by Karina Halle
“If you don’t let go of me,” she seethes, “I’m going to tell everyone that you hurt me and you’ll never see your son again.” She pulls against me harder, to make a point, my fingers automatically digging into her soft skin. “You can have your divorce, Brigs. But you can’t have him.”
“Miranda, please. Let me get the car seat. I know you’re angry, but please, let me do that! Just let me do that.” We are both soaked to the bone now, and my feet are slowly being buried by mud. I’m feeling buried by my own desperation. “Please, okay? Please.”
She stares at me, so fearful, so enraged. Then she nods, the rains spilling down her face.
I don’t have a plan. But I know I’m not letting her drive away from here, not in her state of hysterics, not in this weather. I look down at Hamish as he’s crying, his face pink in the dim light, nearly obscured by the rain.
“Just give me a second,” I tell him. “Daddy will be right back.”
I turn, running toward the house, wondering if I need to call the cops, if she’ll calm down in the time I get the seat. If—
The sound of the car door opening.
I stop and whirl around.
She’s getting in her side, slamming the door shut.
“No!” I scream. I try to run but slip, falling to the ground. Mud splashes around me. “Miranda, wait!”
The car starts just as I’m getting to my feet, and I don’t feel the cold or the rain or hear the wind or the engine, I just feel horror. Pure, unfiltered, unsaturated horror.
The front wheels spin viciously for a moment before the car reverses back down the driveway.
I start running after her.
I reach the car and slam my hands down on the hood, staring at her through the moving wiper blades. Her face. Her indignity. Her panic. Her disgrace.
His face. Distraught. Confused. The perfect marriage of both of us. The perfect little boy.
Her face. His face.
The wipers wipe them clean.
She puts the car in drive and guns the engine, enough to push the grill into my hips. I quickly leap to the right before I get run over.
I roll over on the ground, out of the way, and struggle to my feet as Miranda whips the car around and speeds off down the street.
“Miranda!” I scream. Panic grips me for one second, freezing me in place, helpless, hopeless.
But I’m not.
I have to go after them.
I run back to the house, grab my mobile, and the keys to the vintage Aston Martin and run back out, jumping into the car.
The fucking piece of shit takes a few times to roll over and I’m looking at the phone wondering if I should call the police. I don’t even know if she’s legally drunk or not, and I don’t want to get her in trouble, but if they can stop her before I can, before she possibly hurts herself and Hamish, then I may just have to. I have to do something.
I know she’s heading to her parents’ house, the Hardings, across the bridge to St. David’s Bay. That’s where she always goes. Maybe I should call her mother. Get them on the lookout. Mrs. Harding will hate me even more for it, but not as much as she will when Miranda tells them what I’ve done.
The car finally turns over. I gun it down the driveway and onto the main road, a winding, twisting artery that leads to the M-8.
“Fuck!” I scream, banging my fist repeatedly on the wheel as my self-hatred chokes me. “Fuck!”
Why did I pick tonight to say anything?
Why did I have to go to London?
Why did I have to choose this?
Why did it have to choose me?
I’m asking myself a million questions, hating myself for letting it go this way, wishing dearly that I had done things differently.
I’m asking myself things I don’t have any answers to other than:
Because I love Natasha.
It always comes down to that terrible truth.
I love her.
So much.
Too much.
Enough to make me throw everything away.
Because I could no longer live the lie.
But the truth doesn’t just hurt, it destroys.
The road twists sharply to the left as it skirts along Braeburn Pond, and in the pouring rain, the wipers going faster and faster, I nearly miss it.
But it’s impossible not to.
The broken fence along the side of the road.
The steam rising from beyond the bank.
From where a car has gone over the edge.
A car has gone over the edge.
I slam on the brakes, the car skidding a few feet, and pull to the side of the road.
I don’t let the thoughts enter my head.
The thoughts that tell me this is them.
This could be them.
But if it is them, one thought says, you have to save them.
I can save them.
I don’t know how I manage to swallow the panic down, but I do.
I get out of the car, rain in my face.
The air smells like burned asphalt.
The pond is whipped up by the storm.
And as I approach the edge of the road, I can see the faint beam of headlights from down below, a misplaced beacon in the dark.
I look down.
The world around me swims.
The hood of the sedan is smashed into a willow tree, the same hood I had my hands on minutes ago, begging her not to leave.
The car is at an angle, leaning on its broken nose.
The steam rises.
And yet I still have hope.
I have to have hope.
I cry out, making noises I can’t control. Maybe I’m yelling for them, maybe I’m yelling for help. I stumble down the hillside to the car.
Praying.
Praying.
Praying.
That they’re going to be okay.
They’re going to be okay.
The windshield is completely shattered, the jagged glass stained with red.
I stare stupidly at the empty car.
Then turn my head.
To the space in front of the hood.
And the grass between the car and the pond.
Where two bodies lay, dark in the night.
Two bodies—one big, one small.
Both broken.
Both motionless.
I have one moment of clarity as the truth sinks in.
My truth.
This real truth.
And in that moment I want to grab the jagged piece of glass lying at my feet.
Put it in my throat.
