The Lie(70)

I’m very aware that I’ve never opened up to Natasha about what went on that night, and I can tell from the way the tears are leaking from her eyes, by the way her hand squeezes my finger, that it’s hitting her hard.

I continue, my throat thick. “There are so many things I could have done to prevent their deaths and not a second goes by that I don’t regret it. That I don’t wish upon wish that I could turn back the clock and make things right. But one thing I’ve slowly, very slowly, learned not to regret is why I talked to Miranda in the first place.” I glance over at Natasha who is staring at me with wide, glossy eyes. “I don’t regret that. I don’t take that back. Because it was the truth and the truth needed to be said. Maybe some things are better left in the dark, but that’s never something I believed in. Once I realized what was to never be, I couldn’t live the lie. The truth hurts. In this case it killed. But I refuse to be shackled to that guilt anymore. I refuse to live my life in shame because I fell in love with someone else and because I chose to do the right thing, even if it was barely right above a sea of wrongs. I’ve needed to make peace with this, and I think Hamish, and deep down, Miranda, would agree. Their loss has robbed me of life and soul and irrevocably changed so many lives. But I also know they would both want me to move on, to keep going, to be happy.”

I sigh and lift the bouquet of flowers, breaking off a few petals. “I did the wrong thing and tried to do the right thing. But this is no longer about my own guilt or shame or suffering. This is just about two very special humans who were taken far too soon, whom I miss every single day, whom I wish I could see just once more. This is about the lives of Miranda and Hamish, and the people they loved and those who loved them.”

I sprinkle the light petals on the dark water. They look like stars bobbing around in a moving sky. I take out the dinosaur stickers and do the same. “I love you, little guy. And I miss you. Like you wouldn’t bloody believe. And I know, I know you’re with me sometimes. Or perhaps, like you say in my dreams, all the time. I’m so sorry I never got to know the man you would become. I’m sorry the world was robbed of knowing you, too. But something tells me—maybe it’s just foolish hope—that I’ll still know. No matter the years that pass, I’ll still know you. In here.” I press my fist against my heart and try to breathe. It’s so f*cking hard. “I love you.”

Then I collapse to the ground, my legs having had enough.

Natasha goes with me, trying to hold me up, but I can’t. I just end up holding on to her, wrapping my arms around her shoulders, like I can’t hold on hard enough. I’m crying, sobbing into her shoulder, feeling so much love and so much pain choke me at once. It’s a maddening descent into darkness and I feel myself slipping.

But she is light. She gives me light. She holds on and tells me that I’m a good man and that I deserve to be forgiven, deserve to let go. She tells me beautiful things, and I feel her belief, I feel her strength even though I know the darkness has her too. I wonder if it will always be like this, the mutual drowning, the downward spiral of the two of us, holding hands as we go.

And I wonder if we will always lift each other out of it.

But then, as the night ticks on and we lie by the river, huddled together in each other’s arms, a desperate and wild embrace, I know I don’t have to wonder.

As long as she is with me. As long as I am with her, we will always bring each other out of it.

We are forever surrounded by ashes.

But we are fire.

And fire rises.

Somehow, when all the tears have exhausted themselves and my chest feels numb and my face is leaden with pressure, the two of us get to our feet. The world swirls around us—the dark, lapping waves, the traffic from the bridges, the glittering lights of the Eye, pubs and boats and life going on—and I feel like we were just caught in a passing storm. Horrible and ravaging and merciless at its peak, but then it soon weakens and moves on. It leaves everything behind it both raw and clean.

Natasha puts her arms around my waist and her head to my chest. I cup the back of her neck, thanking God for her, thanking him for letting the storm pass and the light rise. Maybe it won’t always be like this, but for tonight, when I really needed it, it is.

I think I finally know what it feels like to have your pieces put back together. It’s a shoddy, messy job, but I’m still standing.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers to me. “For everything.”

“I’m sorry too,” I tell her. “But I’m not sorry for you.”

She looks up at me and I wipe a tear away from her cheek before kissing her softly on the lips. “Come home with me,” I whisper to her.

She nods and we head back through the city, leaving the flowers and the stickers and the tears behind on the Thames.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Brigs



“Professor McGregor, you’re not looking so hot.”

I don’t even look up from my notes. I quickly shove them in my briefcase while the class files out of the room, wishing Melissa would go along with them.

“Well, that’s not true,” Melissa adds quietly, coming closer until she’s practically on the desk. Out of my peripheral I can see her red nails drumming along the surface. “You’re always pretty hot. And you know it. Why else do you keep wearing these dress shirts, the way they hug your biceps.” I can practically feel her leering eyes burn into me. “But you do look tired. Something wrong?”