The Lie

by Karina Halle

  Brigs McGregor.

  What stars had to align for that to happen? Two meteors crashing into each other would do it.

  But I don’t know where to go. I run down the stairs, faster, faster, students staring at me in concern, all the way to the first floor. I duck into the handicapped bathroom, locking the door behind me, and sit on the toilet, head in my hands, my heart dancing with my tonsils.

  Breathe, I tell myself, trying to inhale through my nose, but I crave air so much that I’m gasping it in through my mouth, tears burning the corners of my eyes.

  Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic.

  You’re okay.

  “How the fuck am I okay?” I cry out loud, my voice bouncing around the cold tiled room.

  I try and focus on breathing, getting my lungs full, letting it out.

  I’m shaking.

  Fucking hell.

  Brigs.

  He would have come back out into the hall and seen that I’m gone.

  The lady vanishes.

  I start to feel bad about leaving him like that. But if I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s that I have to protect myself first. I worked really, really hard to get back to London, to get accepted here, to finally pull myself up. I can’t let anything or anyone jeopardize that.

  And Brigs most certainly would.

  He’s the reason I fell to begin with.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  I make fists and press them into my temples.

  This isn’t a problem I can run away from. Brigs is a professor here. Fuck, he’s Melissa’s fucking teacher. And I go to this school and will be for the next two years.

  Dear god, what if he’s my damn teacher next semester? Then what?

  It becomes harder to breathe again. I have to force myself to concentrate, to slow my heart rate. I wish I had gotten another refill of Ativan when I had the chance. It’s just that I was doing so well. I’m going to need a bucketful to even make it through this day.

  I don’t know how long I stay in that bathroom, my phone vibrating repeatedly, most likely Melissa wondering where I am and what’s happening. I don’t look at it. I don’t look at anything except my feet and the gross linoleum floor.

  My mind keeps tripping over itself, replaying the sight of him.

  It hurts, hurts, how handsome he still is. More handsome than before. Standing there before me, in that sharp suit, looking every inch the put together professor. Tall, lean, with those shoulders I remember grabbing that one night, digging my nails in when my body and soul went wild with hunger.

  The night we almost slept together.

  The night he told me he was leaving his wife.

  That night that became the last night for us.

  How horrible it must have been for him to see me just now.

  I ruined his whole life, sent it off the rails.

  It crashed and burned.

  All because of me.

  And that will never ever change. I’ll never be able to take anything back and neither will he. We’re both doomed to live with our actions, he even more so.

  God. The pain cuts deep, to the bottom of my lungs.

  Breathe, I tell myself again, and a single tear splashes on the floor.

  Eventually, somehow, time passes. The tears stop coming and my heart beats steady and slow. I feel like I’ve been drugged, the emotions riding me too hard and I’ve come out exhausted.

  I sigh, getting to my feet. My legs ache from sitting for so long.

  I check my phone.

  Melissa has texted a million times, worried out of her mind. She’s at the flat now, with alcohol and the need to talk.

  I step into the hallway, conscious that someone might have seen me go in. But the halls are practically empty. Still, in case I run into him again, I don’t waste any time getting out of there.

  I’m back on the streets of London, the rain having stopped.

  I’m back on the tube, crushed against commuters, nobody talking.

  I’m back at the flat, going up the stairs instead of waiting for the lift.

  Then Melissa is opening the door before I can even unlock it.

  “Where the bloody fuck were you?” she cries out, hands flailing all over the place.

  I usher myself inside, head down, avoiding her eyes. “I was in the toilet.”

  “The toilet?” she repeats, while I throw my purse on the kitchen table. She already has the Stoli out, making martinis. “With Professor McGregor?”

  “No,” I say, sitting down at the table and resting my forehead on it. “I was alone. I didn’t…I ran away.”

  “What? From Professor McGregor?”

  I find it funny how she keeps calling him professor. She even did that back then, along with Mr. Married Man McGregor. The constant reminder of how careless I was being, what a fool I was to fall for someone who wasn’t mine.

  “Yes,” I mumble. “I panicked. I couldn’t help it. It seemed he wanted to talk to me, like go somewhere, and I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it, Mel.”

  She takes the seat beside me, and I hear her pouring a drink. “Good,” she says. “You don’t owe him anything. Especially with how he ended it with you.”

  But I never blamed him for that. He only spoke the truth.

  Our love was wrong.

  A lie we told ourselves.

  And it cost us the world.

  As much as it stung to hear it, as much as it made me lose myself, it was well-deserved.

  With us, the truth didn’t just hurt.

  It killed.

  “Here,” she says, and I look up to see her sliding me a drink. “It’s on the house,” she jokes. She’s the cheapest roommate ever and I feel like I’ll somehow have to pay for this in the end.

  I take a long sip. It’s strong and it burns, but it feels good going down.

  After a long pause, I exhale loudly. My shoulders loosen a tad.

  “I just can’t believe it,” I say for the hundredth time.

