by Karina Halle
And I guess because I say that, we don’t move anywhere else. We continue to stand in the darkened foyer, feet apart, just staring at each other.
We don’t speak for a few moments. The longest moments.
I’m trying to stand still and not wobble, trying to appear as sober as possible, wondering if my breath is okay, wondering if I have mascara goop in the corners of my eyes. Wondering all sorts of little things that have nothing to do with the big things.
Meanwhile, Brigs is still studying me. I can’t tell if he’s disappointed in me or not.
“So talk,” I tell him, but instead of sounding all cool and tough like I thought I would, it comes out meek and quiet. Because I’m afraid, so damn afraid, to hear what he’s going to say.
Leave me alone.
Or.
I love you.
One would devastate me. One would make me happy.
But both would ruin me in the end.
“Did you mean it?” he asks gently, eyes searching mine. The hollows of his cheeks look extra sharp in the shadows.
“What part?” I ask. Then I say, “All of it.”
“All of it,” he repeats. “How you don’t want to work for me anymore.”
I look away, finding focus on the tops of his black and grey suede sneakers.
“I…” I start but have no idea how to finish the sentence.
“How you’re a catalyst for change.”
It all seems so silly now. But even so I raise my chin and look at him, immediately absorbed by his presence, by the depth of his eyes.
“I want to be.”
“How so?” And he takes a step toward me.
I inhale sharply, trying to steady myself. Only the door is behind me.
“You saw me today,” he continues. “Why didn’t you say hello?”
I lick my lips, my throat dry, the chardonnay a mistake. “I thought it would be wrong.”
His frown deepens, leaning in closer. “Why?”
“Because,” I tell him. “It felt wrong.”
He looks like he’s about to say something else but his lips come together. He tilts his head, observing me deeper. “Why?” he finally says again.
“Because,” I say slowly, eventually meeting his eyes. “Sometimes I feel like I’m more to you than a research assistant. Because I know you’re more to me than someone who writes me a check.”
His brow pinches together as he lets out a ragged breath. His eyes are this mix of fear and wonder that I wish I could bottle because it’s leaving a scar on me. One I’ll look back on.
He reaches out with his hand and grasps the ends of my fingers.
My breathing deepens, my heart beginning to gallop.
“Tasha,” he says, and I delight in the way he says my name. He squeezes my fingers. “You’re right. You are more to me than a research assistant. There is no pretending otherwise.”
I don’t want to be pathetic, don’t want to be weak.
Still I whisper, “How much more?”
I wish my voice didn’t shake.
He stares at me sadly and shakes his head. “A terrible amount.”
Then he winces sharply and turns away, letting go of my hand. He leans against the door, arms splayed as he tries to breathe.
I don’t want to intrude.
I want to intrude.
“My whole point of the email,” I explain quietly, “was…”
And I trail off because that’s the problem with being drunk.
So instead of finishing my sentence I reach out and place my hand on his back.
He’s hot through the shirt and his muscles tighten under my touch.
I briefly imagine touching his skin underneath, what it would feel like to run my hands over it, maybe my nails.
“You said you didn’t understand why I spend all my time with you,” he says, and I can feel his words against my palm. “Why I’m not with my wife instead.”
“That’s not exactly what I said,” I tell him, trying to play it off.
“No, but it’s what I heard,” he says and suddenly turns around.
I don’t have time to back away.
Or maybe it’s that I did and I chose to hold my ground.
To be just a few inches from him.
I can smell him, rosemary and soap, see his pulse tick wildly in his throat.
I don’t think I’ve ever wanted something so badly before.
“And?” I ask.
“Tell me what I am to you,” he whispers, leaning in closer.
I suck in my breath. Afraid that if I exhale I’ll let all my secrets loose.
He’s so close now, and the air between us is short and sharp. Maybe I don’t even have to say a word. He can just glean it off me, the way an archeologist can pinpoint a year within billions of years because of a grain of ash on a fossil.
“Tell me,” he repeats, and I read the urgency in his voice. I dare to meet his eyes again, and they are feverish, like an iceberg melting at a rapid rate.
Here goes nothing.
I lean in quickly.
And I kiss him.
On the mouth. A straight shot that creates goosebumps down my arms, my lips soft and wet and yielding against his.
The soft moan that comes out of his mouth nearly floors me, reaching so deep down into the darkest corners of my very being. It fuels me, like gasoline to a fire. Dangerous. So very, very dangerous.
And then his mouth opens against mine, his tongue softly brushing against the tip of my tongue, and all my body wants is to throw restraint out the window.
Oh god. This kiss.
This is wildfire.
This could so easily consume us.
Until there is nothing left.
We’re going to fucking burn this world to the ground.
And there’s no better way to go than in the flames with him.
“Wait. I can’t,” he mumbles, pulling his mouth away, breathing hard. His eyes are laced with anguish. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“And you do?” I ask, my lips burning.
Creak.
The door down the hall opens, and we both break apart, no, crumble apart, like sand, and my roommate shuffles across the hall and into the bathroom, without even shooting a glance our way.