And end it before I can feel it.
But that would be the coward’s way out.
So I stumble forward.
Vomit down my shirt.
Paralysis of the heart.
I cry.
Scream.
Noises animals make.
I stumble past Miranda.
To Hamish.
Fall to my knees.
And cradle my truth in my arms.
And I feel it.
I’ll never stop feeling it.
The rain.
The death.
The end of everything.
My world goes black.
And stays that way.
CHAPTER ONE
Brigs
Edinburgh
Present Day
Pop.
A cork flies off a bottle of alcohol-free champagne. The shit isn’t Dom Pérignon, but for the sake of my brother and his alcohol recovery program, it will do. Besides, it’s not what we’re drinking that counts—it’s what we’re celebrating.
“Congratu-fucking-lations, brother,” I tell Lachlan, grabbing his meaty shoulder and giving it a rather rough squeeze. I’m beaming at him, conscious of my all-too-wide grin in his face, but I’m happier than I’ve been in a while. Maybe it’s the real champagne I had with our mum before Lachlan and his girlfriend came over.
Wait. Not girlfriend.
Ka
yla is his fiancé now. And if you ask me, it’s about time.
Lachlan nods, smiling wanly in acute embarrassment, which only makes me want to embarrass him more. That’s the job of an older brother, after all, and since our family adopted him when I was out of high school, I missed out on those important torture years of childhood that most siblings experience.
My mum comes over and pours the non-champagne into our glasses, then into Kayla’s, who is standing dutifully at Lachlan’s side. As usual, she’s hanging on to Lachlan in some way—hand at the small of his back—and her cheeks are flushed with emotion. I almost wish she would cry so I could poke fun at her later. She’s such a feisty, smart-mouthed girl that a little vulnerable emotion would be wonderful to exploit.
“Here’s to Lachlan and the future Mrs. McGregor,” my mum says, raising her glass to the happy couple. Before she’s about to clink the glasses, she eyes my father, who is standing at the edge of the room, poised to take a picture. He’s been poised for the last few minutes. “Well, hurry Donald and get over here.”
“Right,” he says, snapping one more photo of us with glasses in the air, and then comes hurrying over. She hands him his glass and we all clink them together.
“Welcome to the family, Kayla,” I tell her sincerely. I glance quickly at Lachlan before I add, “I’ve been bugging him from day one to propose to you, you know. Can’t believe it took him so long, especially with a girl like you.”
The permanent line between Lachlan’s brow deepens, his jaw tense. I think I’m the only person alive that can piss him off and not get scared of him. My brother is a giant beast of a man, all beard and muscle and tattoos, and has most recently become the captain of the Edinburgh Rugby team. You don’t want to mess with him, unless your name is Brigs McGregor.
“Brigs,” my mother admonishes.
“Oh, I know,” Kayla says smoothly before taking a sip of her drink. “I’d be lying if I hadn’t been leaving out my rings on the dresser, just so it would be easier for him to get the right size.”
“Atta girl,” I tell her, and clink her glass again, and though I’m suddenly hit by a fleeting memory, about picking out a ring for Miranda, I swallow it down with the bubbles. That’s how I’ve learned to deal with the past—you acknowledge it and move on.
Move on.
Yesterday we were all at the rugby match between Edinburgh and Munster, cheering our arses off. Of course we weren’t just there for Lachlan. He had told us a few weeks before that he was going to propose during the game, and it would be nice to have the family there. Even though I just started teaching last week, I flew up from London to Edinburgh on Friday night.
Naturally it was hard for me to keep my mouth shut about the event, but I’m glad I did because it made the moment even greater, especially when Lachlan briefly buggered the proposal part up. It still ended up being romantic as hell.
“This is so exciting,” my mum squeals. I don’t think I’ve seen her squeal in a long time. She places her glass on the coffee table and claps her hands together, her bracelets jangling. “Have you given any thought to where the wedding is going to be? When? Oh and the dress. Kayla, darling, you’re going to look so beautiful.”
I want to keep the grin on my face. I really do. But it’s starting to falter.
Move on, move on, move on.
The memories of my mother and Miranda going dress shopping. How long they took—months—before they found the perfect one. How Miranda squirreled that dress home, hiding it in the closet and forbidding me to look at it.
I kept my word. I did. And on our wedding day, she really did take my breath away.
I wish that memory could be pure. I wish that I could grieve like any normal man would. Feel the sorrow and not the shame.
But all I feel is shame. All I feel is shame.
All my fault.
The thought races through my head, lightning on the brain.
All my fault.
I close my eyes and breathe in slowly through my nose, remembering what my therapist had taught me.
Move on, move on, move on.
It wasn’t my fault.
“Brigs?” I hear my father say, and I open my eyes to see him peering at me curiously. He gives me a quick, encouraging smile. “Are you all right?” He says this in a low, hushed voice, and for that I’m grateful. My mother and Kayla are talking wedding plans, and they haven’t noticed.
Lachlan, on the other hand, is watching me. He knows my triggers just as I know his. But while we can drink alcohol-free champagne for his sake, we can’t ignore fucking life for mine. We can’t pretend that love and marriage and babies don’t happen, just because all of mine were taken away.
