The Lie(41)

We head out of the city, taking the A-90 to the M-90 and speed north. After we get her some coffee and we share a couple of sausage rolls for breakfast, I warn her that we literally will see the estate and have to head back. But she doesn’t mind.

And honestly, neither do I. I crank the old radio on the car to pick up an oldies station playing a special on Otis Redding. The day is warm and gorgeous, and even though we’re going fast, our windows are down, enjoying the wind and the sun on our skin.

About an hour into our drive, Natasha turns to me and says, “Tell me the truth. Why did you come to get me this morning?”

“Was it that unusual?” I ask without looking at her.

“Yes,” she says. “The last time you came to my house without me knowing…”

“Back then I was following up on an email. I wanted to know if you were all right,” I tell her before she can tell me anything else about that night.

“And now I want to know if you’re all right,” she says gently.

I glance at her. There’s a softness in her eyes that undoes me. I grip the wheel hard, conscious of my every movement and how they might appear to her. A good man, after the night she kissed me, the night I kissed her right back, would have never been alone with her again.

But I’m not a good man.

I’m a man who is slowly but surely falling in the wrong direction.

“I’m fine,” I say, but it comes out gruff and broken.

“What happened?” she asks. “It’s your wife, isn’t it?”

I shouldn’t tell her anything. I should let private things be private. And yet, this is Natasha. I can hardly hide anything from her. Not only does she know me in ways I can’t even fathom, but I only want to be honest with her. I want to tell her, talk to her, confide in her.

I want her in so many—too many—ways.

I take in a deep breath. “I’m just coming to realize that Miranda and I are entirely different people. And we have been for a long time.”

Silence. I glance at her to see her staring down at her hands, her face round and sweet and sad. “Oh. Well, marriages are hard work, I imagine. It must be normal.”

“That’s what people want you to believe,” I tell her. “But I’m not sure I’m willing to settle for that. Not when I know how good something can be.”

I let those words hang in the air. I’m not sure if Natasha picks up on it.

She stares out the window. “There’s always marriage counseling.”

“She wouldn’t go.”

“You don’t know that,” she says half-heartedly.

“I do know,” I tell her. I don’t bring up the fact that I’d suggested it last year when I first started having troubles in the bedroom with Miranda. To be frank, I couldn’t get it up. She didn’t take as much offense as I thought, but even so, I wondered if there was some underlying issue.

The problem still persists, not that I’ve tried to make love to her in months. It’s just…easier this way.

“She’s perfectly happy to just let things be,” I tell her.

“And you’re not.”

I knead my hands on the steering wheel and catch a look at myself in the rearview mirror, at how tired I look. “I’m not happy at all.”

As Otis Redding plays, we fall silent. Trees and fields and small towns baking under sunshine pass outside the car.

“Are you happy now?” Natasha finally asks. “Right here, with me?”

I clench my jaw. How blunt this lovely girl is. No boundaries. No fear.

I look at her.

She looks back at me.

“Yes,” I tell her. I can’t lie. “I’m always happy with you.”

And yet the truth is so hard to swallow.

Her eyes dance softly, her smile a delicate profession. “I’m happy with you.”

My breath leaves me. I can’t explain how her simple words make me feel. It’s as if my soul has been gently nudged awake from a long slumber and she’s the first sight I’ve seen.

There’s nothing to say to that. Just this understanding of how each of us feel. We make each other happy.

I almost reach out with my hand and place it on hers, just to feel her flesh, her warmth, but then the warning bells go off, ringing in my ears.

“You’re leaving,” I say suddenly. “Next week is your last.”

“I know,” she whispers. “I’ve been trying not to think about it.”

“I’m nowhere near done with the book.”

“You’ll find someone else to help you with the research.”

“But someone else isn’t you.”

“I guess I’m irreplaceable,” she says smartly, though when I glance at her, her expression is pained as she stares out the window.

Eventually we arrive at Balmoral, only to see the gates are closed.

“Maybe the Queen doesn’t want visitors today,” I tell her as I put the car in park, engine running.

I expect her to be disappointed but she just shrugs. She takes a sip of her coffee, now cold, and winces at the taste of it.

“Maybe we could find another castle nearby,” I suggest.

“It’s fine, really. This was never about the destination, Brigs. This was just about spending time with you.”