The Lie(44)

The first time she came by I chalked it up to her being an overly protective friend. Now I don’t know what to think. She either hates me and wants to get under my skin…or it’s the opposite. And she wants to get under my skin.

I wish I could talk to Natasha about it. I haven’t spoken to her since our pub date, meeting, whatever the hell it was. I’ve tried, numerous times, to compose an email to her, but I keep erasing the bloody thing. I don’t know what to say, I don’t know how to express what it is I want from her. I don’t even know.

But I know it starts with seeing her again.

And soon.

I bite the bullet and just start to write.



Natasha,



I was wondering when you’d like to come over and see my dog.

He’s been on his best behaviour lately and I would like to take advantage of this.

Any night this week works for me.

He’d prefer to see you tonight, and I’m fine with that too.



Brigs



I know for a fact that the whole having a dog thing helps any man with the ladies. I mean, just look at Lachlan. Okay, that’s a bad example since the bastard could get any woman without the dogs, but still. I may have not rescued Winter for this purpose, but that won’t stop me from using him that way.

I wait for her response, wondering if she’s in class. I consider looking her up in the system and seeing her class schedule, but the computer dings as her reply comes in.

I brace myself as I click on it, worried by the quickness of her response. It could be a giant “f*ck off” for all I know.



Brigs,



Tell your dog tonight sounds good. I would love to pop in and say hello.

Maybe afterward we could catch a movie. My brain is burning out on all the class requirements, and there’s that new Tarantino film at the cinemas I think you’d hate.



Natasha.

PS your dog better be as awesome as he sounds.



I’ve got the biggest f*cking grin spread across my face. I quickly look for theatres closest to my flat and tell her to come over between seven-thirty and eight. It will give me just enough time to show her around before we catch the film.

I understand why she suggested going out, too. Her coming over to my flat without a plan is asking for trouble. Maybe it’s just the kind of trouble I’m looking for, but it’s still trouble in the end.

I’m positively giddy as I take the train home, like a goddamn schoolboy with a crush. I have to remind myself that I can’t get carried away, can’t take anything for granted. I guess I’m just happy to have Natasha back in my life, the chance to hear her laugh, to feel every inch of light that she radiates.

Her face Monday night wasn’t the same as when I first ran into her in the halls. The fear and the pain were gone, and her eyes were deep with warmth and a certain ease, especially as the night wore on. Of course we were both half-corked, but even so, that only meant the real Natasha was coming through.

The last thing I want is to move too fast, to scare her—or myself—away. The truth is, I don’t really know what this is, other than the fact that I have this insatiable need to see her again, to be with her. I haven’t been able to laugh, feel joy, or bypass the years of grief in such a long time. To come alive with her is nearly addicting.

I keep this in mind as I do a quick tidying of my flat before taking Winter for a walk around Regent’s University. When I get back, none of my nervous energy has dissipated. Winter seems to pick up on that too, running around the drawing room while I quickly jump in the shower.

I pause briefly when I’m done, eyeing my body in the mirror. I may be older than I was four years ago, but at least I don’t look it. In fact, I look better than before, the gym paying off, my muscles showcased well by my lean frame. It seems absolutely crazy to think that with everything I feel for Natasha, everything we’ve gone through, she still hasn’t seen me naked. She’s barely touched me.

It was for the best, of course, and I have to remind myself not to dwell on it, nor the fact that the future is full of possibility. For all I know, being actual platonic friends may be the easiest—and the smartest—thing to do.

By the time seven-thirty rolls around, I’ve been sitting on the couch for a while, attempting to work on my manuscript on my laptop, having consumed about two pots of Earl Grey tea. I’m absolutely wired, my leg bouncing, my eyes forever dancing to the door and back.

Eventually I take to staring out the window to the street below, Winter at my side doing the same thing. My eyes are trained to the left, where she would come out of Baker Street station.

Then she appears, jeans and a jacket, and I wish I had binoculars so I could really spy on her and see the expression on her face, if she’s nervous, happy, whatever. That would make me one hell of a pervy professor, but I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t be the first.

The intercom sounds and I buzz her in without a word. I wait by the door for her to knock, and when she does, I still jump a little. I wait a moment, curling and uncurling my fists at my side, trying to compose myself, before opening it.

“Hi,” she says brightly, staring up at me.

I can’t help but take a moment to just drink in the sight of her. It does something so unearthly to me, this weightlessness in my chest.

“Hi,” I say, swallowing thickly. I open the door wider. “Welcome to my humble abode.”