The Lie

by Karina Halle

  Natasha.

  PS your dog better be as awesome as he sounds.

  I’ve got the biggest fucking grin spread across my face. I quickly look for theatres closest to my flat and tell her to come over between seven-thirty and eight. It will give me just enough time to show her around before we catch the film.

  I understand why she suggested going out, too. Her coming over to my flat without a plan is asking for trouble. Maybe it’s just the kind of trouble I’m looking for, but it’s still trouble in the end.

  I’m positively giddy as I take the train home, like a goddamn schoolboy with a crush. I have to remind myself that I can’t get carried away, can’t take anything for granted. I guess I’m just happy to have Natasha back in my life, the chance to hear her laugh, to feel every inch of light that she radiates.

  Her face Monday night wasn’t the same as when I first ran into her in the halls. The fear and the pain were gone, and her eyes were deep with warmth and a certain ease, especially as the night wore on. Of course we were both half-corked, but even so, that only meant the real Natasha was coming through.

  The last thing I want is to move too fast, to scare her—or myself—away. The truth is, I don’t really know what this is, other than the fact that I have this insatiable need to see her again, to be with her. I haven’t been able to laugh, feel joy, or bypass the years of grief in such a long time. To come alive with her is nearly addicting.

  I keep this in mind as I do a quick tidying of my flat before taking Winter for a walk around Regent’s University. When I get back, none of my nervous energy has dissipated. Winter seems to pick up on that too, running around the drawing room while I quickly jump in the shower.

  I pause briefly when I’m done, eyeing my body in the mirror. I may be older than I was four years ago, but at least I don’t look it. In fact, I look better than before, the gym paying off, my muscles showcased well by my lean frame. It seems absolutely crazy to think that with everything I feel for Natasha, everything we’ve gone through, she still hasn’t seen me naked. She’s barely touched me.

  It was for the best, of course, and I have to remind myself not to dwell on it, nor the fact that the future is full of possibility. For all I know, being actual platonic friends may be the easiest—and the smartest—thing to do.

  By the time seven-thirty rolls around, I’ve been sitting on the couch for a while, attempting to work on my manuscript on my laptop, having consumed about two pots of Earl Grey tea. I’m absolutely wired, my leg bouncing, my eyes forever dancing to the door and back.

  Eventually I take to staring out the window to the street below, Winter at my side doing the same thing. My eyes are trained to the left, where she would come out of Baker Street station.

  Then she appears, jeans and a jacket, and I wish I had binoculars so I could really spy on her and see the expression on her face, if she’s nervous, happy, whatever. That would make me one hell of a pervy professor, but I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t be the first.

  The intercom sounds and I buzz her in without a word. I wait by the door for her to knock, and when she does, I still jump a little. I wait a moment, curling and uncurling my fists at my side, trying to compose myself, before opening it.

  “Hi,” she says brightly, staring up at me.

  I can’t help but take a moment to just drink in the sight of her. It does something so unearthly to me, this weightlessness in my chest.

  “Hi,” I say, swallowing thickly. I open the door wider. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

  She steps one foot in before Winter is bounding toward her like a fluffy white steam train.

  “Winter, sit!” I command, pointing at him to get his arse on the ground.

  But Winter doesn’t care. He runs right to Natasha and starts to jump on her.

  “Winter!” I yell, grabbing his collar, but Natasha is giggling and sinking to a crouch so she can muss with him on his level.

  “I’m so sorry, he’s such a special case,” I try and explain, shutting the door behind her.

  “He’s lovely,” she says as he licks her all over her face.

  Lucky fucking dog.

  I grab his collar again and pull him back. “I’ve had him for a year almost and he’s pretty much still a puppy. I’m sure he’ll outgrow that but I’m not sure if he’ll outgrow being a jerk.”

  She’s smiling as she stands back up, wiping her face with her sleeve. “He’s beautiful. Where did you get him again?”

