The Lie

by Karina Halle

  She points on the map. “Here. Balmoral.”

  “That’s where the Queen lives.”

  “I know. I want to say hello.”

  “It’s a two-hour drive,” I point out.

  “Well, then we better get cracking,” she says. “The Queen is expecting us.”

  She’s definitely full of spirit today. It seems to latch onto me and I ingest it like a tonic. She’s erasing all the humiliation and pain from the morning.

  We head out of the city, taking the A-90 to the M-90 and speed north. After we get her some coffee and we share a couple of sausage rolls for breakfast, I warn her that we literally will see the estate and have to head back. But she doesn’t mind.

  And honestly, neither do I. I crank the old radio on the car to pick up an oldies station playing a special on Otis Redding. The day is warm and gorgeous, and even though we’re going fast, our windows are down, enjoying the wind and the sun on our skin.

  About an hour into our drive, Natasha turns to me and says, “Tell me the truth. Why did you come to get me this morning?”

  “Was it that unusual?” I ask without looking at her.

  “Yes,” she says. “The last time you came to my house without me knowing…”

  “Back then I was following up on an email. I wanted to know if you were all right,” I tell her before she can tell me anything else about that night.

  “And now I want to know if you’re all right,” she says gently.

  I glance at her. There’s a softness in her eyes that undoes me. I grip the wheel hard, conscious of my every movement and how they might appear to her. A good man, after the night she kissed me, the night I kissed her right back, would have never been alone with her again.

  But I’m not a good man.

  I’m a man who is slowly but surely falling in the wrong direction.

  “I’m fine,” I say, but it comes out gruff and broken.

  “What happened?” she asks. “It’s your wife, isn’t it?”

  I shouldn’t tell her anything. I should let private things be private. And yet, this is Natasha. I can hardly hide anything from her. Not only does she know me in ways I can’t even fathom, but I only want to be honest with her. I want to tell her, talk to her, confide in her.

  I want her in so many—too many—ways.

  I take in a deep breath. “I’m just coming to realize that Miranda and I are entirely different people. And we have been for a long time.”

  Silence. I glance at her to see her staring down at her hands, her face round and sweet and sad. “Oh. Well, marriages are hard work, I imagine. It must be normal.”

  “That’s what people want you to believe,” I tell her. “But I’m not sure I’m willing to settle for that. Not when I know how good something can be.”

  I let those words hang in the air. I’m not sure if Natasha picks up on it.

  She stares out the window. “There’s always marriage counseling.”

  “She wouldn’t go.”

  “You don’t know that,” she says half-heartedly.

  “I do know,” I tell her. I don’t bring up the fact that I’d suggested it last year when I first started having troubles in the bedroom with Miranda. To be frank, I couldn’t get it up. She didn’t take as much offense as I thought, but even so, I wondered if there was some underlying issue.

  The problem still persists, not that I’ve tried to make love to her in months. It’s just…easier this way.

  “She’s perfectly happy to just let things be,” I tell her.

  “And you’re not.”

  I knead my hands on the steering wheel and catch a look at myself in the rearview mirror, at how tired I look. “I’m not happy at all.”

  As Otis Redding plays, we fall silent. Trees and fields and small towns baking under sunshine pass outside the car.

  “Are you happy now?” Natasha finally asks. “Right here, with me?”

  I clench my jaw. How blunt this lovely girl is. No boundaries. No fear.

  I look at her.

  She looks back at me.

  “Yes,” I tell her. I can’t lie. “I’m always happy with you.”

  And yet the truth is so hard to swallow.

  Her eyes dance softly, her smile a delicate profession. “I’m happy with you.”

  My breath leaves me. I can’t explain how her simple words make me feel. It’s as if my soul has been gently nudged awake from a long slumber and she’s the first sight I’ve seen.

  There’s nothing to say to that. Just this understanding of how each of us feel. We make each other happy.

  I almost reach out with my hand and place it on hers, just to feel her flesh, her warmth, but then the warning bells go off, ringing in my ears.

  “You’re leaving,” I say suddenly. “Next week is your last.”

  “I know,” she whispers. “I’ve been trying not to think about it.”

  “I’m nowhere near done with the book.”

  “You’ll find someone else to help you with the research.”

  “But someone else isn’t you.”

  “I guess I’m irreplaceable,” she says smartly, though when I glance at her, her expression is pained as she stares out the window.

  Eventually we arrive at Balmoral, only to see the gates are closed.

  “Maybe the Queen doesn’t want visitors today,” I tell her as I put the car in park, engine running.

  I expect her to be disappointed but she just shrugs. She takes a sip of her coffee, now cold, and winces at the taste of it.

  “Maybe we could find another castle nearby,” I suggest.

  “It’s fine, really. This was never about the destination, Brigs. This was just about spending time with you.”

  She’s slowly undoing me, thread by thread. I stare at her in near awe, this wondrous creature who wants to spend time with me. This rare and beautiful being who says I make her happy, maybe as happy as she makes me.

  “Whatever do you see in me?” I ask her quietly. I can’t help it.