  She brushes her hair back from her face. “Neither can I. It literally took me the whole class to figure out how to tell you. I saw him walk in, and I was like…bloody hell. It can’t be. And then I had to look up the class again. Professor McGregor. That’s all I saw, and I knew I saw his name before, but we’re in Britain. There’s a million McGregors here.” She takes a sip of her drink. “And you know, he recognized me too. He remembered me. Kept staring at me the whole class, like he was seeing a ghost.”

  A ghost. That’s what his expression said when he saw me in the hall. Like I wasn’t really there, that his mind was playing tricks on him.

  “And now,” she says, “I’m a TA in one of his classes. I’ll be working with him closely all year. That’s going to be weird.”

  Something squeezes in my chest. The line “working with him closely” makes my heart burn and I wish it wouldn’t.

  “That is going to be weird,” I repeat quietly. I feel myself sink down into the spiral, the one that robs me of ambition, motivation, and makes me spend days in my room, in the dark, lost in despair.

  “Hey,” she says, placing her hand on mine and giving it a squeeze. “We’re going to get you through this, okay? You suffered for your mistakes enough, and now you’re going to move on. You are not your past. He’s a teacher at your school—he’s not going to pursue you or harass you. You don’t ever have to see him again, and if you do, you have no obligation to talk to him. If he doesn’t leave you alone, I’ll report him.”

  I give her a dark look. “Don’t report him. He’s lost enough already.”

  “I’ll report him if he lays a finger on you, if he talks to you or comes after you in any way. I’m serious. I will. You have nothing to worry about. He’ll stay away, you’ll stay away, and pretty soon things will go back to normal.”

  But what’s normal?

  “And in the meantime, I’m going to start dragging you out with me more often and get you liquored up or something, because the past few months you’ve been here,
you haven’t hooked up with a single guy. You haven’t even flirted with one. You need to get some arse something fierce.”

  I sigh, not really interested, especially now. “You make it sound so easy.”

  “It’s as easy as you want to make it,” she says. “So he’s at the school, so what? Does that change anything?”

  She stares at me expectantly. I wasn’t aware she needed an answer.

  “It means I have to see him.”

  “But you don’t have to, and if you see him in the halls, pretend he isn’t there. You’re his ghost, he should be yours. Keep a wide berth and I’m telling you everything will work out.”

  Mel isn’t usually this optimistic, so while I have a hard time believing her, I’m also grateful for it.

  I muster up a smile for her. It’s weak, but it’s the best I can do.

  “Cheers,” she says, lifting up her glass. “To going on with your bad-ass self.”

  I take a deep breath, nod my head, and clink my glass against hers. “To going on.”

  ***

  “We will be together, Tasha. I promise.”

  I promise.

  I promise.

  Brigs’ whispered words float through my dreams, bumping into the fragments of his face.

  I reach out to touch them, and they fade.

  I slowly open my eyes and stare at my alarm.

  I wonder what day it is, what life it is.

  Tuesday. I’ve woken up ten minutes before my alarm.

  I exhale and roll onto my back, trying to grab the memories of my dream before they float away.

  Brigs, the last time I saw him. In my old flat in London. I lived alone. It was so much nicer. And even though I knew falling for him was wrong, I was happy. Happy in my ignorance, in the naiveté that everything would work out. He was leaving Miranda, finding the courage to leave his unhappy marriage, the strength to choose what he wanted for once.

  God, how messed up he was over Hamish. I honestly thought he would stay with her forever because of him, because of how afraid he was of losing his son.

  Somewhere along the line though he realized he couldn’t live a lie. It wasn’t fair to Miranda, to Hamish, to him or to me.

  That was the last time I really felt I had hope.

  How easily love takes your hand and leads you into the dark.

  My alarm goes off on my phone, and I quickly reach over and turn it off.

  It’s slow going. My mind is foggy from all the vodka I drank with Melissa last night, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t dragging my feet.

  The truth is, the idea of going to school is frightening. I know I should just do as Mel suggested, and if I see him, pretend he’s not there. But I’m scared. Scared he’ll seek me out. And I’m even more scared that I’ll seek him out.

  I guess I have reason to be scared, because when I do eventually get ready, I find myself taking more care with my appearance than normal. I’m actually running a brush through my hair, putting on makeup, putting on my cleanest clothes (jeans without tomato sauce, suede booties, and a black v-neck shirt), and standing a little taller.

  By the time I get out of the tube and start walking to school, I want to shrink into myself. My eyes are wild, everywhere, searching for him as I approach the stately façade of the main building, my pulse dancing off rhythm.

  Somehow I make it to my class with Professor Shipley, whom I really like. Even though the entire time she’s going on about gender in war films, I can’t help but wonder what it’s like to have Brigs there. What’s he like at faculty meetings? Do he and Professor Shipley ever have lunch to discuss the students, or perhaps dinner to talk about film? Do they go to the movies together? Even though Professor Shipley is in her forties, she’s got this vibe about her, always dressing in capes and long, wide sleeves, her dark hair streaked with grey flowing all the way down to her waist. I could see the two of them hitting it off. If anything, she has to be intrigued by the enigmatic Brigs McGregor.

  And then it happens.

  Right after class.

  I walk down the hall, heading to the bookstore to pick up yet another book I forgot to buy, my mind briefly wondering about the book that Brigs was writing, the one I helped him with.