  “Found him on Christmas Eve. Poor little bastard was left alone by someone in a barn, don’t know who. There was a snowstorm and I took him to my grandfather’s place. That obviously didn’t last one night. He’s been with me ever since.”

  I let go of Winter and he immediately sticks his nose in her crotch.

  I smirk at her. “Well, at least he knows where to go.”

  “Hey,” she says, mouth agape as she swats me across the arm. “And ow, what’s with your bicep?”

  “Nothing at all,” I tell her, flexing automatically. “Shall I give you the tour?”

  My flat is pretty nice. It’s not as big as my brother’s out in Edinburgh—that’s what smart investments and rugby money gets you—but it’s still fairly large for this part of London. I actually lucked out, considering it’s a rental. And though it’s a bit more than what I’m used to spending, the place is starting to feel like home and that says a lot. The last couple of years I’ve just been adrift.

  I take her around, pointing out the maple floors and the white-washed walls and cornices, realizing that aside from a few random women I’ve brought in here on drunken nights, I haven’t shown anyone my apartment. Not Lachlan, not my parents. It’s not that they haven’t hinted that they’d like to stop by, it’s just that I’ve never offered. It’s like I’m scared to let them see this new life and my utter lack of confidence in it.

  But now, with Natasha slowly walking in front of me, her boots echoing on the wood floors, I realize I’m not afraid. I want to share this with her, I crave her opinion, and I need her to be part of it all in some way.

  “This is beautiful, Brigs,” she says in soft awe as we come back to the drawing room.

  Unfortunately, I can’t beam proudly at her for too long because Winter comes trotting out of my bedroom with one of my shoes in his mouth.

  “Oh, bloody hell,” I swear, reaching for him, but he bounds out of the way, tail wagging, and leaps onto the couch. When I give it another go, he at least drops the shoe and makes a break back to the bedroom. “I swear, sometimes I think the reason he was abandoned was because some gypsy put some shoe-eating curse on him.”

  “Now that sounds like it could be quite the indie film.”

  “It sounds like something Shia LaBeouf would produce.” I glance at my watch, wishing we had more time here. Truthfully I want to spend the night talking to her, looking at her, not sitting in silence in a cinema—especially while having to suffer through Tarantino’s ego for three hours. “I suppose we should get going.”

  She grins mischievously, which only cements the fact that I wish we could just stay in. The spark in her eyes is making my blood run hot. “I love the look on your face right now,” she says.

  “What look?”

  She steps forward and taps her finger against my chin. “This one. The one that says you’re prepared to be tortured for the rest of the night.”

  The movie won’t be the only thing torturing me, I think, so very tempted to take her finger into my mouth and playfully bite it. Even the slight touch of her fingertip to my skin feels hot and deadly.

  I grab my leather jacket and give Winter a warning look before I usher him out of my bedroom and close the door. Then Natasha and I head out of the flat and into the night.

  We walk side by side down Baker Street a few blocks to the Everyman Cinema, and with a little bit of time to kill, we order a drink at their bar while waiting for the film to start.

  “What are you smiling at?” she asks, eyeing me over her drin
k.

  “Am I smiling?” I ask, and I’m surprised to find that I am. We were just talking about how terrible the UK Netflix is. It’s pretty ridiculous that something so benign could have me so enthralled, bent on her every word and apparently smiling like an idiot.

  I straighten up, reminding myself to stop acting like such a wanker. What was it that Melissa had called me? Lovesick? I didn’t quite agree with that at the time, and the memory of this afternoon puts a bitter taste in my mouth.

  “I’m sorry,” Natasha says, putting her hand on mine. “I didn’t mean to point it out like that. Please keep smiling. It makes me happy.”

  The mention of her happiness eases the tension.

  I put Melissa on the back burner.

  We finish up our drinks and head to the concession stand, getting in line.

  “Do you want the usual?” I ask her.

  She grins at me. “Of course.”

  I get us a large bucket of popcorn and a box of Maltesers and hand them to Natasha, who ceremoniously opens the candy and dumps them into the popcorn.

