The Lie(79)

As long as she is with me. As long as I am with her, we will always bring each other out of it.

We are forever surrounded by ashes.

But we are fire.

And fire rises.

Somehow, when all the tears have exhausted themselves and my chest feels numb and my face is leaden with pressure, the two of us get to our feet. The world swirls around us—the dark, lapping waves, the traffic from the bridges, the glittering lights of the Eye, pubs and boats and life going on—and I feel like we were just caught in a passing storm. Horrible and ravaging and merciless at its peak, but then it soon weakens and moves on. It leaves everything behind it both raw and clean.

Natasha puts her arms around my waist and her head to my chest. I cup the back of her neck, thanking God for her, thanking him for letting the storm pass and the light rise. Maybe it won’t always be like this, but for tonight, when I really needed it, it is.

I think I finally know what it feels like to have your pieces put back together. It’s a shoddy, messy job, but I’m still standing.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers to me. “For everything.”

“I’m sorry too,” I tell her. “But I’m not sorry for you.”

She looks up at me and I wipe a tear away from her cheek before kissing her softly on the lips. “Come home with me,” I whisper to her.

She nods and we head back through the city, leaving the flowers and the stickers and the tears behind on the Thames.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Brigs



“Professor McGregor, you’re not looking so hot.”

I don’t even look up from my notes. I quickly shove them in my briefcase while the class files out of the room, wishing Melissa would go along with them.

“Well, that’s not true,” Melissa adds quietly, coming closer until she’s practically on the desk. Out of my peripheral I can see her red nails drumming along the surface. “You’re always pretty hot. And you know it. Why else do you keep wearing these dress shirts, the way they hug your biceps.” I can practically feel her leering eyes burn into me. “But you do look tired. Something wrong?”

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I know I look like shit. This weekend drained the hell out of me. Though it was cathartic to say my goodbyes with Natasha, and my soul feels infinitely freer, it didn’t mean that the emotions weren’t still running high. The bonds of shame and guilt may finally be slipping from me, but grief doesn’t ever let go. It may slacken, it may lie still at times, but it’s always tied to you for the rest of your life. I’ve come to terms with that now too, that I’ll never fill the void left behind, but just because you accept something doesn’t mean it gets easier.

That said, I haven’t yet accepted the fact that Melissa is bugging the hell out of me with her dicey motives every time she’s around. The few times I’ve brought her up with Natasha, she’s been supportive of her friend, even though she seems to have her own reservations. Maybe because she’s really the only friend I’ve seen Natasha have, maybe because Melissa—at least in her eyes—is just overly protective.

But there’s something more to her. I can tell. And it frightens me to think that it might go undetected until it’s too late.

You’re being paranoid, I tell myself. Again.

But when I finally look up to give her the Why are you still here? look, I catch the blatant expression of lust in her eyes. Lust and something ill-natured. I imagine it’s the look many girls get when they catch the eye of a man whose intentions are nothing but bad.

“Is there something you wanted to speak to me about?” I ask her, ignoring what she said previously and trying to sound as noncommittal as possible.

“I just wondered what your views were on dating students,” she says with false innocence, her giant forehead wrinkling insincerely.

My eyes nearly bug out of my head. “Excuse me?” I nervously look around the classroom to see if anyone heard, but we’re alone now, which is both good and bad.

“Oh, relax,” she says with a shrug. “It’s just a question. You know I don’t bite. Unless I’m told to. I’m very good at taking certain kinds of orders.”

I frown at her, shaking my head, trying to compose myself. “You know what the rules are about that, I’m sure. How is that relevant to anything in today’s class, or any class?”

“I know the rules about fraternizing with students,” she says slowly. “But do you? Do you make exceptions?”

“No,” I say, my jaw wiggling, trying to diffuse the tension. “Now I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask me that.”