All my fault.
I exhale and paste on a smile. “I’m fine,” I say to my father. “Guess I’m a wee bit stressed about classes tomorrow. This will be the first real week of school. The first one never counts for anything. Everyone’s lost or hung over.”
He gives a little laugh. “Yes, I remember those days.” He finishes the champagne and checks his watch, managing to spill leftover droplets on the carpet as he turns his wrist. “What time is your flight tonight?”
“Ten p.m.,” I tell him. “I should probably go upstairs and make sure I have everything.”
I make for the stairs as Lachlan calls after me, “I’ll drive you to the airport.”
“No worries,” I say. I can tell from the intensity in his eyes that he wants to talk. And by that, he wants me to talk. The last year, leading up to my new job at Kings College and the move to London, Lachlan was on me to make sure I was handling things, that I was doing okay. Maybe it’s because I helped him get help for his drug and alcohol addiction, maybe he’s just more aware of me in general, as a brother and as a friend.
Our relationship has always been a bit strained and rocky, but at least now he’s one of the few people I can count on.
“It’s not a problem,” he says gruffly, the Lachlan brand of tough love. “I’ll drop Kayla off at home, then take you over.”
I exhale and nod. “Sure, thank you.”
I quickly go upstairs and make sure my overnight bag is in order. When I’m in Scotland I usually stay in my old room at my parents. It makes me feel terribly old, staring down at my old bed, let alone trying to sleep in it, but there’s something comforting about it, too.
My flat in Edinburgh city is being rented at the moment, so there’s no staying there. Eventually I’ll probably sell it. I accepted my position as professor of film studies at the university with a grain of salt and with no real long-term commitment. I’m renting a nice flat in the Marylebone area now, but until I feel like this job is solid and I’m in for the long haul, I’m treating my new life with delicate hands.
“How is Winter?” Lachlan asks me later after I’ve said my goodbyes to my parents and Kayla, and we’re in his Range Rover, lights flashing past on the A-90.
“He’s a handful,” I tell him, tapping my fingers along the edge of the door. “And a right bugger sometimes. And I’m pretty sure my neighbors will file a complaint when he barks again in the middle of the night.”
“He’s not even a year old yet,” Lachlan says. “Give it time. He’s still a puppy.”
“Aye. He’s a shitting machine is what he is.”
Lachlan’s a dog expert and a dog rescuer. When he’s not being a hotshot rugby player, he operates a rescue shelter for dogs, especially pit bulls, and tries to build awareness for them. Kayla works for him, and so far the organization – Ruff Love – has been doing really well. He’s the reason why I adopted Winter to begin with. I found him as a puppy last Christmas during a snowstorm by our grandpa’s house in Aberdeen, hiding out in the neighbor’s barn. When the neighbors wouldn’t claim the dog, it was either I take the white fluff ball in or Lachlan would take him to his shelter. The bloody dog grew on me, I guess, and now he’s a royal pain in the arse who looks like he strolled in off the set of Game of Thrones. Still, life would be pretty boring without
him, even though I have to hire a dog walker to deal with his excess energy when I’m at school.
“You know,” Lachlan says quietly after a few moments. “If any of this gets difficult for you…you can just tell me to shut up. I’ll understand.”
I glance at him, his face half-covered by shadows. “If what gets difficult?”
He clears his throat and gives me an expectant look. “You know. Kayla and I. Getting married. I know it can’t be easy…you and Miranda…”
I ignore the icy grip in my chest and try to relax my shoulders. “She’s dead, Lachlan. There is no use pretending otherwise and no point in dancing around it.” I look back out the window, getting lost in the darkness and the beams of passing headlights. “Life is always going to go on, that’s what I’ve learned, and I’m making peace with it. Just because some things ended for me doesn’t mean they end for everyone else. You’re going to marry Kayla, and the wedding is going to be beautiful. After that, I’m sure she’ll pop out some giant beast-like children. In no way am I not going to want to talk about it, be there for you, and enjoy it. Life goes on, and so will I. And so I do. Your life and love and happiness isn’t going to stop because of the things I lost. Neither Miranda or Hamish would have wanted that.”
Silence fills the car, and I can feel him staring at me in that unnerving way of his. I don’t turn my head. I just let my words be.
“But it’s not just that,” he says cautiously. “I can see it in your eyes, Brigs. I always have. You’re haunted. And it’s not by sadness or sorrow. And it’s not by Miranda or Hamish. You’re haunted by yourself. When will you finally tell me…why? What really happened?”
I swallow hard.
Move on, move on.
Headlights. Street lamps. Everything is growing brighter. The airport is close.
“Lachlan, I liked you better when you didn’t talk so much,” I tell him, keep my eyes focused on those lights. I make a point of counting them as they zip past. I make a point of not thinking about his question.
I hear him scratch his beard in thought.
“I don’t get any complaints from Kayla,” he says.
I roll my eyes, happy to have something else to latch on to. “You couldn’t do any wrong in that woman’s eyes. That’s love, mate. And honestly, I’m truly happy you have it. You deserve love most of all.”