  I shake my head, letting out a little laugh. It looks like the least appetizing thing, but I know from experience it tastes rather addicting.

  “You love it,” she teases me.

  “I do,” I admit. “Doesn’t really help my progress at the gym though.”

  “Oh? Since when have you become Professor Vain?”

  “Since I discovered how awesome I look.”

  She rolls her eyes, but the way she draws her lip in between her teeth makes me think she’d like to see the evidence firsthand.

  With that optimism, we head into the packed theatre. We manage to find a pair of seats together, on the aisle, and within moments the commercials and trailers start playing. There’s something so comforting to me about the cinema; it’s a place where I can truly relax and unwind. Maybe it’s the darkness or the smell of the popcorn and spilled soda, or the feel of the crowd around you, but as long as I can turn off the overanalyzing part of my brain, I’m swept away for two hours, entirely incognito.

  But tonight, now, with her beside me, I can’t relax at all. I can’t turn off my brain. I don’t even know what is going on with the movie. The actors on screen are moving their lips, spouting some carefully crafted dialogue, but I don’t hear them.

  I am completely, singularly, transfixed by her. Natasha. Sitting beside me in the darkness, our shoulders brushing against each other, the planes of her beautiful face lit up in swaths of silver. It’s like the most mesmerizing light show, changing with the shots in the film. I can’t look away, and I don’t want to.

  She’s as enthralled with the film as I am with her, laughing at the dialogue, cringing at the violence, and I feel my heart swell inside me like a red balloon, pressing against my ribcage. It was fate that put her in my path, a chance to get something right that wasn’t right in the first place.

  But why do I have such a foreboding sense of doom, buzzing like flies at the back of my head?

  Because you don’t deserve to feel this way, I tell myself. Not after everything you’ve done.

  I swallow the shame, refusing to feel it. Just once, just once, I want to be unshackled from my mistakes.

  I want to be free.

  I need to be brave.

  Natasha turns her head to look at me, one half of her face highlighted by the screen.

  “You’re not watching the movie,” she whispers.

  I lean into her neck, my lips just below her ear. “I’d rather be watching you.”

  I don’t pull away at first, keeping my mouth there, her skin so close, taking in her sweet smell. Thoughts run through my head, heavy and weighted, thoughts I don’t dare disclose.

  I want to kiss you.

  Lick you.

  Taste you.

  Fuck you.

  It’s a side of me that’s dirty and secretive but completely real.

  As if she can hear my thoughts, she stiffens.

  I lean back to look at her, feeling my brows pull together. “Was that inappropriate?”

  She nods, facing the screen. “Yes.”

  I stare at her for a few moments. She’s not being facetious. She means it.

  That balloon in my chest is slowly deflating. The funny thing is, I didn’t think twice about it, which only cements how natural it feels to be around her. But she obviously doesn’t feel the same way.

  I sit beside her for another minute, stiff and awkward in the dark, the embarrassment creeping over me until I abruptly get out of my seat and stride up the aisle and into the cinema lobby. It’s quiet out here, both screens occupied, and I head to the washroom to compose myself.

  I splash a bit of cold water on my face then shake it off, staring up at myself in the mirror. We’ve both changed, and as much as it feels like we’re back in time, back to the same people that we were, we’ve both been through so much that it’s just not possible.

  We can’t go back to what was.

  But we can go forward.

  After I compose myself, I head back out into the lobby.

  Natasha is standing there grasping the bag of popcorn for dear life and peering at me with so much worry that it’s fucking adorable.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

  “So am I,” I tell her, walking right up to her until I’m so close, she has to take a step backward. “I’m sorry for being inappropriate, and I’m sorry for this.”

  I quickly lean down and kiss her. Her soft cry of surprise is muffled by my lips pressed flush against hers for a long, hot minute. Then my mouth opens and my tongue slides across hers.

  The bucket of popcorn drops beside us.

  My lungs evaporate in a kind of heady infatuation.

