The Lie(15)

Natasha.

My student, Melissa—now I remember where I know her—grabs Natasha by the arm and whirls her away. For a moment our eye contact is broken, and I feel nothing but panic and the hollowness in my chest. I always wondered what I would do if I ever saw Natasha again, and now I’m standing in the middle of a busy hall and she’s here.

She’s here.

And I am useless, frozen, empty. Because I don’t know if I should turn around and get my stuff and lock my office door and pretend I never saw her. Write her off as a ghost from the past, a fading reminder of who I used to be.

Ruined.

But the word fading can never be applied to someone like her.

And I know that I’ll never be able to write this one off.

I’ve seen her, whether I wanted to or not.

The damage is already done.

And so my feet start moving down the hall after Melissa—my TA, my student, god I’m going to have to see a reminder of my past several times a week—and Natasha.

It’s probably a mistake.

But I can’t help myself.

Natasha looks over her shoulder again and sees me coming closer, a man on a mission with no objective, and she looks like she still doesn’t think I’m real. I’m not even sure I’m real at this point because I’ve never acted so on autopilot before with no self control.

“Hey,” I call out hoarsely when I’m within touching distance. I’m too afraid to say her name, like if I did it would make her real.

She stops before Melissa does, her friend tugging hard on her arm, but Natasha is standing tall, immovable, a living statue as she turns around to face me.

I’m this close to dropping to my knees. The wind has been knocked out of me, the sight of her a literal gut punch.

My Natasha.

My mouth falls open and I gasp lightly for air, unable to form words.

She doesn’t say anything either but her eyes speak volumes as they search mine. It’s the same question as mine.

How can this be?

Why?

Finally, somehow, I find the strength to talk. “It’s really you,” I say softly, my voice ragged as I look her over, trying to memorize her as if I’ll never see her again, trying to see the changes the years have passed on to her. Her hair is lighter now but it suits her face, which is beautiful and glowing. She’s lost some weight but not too much—she’s still very much a woman.

The only major change is in her eyes.

That brightness, that zest for life, that liquid longing for something to surprise her—that’s all gone. And in its place is something dark and sad and lost.

I put the shadows in her eyes.

She blinks and tries to smile at me. “Hi,” she says unsurely. Her voice is still husky, still makes all the nerves at the back of my neck misfire. “Brigs.”

“Professor Brigs,” Melissa says, and I briefly tear my eyes away from Natasha to look at her. “I’m in your class.”

“Aye, I know,” I say to her before looking back at Natasha. I’m grappling for words. What is there to say? Too much. “How are you? I…it’s been a long time.”

“Four years,” Melissa fills in. “Natasha was in France. What were you doing?”

I frown at Melissa, giving her a pointed look. “Do you mind giving us a minute here?”

She raises her brows and looks at Natasha for an answer.

Natasha gives her a quick smile. “It’s okay, Mel. I’ll text you in a bit.”

Melissa looks between the two of us, obviously not believing it’s going to be okay. I can’t really blame her. It’s been four years, and she had to have been there through the aftermath. Bloody hell, I think back to the things I said to Natasha on the phone that night, sick with grief and lashing out at the only person I could blame other than myself.

Finally, Melissa says, “I’ll be at Barnaby’s getting us our beer.” And then she goes, leaving the two of us alone.

“It is you,” Natasha says slowly, frowning as she looks me over. “I didn’t think you’d be teaching here.”

“I didn’t think you’d be going here. Are you a student?”

She nods, swallowing thickly. “Yes. Finishing my master’s.”

She had just started the last year of her master’s degree when we broke apart, excited to start on her thesis. I would have thought she’d be more than graduated by now. Maybe working as a teacher already.

“So you were in France for a while?” I ask, trying to learn more, trying to keep her here, talking to me. Trying to pretend that I can do this.

But I can’t do this.

Just breathing the same air she breathes hurts me.

I inhale and look down, rubbing my hand on the back of my neck, trying to get stabilized.

“Are you okay?” she asks quietly.

I stare down at her feet. She always said she had clown feet, and I always thought they were beautiful. She’s wearing pointed black boots, and I wonder what color her toes are painted. Her toes were nearly a different color every day. I remember trying to write and she’d try and stick her feet in my face to distract me, giggling her head off.

The memory cuts me like a knife.

The memory has a hard time coming to terms with the woman before me.

“I’m fine,” I press my hand into my neck, wiggling my jaw back and forth to diffuse the tension. I shake my head once and look up at her, giving her a half-smile. “No. I’m not fine. I can’t lie to you.”