  She tilts her head, frowning at me. “I see you. What do you see?”

  I suck in a breath through my teeth, the words hesitating in my mouth. I let them go.

  “Everything,” I tell her with a pure ache in my chest. “I see Natasha. I see everything I shouldn’t want. Everything I do want. Everything that makes the world keep turning on its axis. You have no idea what you do to me. No idea.”

  She leans forward, eyes pleading. “Then show me what I do to you.”

  “You’re leaving,” I whisper.

  “Show me,” she says more urgently. “Show me.”

  I oblige her.

  I grab her face in my hands, my fingers pressing into her soft cheeks, and I kiss her. It isn’t gentle. It is hard and feverish and wet as my lips crash against hers, as our tongues flow over each other, uninhibited. The fire inside is spreading everywhere, filling every hollow part of me. I let out a moan into her mouth as she returns my kiss with wild desperation, her hands holding my biceps tight, her nails digging into my shirt. My cock twitches in my pants, nearly a surprise, and I’m suddenly aware of how acute my desire for her is.

  I slide my fingers into her hair and she moans softly, the thread around my heart spinning and spinning.

  My lust is growing, unparalleled, and I’m very close to losing control of my body, of my spirit, and just handing it all over to her.

  But I’m married and she’s leaving me.

  And whatever it is I want from her, it can’t continue like this.

  I break away, my lips aching from her absence, and we both stare at each other, breathing hard.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, trying to catch my breath and compose myself. “I’m sorry. That was wrong.”

  “Was it?” she asks softly. Then it’s as if she catches herself. She shakes her head and leans back from me. “Yes, of course it was wrong.”

  “You’re leaving,” I tell her.

  “And you have a wife.”

  “But I don’
t want her to be my wife anymore,” I say, shocked at my admission. I exhale loudly and rest my head on the steering wheel. “I never wanted it like this. A fucking mess. I would have gone on in my marriage for many more years without knowing I was missing something.”

  “Eventually you would have woken up,” Natasha says. “The human heart isn’t meant to be caged by someone who doesn’t feed it.”

  I turn my head, still pressed against the wheel, and manage to smile wanly at her. “That’s very poetic.”

  “It’s true. You owe it to yourself to make yourself happy, especially when you’re with someone who isn’t happy either.”

  “What are you saying?”

  She raises her brows. “Well, I’m saying…what are you going to do when I’m gone?”

  I shake my head, staring absently out the window at the trees that line the estate. “I don’t know.”

  “Go back to the way things are with her? You said yourself there is no fixing it.”

  “There isn’t…but…I would do it for Hamish.”

  “That’s not the right answer.”

  “Well, it’s the only answer I have right now,” I say gruffly. “You should understand. Your father left you with your mother.”

  “I was ten,” she snaps at me, “and I had to put up with a childhood of fighting and crying and name calling and parents who didn’t speak to each other except for yelling. I just wanted my parents to be happy, so I could be happy. They should have broken up way sooner. It’s just bad luck that I wasn’t whisked off to France.”

  I sit back and run my hand up and down my face, trying to make sense of everything. I can still taste her lips, feel my fingers in her hair. My first and last glimpses of our desire.

  She takes her mobile out of her pocket and glances at it. “It’s getting late. We should probably head back now.”

  “Aye,” I say with a sigh, turning the key. As before, it starts without a single cough.

  We are both silent during the drive back, the tension between us ebbing and flowing, as if we keep trading thoughts between something wonderful and terrible. The kiss was both of those things.

  When we get into the city, there isn’t a lot of time for me to say goodbye to her. I wish I could spend time at her flat, talk some more about what happened before I leave. I’m too afraid to leave the words unsaid between now and Monday. Time alone, to think about what happened, could be damaging for either of us.

  I park the car on the street and twist in my seat to face her. I want to tell her to email me later, or even text me. Just to let me know she’s all right, that I’m not as horrible as I think I am.

  I open my mouth but she looks at me point blank and says, “Brigs. I’m in love with you.”

  A hundred crashing cymbals go off in my chest.

  “What?” I whisper, hardly believing my ears. My heart is drumming so bloody fast.

  She bites her lip and nods. “I’m sorry. It’s true. And I wasn’t going to ever tell you but I’ve got nothing to lose except a week of employment.” She smiles as if to herself. “I love you.”

  Then she gets out of the car, slamming the door and running across the street.

  “Wait!” I call after her, but she doesn’t stop. And what is there to say?

  My precious truth, that I love her too, would only do more harm than good.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Brigs

  London

  Present Day

  “Professor McGregor?” The voice is muffled and followed by a knock at the closed door.

  I look up from my work, annoyed at being interrupted. I’ve been reading over my manuscript for the first time in years, trying to get back into the headspace of finishing the book. Being with Natasha two nights ago has fueled my creativity, like an energy cell that’s finally being charged, and I don’t want to lose my momentum while I have it.

  Maybe if I don’t say anything, don’t make a sound, they’ll go away.

  Besides, I have a feeling I know who it is.

  “Hello?” the voice sounds again, and this time they try the knob.