Now we’re left with the heavy blanket of regret as we both eye each other, our chests rising, hearts drumming, utterly aware of how wrong that was, aware that it should never, ever happen again
I want it to happen again.
Immediately.
And yet, the way Brigs is looking at me says he’s sad beyond anything, a potent mix of frustration and sorrow.
“I should go,” he says, eyes darting to the bathroom.
I know what I want to say, and I know I shouldn’t say it.
But still I do. “Are you sure?” I whisper. “You can stay.”
Brigs stares right at me—into me—and in his eyes I see a painful battle being fought.
“I have to go,” he says again, louder this time, as if he’s trying to convince someone else.
Now what?
“Okay,” I tell him. “You know I’m drunk, right? What I sent you…just file that under Tasha Being Drunk and we’ll be okay.” Suddenly some sober part of me wakes up, tapping me on the shoulder, yelling in my ear. I can’t ignore it. “I still have a job, right? I mean, I still want to work for you, and I promise I won’t kiss you anymore.”
Brigs gives me a half-hearted smile that seems more pained than anything else.
“You have a job for as long as you want it,” he says kindly.
“And the kissing you part?”
He nods quickly, looking away. “I’ll chalk it up to you being drunk and we’ll pretend it never happened.”
And even though that hurts to hear, to erase that beautiful moment, I’m relieved. I smile at him and awkwardly stick out my hand.
“Okay then, that’s great,” I tell him. “Thanks for coming by.”
He slowly arches
a brow but puts his hand in mine and gives it a squeeze. He lets go and turns to open the door. Then he pauses and looks over his shoulder.
“You know,” he says. “Drunk or not, I can read you like a book, and I can’t say that about a lot of people. Not because you wear your heart on your sleeve, because you, my dear, don’t. I can only say that because I know a lot about you and I’m lucky enough to be one of the ones you share your true self with.” He pauses. “I hope that after tonight you don’t stop that.”
I swallow. “Even though my true self may kiss you inappropriately?”
“Even though,” he says with a nod. He opens the door and looks back. “See you on Monday.”
The door closes with a click that sounds too foreboding for this tiny flat. I exhale loudly and lean against the door, just as the bathroom door opens. My roommate totters across to her room without even looking my way.
As if I’m not here.
As if none of that ever happened.
But I know it did.
I can still feel his lips on mine.
CHAPTER NINE
Natasha
London
Present Day
“I don’t want to disappoint fate.”
I keep reading the line over and over again, refusing to let it sink in, refusing to let it get to me.
With anyone else, any suitor, I would have chalked it up to a lack of imagination or trying too hard in the Lord Byron department. But from the mouth—if not the keypad—of Brigs McGregor, I know how much it means.
Brigs was never one to believe in destiny or fate or anything he believed was out of our control. Even when our brief affair went from hidden to acknowledged, he thought he was in the driver’s seat every step of the way.
And I let him think that.
I let him because he was the one with the most to lose. He was the one with the wife he knew he had to leave. He was the one with the son he kept putting before himself, even when it hurt them both.
Fate was never an option.
But for him to think it’s the force that put us in each other’s path, that says a lot.
And to be honest, I’m looking for every single excuse not to stay away.
I go to sleep and I see his face from four years ago, his eyes wracked with this strange purpose, this truth he believed, that when it was love, it was simple and pure and good.
And then I see it morph into the face I know now, the one laden with guilt and sorrow and hate.
I’m the cause of both of those faces. How strange to be the one to ruin a man in two different ways and so completely.
How terribly, horribly strange.
And so it takes me a few days to come to terms with it, and when I finally embrace the fact that I want to see him, I feel the darkness slipping off my shoulders.
It feels more right than wrong.
“Ready to go out?” Melissa asks, making me jump.
I’ve been sitting on my bed, and I quickly close the app and put my phone away before she comes in. She’s been awfully nosy lately, asking me if I’ve seen or heard from Brigs. Until recently, I wasn’t lying when I’d said no.
Honestly, I wish she wouldn’t worry about this so much—it’s my life and I can take care of myself, no matter what kind of setbacks I’ve had. I know she’s just concerned that I’m going to backslide, but at the same time I can’t hide from him.
And I won’t.
“I’m coming,” I tell her, not wanting to hit the pub scene tonight, but she’s insisting since it’s Friday. She says I need to get laid like no one’s business.
Well, that part is true. Aside from a drunken, sloppy one-night stand in France, when I was trying everything to purge Brigs from my system, I haven’t been with anyone. Even before I met Brigs, it had been a few months since I’d last been with a guy—some jerk from my class. I don’t even want to count how long I’ve been celibate—it’s far too pathetic.
I get up and quickly look myself over in the mirror, my mind flitting to Brigs. I wonder if he’s been with anyone since the night of the accident. I assumed he would have found someone. He might even be with someone right now. There was nothing in his email that suggests he wants to pursue me, just that he needs to set things right. And I get that. Even though it terrifies me, I think closure is what the two of us both need. To shut the lid on the past, move on with our lives, and never look back.
