The Lie(22)

“I’ll report him if he lays a finger on you, if he talks to you or comes after you in any way. I’m serious. I will. You have nothing to worry about. He’ll stay away, you’ll stay away, and pretty soon things will go back to normal.”

But what’s normal?

“And in the meantime, I’m going to start dragging you out with me more often and get you liquored up or something, because the past few months you’ve been here, you haven’t hooked up with a single guy. You haven’t even flirted with one. You need to get some arse something fierce.”

I sigh, not really interested, especially now. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It’s as easy as you want to make it,” she says. “So he’s at the school, so what? Does that change anything?”

She stares at me expectantly. I wasn’t aware she needed an answer.

“It means I have to see him.”

“But you don’t have to, and if you see him in the halls, pretend he isn’t there. You’re his ghost, he should be yours. Keep a wide berth and I’m telling you everything will work out.”

Mel isn’t usually this optimistic, so while I have a hard time believing her, I’m also grateful for it.

I muster up a smile for her. It’s weak, but it’s the best I can do.

“Cheers,” she says, lifting up her glass. “To going on with your bad-ass self.”

I take a deep breath, nod my head, and clink my glass against hers. “To going on.”

***

“We will be together, Tasha. I promise.”

I promise.

I promise.

Brigs’ whispered words float through my dreams, bumping into the fragments of his face.

I reach out to touch them, and they fade.

I slowly open my eyes and stare at my alarm.

I wonder what day it is, what life it is.

Tuesday. I’ve woken up ten minutes before my alarm.

I exhale and roll onto my back, trying to grab the memories of my dream before they float away.

Brigs, the last time I saw him. In my old flat in London. I lived alone. It was so much nicer. And even though I knew falling for him was wrong, I was happy. Happy in my ignorance, in the naiveté that everything would work out. He was leaving Miranda, finding the courage to leave his unhappy marriage, the strength to choose what he wanted for once.

God, how messed up he was over Hamish. I honestly thought he would stay with her forever because of him, because of how afraid he was of losing his son.

Somewhere along the line though he realized he couldn’t live a lie. It wasn’t fair to Miranda, to Hamish, to him or to me.

That was the last time I really felt I had hope.

How easily love takes your hand and leads you into the dark.

My alarm goes off on my phone, and I quickly reach over and turn it off.

It’s slow going. My mind is foggy from all the vodka I drank with Melissa last night, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t dragging my feet.

The truth is, the idea of going to school is frightening. I know I should just do as Mel suggested, and if I see him, pretend he’s not there. But I’m scared. Scared he’ll seek me out. And I’m even more scared that I’ll seek him out.

I guess I have reason to be scared, because when I do eventually get ready, I find myself taking more care with my appearance than normal. I’m actually running a brush through my hair, putting on makeup, putting on my cleanest clothes (jeans without tomato sauce, suede booties, and a black v-neck shirt), and standing a little taller.

By the time I get out of the tube and start walking to school, I want to shrink into myself. My eyes are wild, everywhere, searching for him as I approach the stately fa?ade of the main building, my pulse dancing off rhythm.

Somehow I make it to my class with Professor Shipley, whom I really like. Even though the entire time she’s going on about gender in war films, I can’t help but wonder what it’s like to have Brigs there. What’s he like at faculty meetings? Do he and Professor Shipley ever have lunch to discuss the students, or perhaps dinner to talk about film? Do they go to the movies together? Even though Professor Shipley is in her forties, she’s got this vibe about her, always dressing in capes and long, wide sleeves, her dark hair streaked with grey flowing all the way down to her waist. I could see the two of them hitting it off. If anything, she has to be intrigued by the enigmatic Brigs McGregor.

And then it happens.

Right after class.

I walk down the hall, heading to the bookstore to pick up yet another book I forgot to buy, my mind briefly wondering about the book that Brigs was writing, the one I helped him with.

I’ve always feared that my mind could conjure up the wrong things, like how thinking about a plane crash while on a plane might cause one, and now I know it’s sort of true.

Because I see Brigs walking down the hall in my direction.

He doesn’t see me yet, or maybe he’s pretending.

His head is held high and he strides forward with easy confidence. He’s wearing wire-frame glasses he sometimes uses for reading. A well-tailored navy suit hugs his body, his shirt unbuttoned just enough, no tie. I can see the looks on girls’ faces as they pass him by. He stands out—distinguished, quite obviously a professor, but also incredibly, devilishly sexy. None of the other teachers wear suits, except for Professor Irving (though his look like they’re made out of a couch). There’s just this magnetism about Brigs that turns heads.