The Lie(51)

I’m just not sure I’m ready for all.

And I’m not sure I can live with nothing.

I get back to the flat and Melissa, as usual, is waiting up for me. It’s almost like she stops dating and/or sleeping around the moment I start going on these dates and starts hanging around at home, waiting for me. Like my mother. Of course she thinks I’m going out with fictional “Bradley” from the art history program and had high hopes for me before I left the flat tonight.

But when she sees my face, her ravenous expression drops. She comes over to me, cooing, “What happened?”

I need to come up with an excuse, but I feel like I’m all out of them.

“He stood me up,” I say, going into my bedroom, dropping down on the bed, and taking off my boots.

“What?” she exclaims. “Why didn’t you come home right away?”

“I really wanted to see the movie,” I tell her, feeling bad that I’m lying. “I’m used to going to them alone.”

“Maybe he went to the wrong cinema. Or,” she snaps her fingers together, “maybe you did.”

I shake my head. “No. I called him and he said he forgot, that he was busy, and he’d call me back. I heard a girl giggling in the background. He never called back.” I add a shrug, so I don’t make it into a bigger deal than it is. “It’s fine. It got me out of the house.”

“But you look so upset,” she says “Your mascara is all smudged. I haven’t seen you like this…well, since he who shall not be named.”

Professor Blue Eyes.

Brig’s anguished face fills my head and I quickly shut my eyes, as if that helps him go away. He’s shining in my mind more potent than ever.

“I’m just…” I grapple for the right words, words that aren’t lies. “Discouraged. And frustrated.”

“Yeah, I get that,” she says slowly. “I have to say though, Tasha, it’s nice to see you suffer.”

I raise my brows at her. “Are you serious?”

She gives me a smirk in return. “I’m just saying, you’ve kind of been a bloody robot for the last few months, ever since you came back to London. I get that you’re trying to put up the barricades and move on, but you have to feel some emotion every once in a while, even the bad. It doesn’t make you weak.”

Holy f*ck, she’s actually being sweet and apparently sincere. I’m touched.

“Anyway,” she says, “I’ll leave you to it. But if you ever need to talk, I’m here for you. I’m just glad that you’re getting out there and not letting the past define you. You’re better than that.”

But as I fall asleep that night, I know it’s a lie. The only person I can be better than is the one who went to the movies with Brigs tonight and fired barbs at him the moment he got too close, the moment I got too scared.

Tomorrow, I have to find a way to set things right, even if it hurts me.

***

The next day I work up the courage to go to Brig’s office. I never got an email from him about last night and I didn’t want to email him because what I need to say can’t be expressed like that. It’s too empty, too cold a way to say that I want him just as he wants me. I want to try again.

But just because I’ve set my mind to something doesn’t mean that I’m not scared shitless. Just like the week before, I practically drag my feet to his floor, and when I find his office door closed again, I know I have a last minute chance to turn and run away and ignore it all to hell.

I also know I can’t kid myself. There’s no ignoring this anymore.

Before I lose my nerve, I quickly rap on the door. My knock is straightforward, not unlike the goofy ones I would do on his office door back in the day.

I don’t hear any response from inside, though. No movement.

Maybe he’s not even in.

I knock again.

Silence.

“Brigs?” I say just loud enough for him to hear me, knowing that if he doesn’t want to see me at all I’m giving him an easy out. It’s about time I make something easy on him.

But at the sound of my voice, I hear a chair sliding back. Footsteps.

The door opens, Brigs peering down at me from the other side.

“Hi,” I say to him. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

He shakes his head, doesn’t say anything, and opens the door. As I step in I take a quick glance at his face. His expression is wary. I don’t blame him.

He hesitates for a tiny beat, hand on the doorknob, thinking I might want him to leave it open.

“You can close it,” I tell him.

He closes it with a little shrug and slowly walks over to his desk. He sits down in his chair, hands gathering his papers as if he’s prepared to go back to work. “Are you thinking of becoming my research assistant?” he says dryly.

“Not really,” I tell him, walking over to the side of his desk. I take in a deep breath. “I came here to apologize.”

He glances up at me. “It seems we’re doing a lot of that lately.”

I swallow, nodding. “Yes. We have been. And I think we ought to stop.”

He frowns and leans back in his chair, studying me, hands folded across his trim waist. “All right,” he says. “Is that all?”