The Lie(67)

“Of course I’m f*cking sure,” he snaps. “I’m…f*ck, Natasha. They’re dead! It’s my fault. How can I ever go on with this, with what I’ve done?”

“It’s not your fault,” I tell him, pleading, tears starting to fall from my eyes. “It’s not our fault. You didn’t know. How could you know?”

“I should have known,” he says. “And now my son, my son—” He stops, breaking down into sobs.

Oh my god.

Oh my god.

“I’m so sorry, I’m sorry,” I cry out, my body starting to shake as the truth slowly takes hold. “Brigs, please, I’m sorry.”

He’s crying on the other end and my heart is being smashed and smashed and smashed with a hammer, and then the guilt blankets me from above, a net to hold me forever in the truth of what we’ve done.

There is no grey to our love. There is only black. It’s sharp and heavy and eternally wrong.

I’m bereft of everything there is. Love, life, soul. In a second everything is gone because of what this has cost.

“I can’t ever see you again,” he tells me, strength climbing back into him. “We did this. We were a mistake. A horrible f*cking mistake and it’s cost me absolutely everything.”

I can’t speak. I shake my head, the tears spilling.

“Goodbye, Natasha,” he says. “Please don’t contact me. You never existed. We never existed. We can never ever be. I don’t deserve that.”

The phone clicks and goes silent.

I drop it onto the bed, staring down at it until the tears blur my vision. I try to breathe but I can’t. My throat is a mess of tears and my heart wants to leap out of my chest and run far, far away. I can’t blame it. I want to run, I want to die. I want to dig a grave and bury myself deeper and deeper.

Brigs lost his wife and child.

His wife.

His child.

His beautiful smiling child that he loved more than anything in the world.

He lost everything in an instant.

Because he had loved me.

He had chosen me.

He had told the truth.

Our horrible, sinful truth.

I collapse back into bed, feeling black hands grab me and pull me under. I don’t care what happens next. My heart is broken and reeling from his words, knowing I will never see him again, knowing we were a mistake. My soul is weeping for the lives we cost. My whole being is dying because I know no matter how badly I feel now, however horrible the burden and shame I’ll have to carry, it’s nothing compared to what Brigs is going to have to go through.

I’m a terrible person.

The worst.

Melissa had no idea how low I really was, how low I would really go.

I hate myself so much. So much.

I weep, silently at first, staring up at the ceiling, then I start screaming, bawling, choking on tears. I bite my fist until I leave deep teeth marks in my skin, little red grooves that nearly break the surface. My chest and heart seem to converge, crumbling steel that makes me convulse and shake, fighting for life and wanting to die all at the same time.

The pain is so much, too much, and I can’t stop how loud I scream, how violently I cry, tossing and turning on the bed, this sinking ship.

I did this.

I deserve this.

This bitter, black end.

I’ll never move on.

I’ll never be the same.

I’ll never stop hating myself.

I’ve killed two people.

And I’ll never see Brigs McGregor again.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Brigs

London

Present Day



“Daddy?” Hamish says, his voice so soft and curious.

I know it’s a dream without even looking at him. But it doesn’t stop my heart from expanding, warm and golden, for every part of me to buzz with the feeling of what it is to be alive. I may be dreaming but it’s a blessing to know it, to hang on to every scene, every feeling.

“What is it Hame?” I ask him, turning my head.

We’re lying beside each other on the grass at Princes Street Gardens. I’m on my side, flipping through a coloring book of his while he’s on his back, pointing up at the sky with chubby fingers. I never really figured out where he got them from. Neither Miranda nor I are anything but thin, but I guess this could be passed down from who knows where. And even though I have a few auburn glints in my beard when it really gets going, Hamish is a full-on carrot top. Everyone said that he’d grow dark like me when he got older, but I had a feeling he would hang on to his ginger ways for a long time.

But I guess that’s something I’ll never know.

“What cloud is that?” he asks, and I look up at the passing clouds he’s pointing at.

I squint. “Well, I don’t know. What do you see?”

“Is it a consolation?”

I laugh good-naturedly. “You mean constellation. And that’s just for the stars. Just for at night when it’s dark.”

“Why can’t we see the stars in the day?”

“Because,” I tell him, grasping for a simplified way. “The stars are the same color as the sun, but the sun is brighter. It makes them disappear.”

“What are clouds?”

“Candy floss,” I tell him. “Cotton wool. God’s pillows. They have so many uses.”