Obviously I don’t tell Melissa this. Instead I go with her to the pub, filled with drunk boys and surly men and a lot of spilled beer. The music is bad, and even though I get my buzz going, I want nothing more than to be back in my room, alone, watching a Cary Grant film. I can’t connect to anyone here, physically or emotionally. Not that it surprises me—I’ve always been this way.
That’s probably why my connection with Brigs meant so much. It was rare. It was something I’d never felt before. I’d always floated through my life, making no meaningful connections to anyone, and then he came around, the first person to ground me, to make me want to stay grounded, so long as he was there.
Somehow I end up surviving the weekend, spending Saturday at yet another bar with Melissa, while Sunday I save for myself, spending the day walking around The National Gallery, trying to distract myself with art and beauty. Then I hit the books that night, trying to finish the godawful book that Professor Irving wrote because I know he’s going to ask me all about it next class.
When I wake Monday morning, I feel slightly invigorated. I’m up before my alarm and take my time getting ready—not because Professor Irving told me to last week, but because, well, honestly? I want to impress Brigs. I know I shouldn’t even care, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t. Even if it comes to us saying a few words and awkwardly parting—and this is exactly what I’m preparing for—I want to do it looking like a new woman and not the ghost he left behind.
I leave the flat with my stomach a beehive of nerves and get on the tube. The closer it gets to my stop, the more anxious I feel, my fingernails destroyed from me picking off the polish.
It’s at the Baker Street station that I actually see Brigs get on the train.
Holy shit. Why does the world make me see him everywhere?
I stand there, holding onto the pole, but as he gets on, giving people a polite smile as he squeezes past them, he disappears into the crowd.
I’m not about to approach him now. This is just life, taunting me with him.
I remain where I am, squished between a guy who keeps sniffing and a man who keeps putting his hand close to mine and “accidently” touching me, even when we get to Charing Cross station, my stop. I know he’s getting off here, so I wait it out until the doors close and I’m whisked away. It will take me longer to walk to school from the next stop but at least I won’t run into Brigs before I’m ready.
Time seems to crawl on by. In Professor Irving’s class, I watch the clock. Afterward, I agree to have lunch with the teaching assistants, Tabitha and Devon, while I wait for Brigs’ class with Melissa to be over. I have to plan this carefully or there’s a chance I’ll either miss Brigs or run into Melissa, and the last thing I want is a lecture from her. Or worse.
I decide to err on the side of caution and go over some of my tutorials until it’s been an hour since his class has ended.
This is it, I tell myself as I walk down the hall to his office. Closure.
My palms are immediately clammy at the thought, and I rub them on my jeans as I stand outside his door. It’s closed, which means he might not be in there at all. There’s a sense of relief in that, that I may be able to ignore this for another day.
With that in mind, I raise my fist and knock gently at the door, breath in my throat.
“Come in,” he says from the other side, that smooth Scottish burr sliding through the door. Just his voice alone has the hairs on my arms standing at attention. Thank god my nipples are behaving.
My hand wavers at the doorknob, like if I touch it I might turn to stone, and finally I grasp it an
d twist, pushing it open.
Brigs is at his desk, writing on his laptop. He looks at me over the top of his reading glasses, stunned.
“Is this a bad time?” I ask him softly, my hand still on the knob.
He shakes his head. “No,” he says. He clears his throat and gets to his feet, taking off his glasses. “Please, please, come in.”
I close the door behind me and lean against it, my feet refusing to move any further.
He stands by his desk, fingers resting on the surface as he stares at me. “I’m surprised to see you.”
I run my teeth over my lip, looking around his office, trying to look everywhere but at him. It’s nothing like his old one. His other office smelled like old books and coffee, he had teak shelves with an assortment of torn paperbacks and musty hardcovers. Even his desk was this big old oak thing that was impossible to move. This office is white and clean, with metal shelves and filing cabinets. Sterile. Soulless.
“I haven’t really moved in yet,” he says, noticing my wayward gaze. “I think it’ll take a while until it really feels like mine.”
I nod. “How has your teaching been going?” I ask, still avoiding his eyes.
“I’m not as prepared as I thought I’d be,” he says. “Or maybe it’s that I was too prepared.”
“Maybe,” I say. I look down at my feet, and he takes a few steps toward me, stopping a foot away. He’s wearing black dress shoes, oxfords, along with his tailored suit pants and grey shirt.
Brigs doesn’t say anything, but I can feel him, feel everything that’s not being said. The space between us is thick with time and longing and regret, just as it always has been. It’s almost amazing to be standing this close to him again and to step back in time four years. I thought I’d been thrown down a long dark hole and came out forever changed, but in his presence, it’s like no time has passed at all.
This could be very, very dangerous.
But when wasn’t it?
“I’m glad you’re here,” he says. His voice is so low, almost gruff. My spine feels warm from it. “I didn’t think I’d ever hear from you again, let alone see you.”
My lips twitch into a smile. “I’ve seen you a lot. You just haven’t seen me.”