  I’ve always feared that my mind could conjure up the wrong things, like how thinking about a plane crash while on a plane might cause one, and now I know it’s sort of true.

  Because I see Brigs walking down the hall in my direction.

  He doesn’t see me yet, or maybe he’s pretending.

  His head is held high and he strides forward with easy confidence. He’s wearing wire-frame glasses he sometimes uses for reading. A well-tailored navy suit hugs his body, his shirt unbuttoned just enough, no tie. I can see the looks on girls’ faces as they pass him by. He stands out—distinguished, quite obviously a professor, but also incredibly, devilishly sexy. None of the other teachers wear suits, except for Professor Irving (though his look like they’re made out of a couch). There’s just this magnetism about Brigs that turns heads.

  He’s turning mine right now.

  And then he’s gone, without our eyes even meeting once.

  I’m not sure how I feel about it. I stand there in the middle of the hall feeling relieved at how easy that was. How I saw him again and survived. Didn’t collapse into a puddle or lose my head with another panic attack.

  And yet, I’m also bereft. Because it feels absolutely wrong to watch this man walk past me and let him go without saying anything, pretending he’s a stranger.

  A stranger I used to love.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Brigs

  It’s been days since I’ve seen Natasha. So long that it feels like a dream.

  But on Thursday, when I have the second part of my Analyzing Comedic Film Performance class, I see Melissa again. Proof that the Natasha I saw in the hall on Monday really existed.

  I don’t say anything to Melissa about her though. I want to, but it doesn’t seem like the time or the place, and when class is over, I’m occupied by other students.

  When Friday rolls around, however, and I’m in the lecture theatre, teaching Early Cinema to the undergrads, Melissa is front and center. Literally. She and the two other TAs, Ben and Henry, sit in the first row, observing me very carefully. It took me a while to get used to having TAs when I was teaching in Edinburgh, and this is no different. In fact, Melissa seems to be overly attentive, hanging on to my every word, which should be flattering but it’s striking me as wrong.

  My concern seem justified when class ends and she comes over to me as I’m putting my notes away.

  I peer at her over my reading glasses, trying to sound as professional as possible. “Good afternoon, Melissa.”

  She tilts her head at me, brushes her hair off her shoulder, and smirks. “Nice class. It’s going to be a breeze being your assistant this year.”

  I raise my brow. “I’m glad you think so. I’ll try to take it easy on you.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to take it easy on me,” she says. “I like it when things are hard.”

  Was that an innuendo? She didn’t say it like one, but still. I think I need to tread cautiously with this one.

  I clear my throat and pick up my briefcase. It’s taking everything inside me not to ask about Natasha. “Can I help you with anything?” I ask, since she’s just standing there staring.

  “I was wondering if I could talk to you,” she says. “In private.”

  Is it about Natasha? I want to ask. But it could and most likely is about anything but.

  “Sure,” I tell her. “Come with me to my office.”

  We leave the lecture theatre before it starts filling up for the next class and begin a long awkward walk down the hall and up the stairs.

  “So,” I say, grappling for something to talk about other than what I really want to talk about. “What are your plans for after graduation?”

  She laughs, high-pitched, like some Disney princess. “I have no plans at all ex
cept to keep on doing what I’m doing.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Acting,” she says proudly. “I even had an audition yesterday to be in the new season of Peaky Blinders. Do you watch that show?”

  “I do,” I say slowly. “So, no plans to use your degree, then?”

  “Pfft,” she says with a wave of her hand. “This is just to shut my dad and stepmother up.”

  Well, no wonder she didn’t even show up to classes last week. She just needs a passing grade and she’s out. Still, a master’s degree is a pretty serious commitment for someone who doesn’t care. Maybe that’s what she wants to talk to me about.

  We finally reach my office, and I’d be lying if I wasn’t looking for Natasha the entire time we were walking. Still nowhere to be found. I hope to God she’s not skipping out on school just to avoid me, but considering all the shit that went down between us at the end, I can’t say I’d be surprised.

  I put my briefcase on my desk and sit down at my chair, immediately busying myself with the contents so I have something to do. “So, what’s on your mind, Melissa?”

  “A lot of things,” she says, leaning against the desk just enough so that I can see down her top. I immediately avert my eyes, feeling just a tad uncomfortable. “But mainly Natasha.”

  My head snaps up. “How is she?”

  She smirks at me. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  I frown, not wanting to play games with her. I pause and then say, “I haven’t seen her in such a long time, and when we last spoke, I’m afraid it didn’t end on good terms.”

  “Well, your wife and child died,” she says bluntly.

  That was a blow, the icy cold image of Hamish by the pond slicing through my mind.

  She continues, oblivious, “I’m sure that would make a man say a lot of things he doesn’t mean. But that’s kind of my point here. I just wanted you to know that there’s no point going after her, no point talking to her. You’re in her past and you need to stay there. Frankly, she asked me to ask you to stay away and leave her alone for good.”

  Her words leave paper cuts on my heart. “I haven’t…I haven’t contacted her,” I tell her, my voice raw.