  The door opens.

  Shit.

  I knew I should have locked it.

  Melissa pokes her head in. “Is this a bad time?”

  I eye her sternly over my reading glasses. “Sort of.”

  She smiles apologetically. “I’m sorry.”

  And yet she still comes in the room, walking over to my desk, a stack of papers in her hand. “I just had a few questions about grading the papers.”

  I sigh and quickly pinch the bridge of my nose. I can’t exactly turn her away if it’s something to do with being a teaching assistant. “Okay, what is it?”

  “Are you okay?” she asks, cocking her head.

  “I’m fine,” I tell her. “Just a bit of a headache.”

  Just a bit of wishing you would go away. There’s something so off-putting about Melissa. I just can’t put my finger on it. It’s probably because she told me to stay the hell away from Natasha and I never listened to her. And if I’m lucky enough to see Natasha again, I’m going to have to ask her if it was true, if she put Melissa up to it. Something tells me she didn’t, not from the way she was looking at me on Monday night.

  Not kissing her was by far and large the right thing to do.

  And yet I still regret it.

  “Well,” she says, sitting on the edge of my desk, her short skirt hiked up to show off her legs. “I honestly don’t know what to do. I’ve never graded anyone before. I’m not sure what’s a good essay and what’s a bad one.”

  I cock my brow. “Surely you know what a bad essay reads like.”

  She shrugs.

  I explain. “Well, just think of your essays and the grades you got. Pick your highest grade and work backward. If those essays don’t measure up, go lower. Or if you spot the worst essay in the pile, grade all the other papers against that.”

  “There is just so much power right here.” She places her hand at her chest. “I could ruin these students’ lives if I wanted to. Absolutely ruin them.”

  I frown at her. “You could, but you won’t. They’re undergrads. Just kids. By the end of the semester you’ll get a better idea of who is doing good and who’s in it to fail, but for now, you’re supposed to give them guidance and hope. Be as constructive as possible.”

  “Don’t you think I could better grade them on your teachings if I understood your brain better?”

  I crack a sardonic smile and tap my head. “Believe me, you don’t want in this brain.”

  “You’d be surprised, Professor Blue Eyes.”

  Everything in me stills. “What did you call me?” I manage to ask, my voice hard.

  “You remember Natasha’s nickname for you, don’t you?” she asks, sounding oh so innocent.

  I’m fumbling for something to say, and the longer I’m silent, the more smug she looks. “That’s fairly inappropriate,” I tell her. “Please don’t call me that.”

  “Brings back bad memories, huh?”

  A flash of anger burns in my chest. “You told me yourself to forget her. This hardly helps.”

  She runs her finger up and down my desk. “Oh, I don’t think you’re ever going to forget her, Professor McGregor. I know what being lovesick looks like.”

  “Melissa,” I say sharply. “If that’s all you wanted to discuss with me, then I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  “Then ask me to leave.”

  I nod at the door. “There’s the bloody door. Use it. And next time you need actual help with something, remember to stick to the subject at hand. You may assist me in my class, but that’s all you do—assist. I’m the teacher here, and I’m in charge of your grades and your future. Don’t forget that.”

  She raises her brows. “Are you threatening me?”

  I shake my head, my jaw tense. “Please, if that’s all, just go. I have a lot of work to do.”

  She narrows her eyes at me and jumps off the desk.
“Fine. Last time I ask my teacher for help.”

  She gathers up her papers and leaves my office, slamming the door behind her.

  I let out a sigh of relief.

  Bloody fucking hell. Just what the hell was that about?

  The first time she came by I chalked it up to her being an overly protective friend. Now I don’t know what to think. She either hates me and wants to get under my skin…or it’s the opposite. And she wants to get under my skin.

  I wish I could talk to Natasha about it. I haven’t spoken to her since our pub date, meeting, whatever the hell it was. I’ve tried, numerous times, to compose an email to her, but I keep erasing the bloody thing. I don’t know what to say, I don’t know how to express what it is I want from her. I don’t even know.

  But I know it starts with seeing her again.

  And soon.

  I bite the bullet and just start to write.

  Natasha,

  I was wondering when you’d like to come over and see my dog.

  He’s been on his best behaviour lately and I would like to take advantage of this.

  Any night this week works for me.

  He’d prefer to see you tonight, and I’m fine with that too.

  Brigs

  I know for a fact that the whole having a dog thing helps any man with the ladies. I mean, just look at Lachlan. Okay, that’s a bad example since the bastard could get any woman without the dogs, but still. I may have not rescued Winter for this purpose, but that won’t stop me from using him that way.

  I wait for her response, wondering if she’s in class. I consider looking her up in the system and seeing her class schedule, but the computer dings as her reply comes in.

  I brace myself as I click on it, worried by the quickness of her response. It could be a giant “fuck off” for all I know.

  Brigs,

  Tell your dog tonight sounds good. I would love to pop in and say hello.

  Maybe afterward we could catch a movie. My brain is burning out on all the class requirements, and there’s that new Tarantino film at the cinemas I think you’d hate.