda walking past, seemingly so happy, and the memories are kind of killing me as I stand there staring at him.

It’s like there was an implosion and the dust is settling and I’m amazed to see we’re still alive.

“Are you okay?” he asks, closing the hatchback and resting the basket on the ground.

I nod, trying to swallow. I shake my shoulders quickly, as if to loosen the shame and dust from my shoulders. But even though I can’t see his eyes underneath his glasses, I know how good he is at reading me.

“Should we go back?” he asks quietly and I can hear the hurt in his voice.

“No,” I say quickly. “No, I’m fine. Really. I just…I was remembering something.”

He nods sharply. “Aye. You know you can tell me.”

“I know. It’s fine. It’s nothing.” The last thing I want to do is ruin the mood.

He watches me for a few moments, his brows pulled together. “All right. Do you want to get Winter and I’ll handle this?”

I nod, happy for a distraction. I put Winter on his leash and we head down a sandy path between waving grass until we’re down on the beach. It’s strangely desolate here, not even a pier or a boardwalk or a single café, and there isn’t a person in sight either, though I’m sure in summer it would be a completely different story.

“All to ourselves,” Brigs comments as we stroll down to the end of the beach where giant white cliffs jut out from the sea. A few of the chalky cliffs stand alone, like white soldiers overlooking the sand and with the tide being out, it appears you can wander between them.

But we stop closer to the dunes and Brigs lays out the picnic. I take Winter off the leash since there’s no one around and he immediately starts running around, chasing seagulls.

“He’ll be all right,” Brigs says as he takes out his cigar. I promptly toss him the Zippo and he lights it, taking in a long draw. “Sit,” he orders out of the corner of his mouth.

I get down on the plaid blanket he’s laid out and stare out at the sea, Winter now playing in the waves and throwing seaweed up into the air. The sun is low behind us and the breeze is growing cooler, the air smelling like brine and salt. I breathe in deep, trying to get some clarity.

I hate that our past has the ability to almost bring me to my knees and I hate how long it takes for me to shake off the guilt. My therapist used to tell me that I wanted to hang onto the feeling because I felt I deserved it and after a while it just became second nature.

Brigs puffs on the cigar in silence and then passes it to me. I hesitate for a moment before taking it, deciding it would probably help me relax. So will the Shiraz that Brigs is opening and pouring into two plastic cups.

“I can tell you don’t want to talk about it,” Brigs says gently, placing a cup beside me. “But…I just want you to know that you shouldn’t hide anything from me. Don’t think you have to. Don’t think I won’t understand.”

“I know,” I tell him with a sigh before I bring the cigar to my mouth, holding the smoke on my tongue for a moment before letting it drift out of my lips.

“Tell me about your time in France,” he says simply.

I stare at him incredulously, passing the cigar back. “You mean over the last four years.”

He takes off his shades and tucks them into his jacket pocket. “Yeah,” he says, his eyes searching mine. “Before you came here.”

I shake my head and quickly slug back some of the red wine. “You don’t want to know. It’s not a happy story.”