The Lie(8)

“I’m pretty sure Jessica is going to lose her mind when she finds out,” Lachlan says, calling our mother by her name as he usually does. He pulls the car up to the Departures curb. “I’m her last chance at grandchildren.”

“She had a grandchild,” I snap, the words pouring out like poison. My blood thumps loudly in my ears. “His name was Hamish.”

Images of Hamish fly past me. Ice blue eyes, reddish hair. A big smile. Always asking, “Why? Why dada?” He was only two when he was taken from me. He would be nearly six years old now. I always looked forward to him getting into school. I knew his curiosity would lead him to bigger and better things. Though I wasn’t in love with Miranda at the end, I was in love with my boy. And even when I had the selfish nerve of dreaming of a different life for myself, he was always my first concern.

It wasn’t supposed to happen that way.

Lachlan is staring at me, wide-eyed, remorse wrinkling his brow. “Brigs,” he says, voice croaking. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.”

I quickly shake my head, trying to get the anger out of me. “It’s fine. I’m sorry. I just…I know what you meant. It’s been a long day and I just need to go home and get some sleep.”

He nods, frowning in shame. “I get it.”

I exhale loudly and then try to perk up. “Well, time to go through security hell. Thanks for the ride, Lachlan.” I reach over into the backseat and grab my bag before getting out of the car.

“Brigs,” he says again before I close the door, leaning across the seat to look at me. “Seriously. Take care of yourself in London. If you need anything for any reason, just call me.”

The fist in my chest loosens. I’m a grown man. I wish he didn’t worry so much about me. I wish I didn’t feel like I needed it.

I give him a wave and go on my way.



***



All the radio announcers keep yammering on about is how beautiful the weekend was, a real extended summer with record-breaking temperatures and searing sunshine. Of course it happens on the weekend I’m in Scotland, and of course as I get ready for this Monday, it’s pissing buckets outside.

I eye myself in the hallway mirror and give myself a discerning once-over. I’m wearing a suit today, steel grey, light grey shirt underneath, no tie. Last week was all about making the students feel comfortable—I was in dress shirts and jeans, T-shirts and trousers, but this week is about cracking down. Some of the students in my classes are my age, so I’ve got to at least look like I mean business, even though I’ve got dog hair on my shoulders.

My gaze travels to Winter sitting on the floor by the couch, thumping his tail when we make eye contact, and back to the mirror. He’s calm for now, but when I leave I know he’s going to treat my flat like a gymnasium. Thank god for Shelly, my dog walker. She was watching him over the weekend too and fusses over him like an unruly child.

I smooth my hair back and peer at the grey strands at my temples. I’m wearing it fairly short these days. Thankfully I’ve put all my weight back on, so I don’t look like the weakling I did before. I’ve been at the gym most mornings, working hard all summer to get back into shape, and it’s finally paying off. After the accident and my consequent meltdown (or, as my old job called it before they let me go, my “mental diversion,” as if what happened to me could be so neatly explained, like a detour on the road), I wasn’t eating. I wasn’t living. It wasn’t until I found the courage to see a doctor, to get help and finally stay with it, that I crawled out of the ashes.

I’d like to say it all feels like a blur to me, the years at the bottom of the spiral, the world around me bleak, guilt and hatred sticking to me like tar. But I remember it all vividly. In horrible, exquisite detail. Maybe that’s my punishment, my shackles for my crimes.

I knew that falling in love was a crime.

I deserve all the punishment I can get.

And what’s worst of all is how on some nights, the darkest ones when I feel how alone I really am, how badly my choices have tipped the world on its axis, I think about her.

Not Miranda.

I think about her.

Natasha.

I think about the reason my judgement became skewed, the reason why I chose my own personal happiness over my family’s. I think about the first time I really fell in love. It wasn’t a stumble into comfort and complacency, like it had been with Miranda. It was cliff-jumping without a parachute, bungee jumping with no cord. I knew, I knew, the moment I laid my eyes on Natasha, that I was gone and there wasn’t a single thing to hold me in place.