  I grab her now, my hand at the back of her head, at the small of her back, pulling her to me, wanting to get deeper, hotter, as flames lick along my skin and my desire is more painful than ever.

  It doesn’t matter that I’m in a cinema lobby, in public.

  We could be on Mars, for all I care; she’s all the oxygen I need.

  She’s feeling it too. I know she is from the way her mouth moves with hunger, the tiny, breathless sounds she’s making, the way her body feels underneath me, wild and tense and ready to explode.

  With a gasp, she suddenly breaks away, and the bright, effervescent cord between us snaps, leaving me empty and stunned.

  “I can’t do this,” she cries softly. Panic is etched clearly on her face.

  She tries to pull away, but I’m grabbing her arms, holding her in place.

  “Can’t do what?” I demand.

  “This!” Her voice is choked, her eyes are growing wet and brimming with pain. “You kissing me, me being with you. Any of this.”

  My chest grows cold. “Why not?” I manage to say, even though I know her answer. I know exactly why “why not?” because it comes from that same dark place where guilt buzzes like flies.

  “Because we’re dishonoring the dead!” she sobs. “Don’t you feel that?”

  I immediately let go of her, sucking in my breath.

  She’s breathing hard and staring at me like she knows she’s done wrong.

  I can barely speak. “They were my family, Natasha. Don’t think I’m not thinking about them every single day, that I won’t be thinking about them for the rest of my life.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers, shaking her head, a tear falling to the floor. I’m barely aware that another theatre is emptying, people coming out of the doors. “Brigs, I’m sorry. I just look at you and…”

  “You think I’m a mistake,” I offer flatly.

  “Don’t you?” She looks around wildly then closes her eyes. “I just don’t know what to do.”

  Frustration builds at the back of my throat. I want to be patient, I want to be understanding. But if she has more problems with us than I do, I’m not sure what I can do to change her mind. I’m not even sure if it’s right for me to feel this way.

  But I do.

 
She bends down to pick up the spilled bucket of popcorn, but I reach it before she does, and walk over to the trash, tossing it in. The lobby is crowded now and people are walking between us. Any chance for a serious conversation is over.

  But we can’t be over.

  I walk back over to her. “Let’s get out of here. Let’s go somewhere and talk.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” she says, practically pleading. “Thanks for the movie, Brigs.”

  She turns and walks away. I stand there for a second, dumbfounded that she’s actually going to leave it like this. Then I jog after her, fighting through the crowd until I’m at her side, out on Baker Street.

  “What happened? What changed?” I hiss in her ear as I hurry alongside her. “Monday night you were feeling fine, we were doing good, I was the happiest I’ve felt in years!”

  Her brows shoot up. “What happened?! You just kissed me.”

  “So what’s the difference?”

  She stops, walking back a step to get out of the way of pedestrians. She blinks at me. “The difference is everything. Being friends is difficult enough, but anything more than that…”

  I take a step toward her, bearing down on her. “You used to be in love with me. And I was in love with you.”

  “And look what that love did! It ruined both of our lives.”

  My pulse hammers against my throat, but I can’t look away from her. So much of me wants to agree, does agree, and yet that’s not the whole story. It’s brutal, but it’s not that simple.

  “Natasha,” I say quietly, my eyes roaming her face, searching for something to latch on to. Her cheeks are flushed, her lip worrying between her teeth. “I’m not sure when I’ll stop feeling guilty. I’m not sure when you’ll stop feeling guilty. But the fact that both of us have come out a dark hole, to emerge here,” I throw my arms out, “where we are now, says we’re capable of letting go. Capable of moving on.”

  “And how can we move on if we’re back to square one?”

  “Because this isn’t square one,” I tell her, gently running my fingers under her chin. “This isn’t going backward. This is going forward. We get to start again. Now. From scratch.”

  She closes her eyes briefly, taking in a deep breath. Then she shakes her head. “That’s easy for you to say, Brigs,” she says sadly, moving away from me, “when I’m feeling everything for you that I felt before.”