The Lie

“Yes, sir.”

“I suggest when you’re done here, you go to the bookstore and pick up a copy. When I see you next, bring it to me. I’ll sign it for you. Wouldn’t that be a lucky treat?”

Give me a fucking break. But I manage to smile. “Yes, it would. Thank you.”

Then I quickly get the hell out of there. I wish my first stop wasn’t the bookstore to buy his book, but I know he’s going to expect me to read the whole thing before the next class. I stop by the cafeteria to get something for my raging stomach, opting for a goat cheese salad over my usual meat pie and chips, and decide to text Melissa.

Where is your class? Did you make it?

It’s room 302. Teacher’s not here yet. Maybe I can skip, she texts back.

Stay where you are. How long is it?

It’s supposed to be two hours. I hope there’s a film.

Cool. I’ll meet you in two hours, then. I’ve got to read a bullshit book in the meantime.

Fun. You deserve a beer after that.

We’ll see.

Lo and behold, after I hole up with the book (the crap cost thirty pounds!) in a corner of the library (one of my favorite places), and before my brain starts to bleed from boredom, I think I might need a beer after all. If only the book didn’t cut into my beer fund so much.

I head to the third floor just as the classroom doors start opening and people start piling out.

I can see Melissa at the end of the hallway, wide-eyed and walking kind of jerkily toward me like she’s just done a line of coke. She’s mouthing something to me, but I think it’s just, “Oh my god, oh my god.”

She probably had a teacher like Professor Irving. So far we aren’t having the best luck with teachers this year.

But as she gets closer, hurrying now toward me and shaking her head as if in disbelief, my eyes drift over her shoulder to the classroom.

A man has just stepped out of the door.

Tall.

Broad-shouldered.

Wearing a fine, tailored grey suit.

High cheekbones.

A strong jawline.

And the most haunting blue eyes in the world.

Eyes I never ever thought I’d see again.

I freeze in place, or maybe it’s just that my heart stops beating, and I can hear Melissa saying, “Natasha, oh my god, come with me, let’s go, you won’t believe this, oh my god,” as she grabs my arm and tries to haul me away.

But it’s too late.

Because those eyes see me.

They see me.

And Professor Blue Eyes looks like he’s been hit by a train.

I know the feeling.

It’s your heart and soul being smashed to smithereens.

Because of one person.

One look.

“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go,” Melissa says quickly, and I’m turned around as she tugs at me, our eye contact broken.

It. Can’t. Be. Him.

It can’t.

And yet it is.

I look back over my shoulder and meet his stunned gaze once more.

Brigs McGregor.

The love of my life.

The love that ruined lives.

One step forward and five million steps back.





.




CHAPTER FOUR

Brigs

London

Present Day



I check my watch. Five minutes until my class starts and I’m still scrambling over the tutorial notes. I made these months ago, but now that I’m here, among the students and in the school, I felt like it has to feel more organic, so I’ve spent my morning in my office, scrapping everything I was slated to speak about today.

The subject is still the same: analyzing Harold Lloyd’s performance in Safety Last. But that’s the problem with working on things months before you need to. You’re often a different person by then. We’re all changing, even in the subtlest ways, and now I’m realizing—last minute? as per usual—that I need to make things a bit more dynamic to capture the students’ attention. They are grad students, but still, they could have easily chosen another class. In most grad classes, you assign the film for the students to watch on their own, but I want to do things a little differently.

With one minute to spare, I grab my briefcase and head down the hall to the classroom, passing Professor Charles Irving on the way. That man’s a real piece of work. He gives me a snide side eye, along with a nod, as if he acknowledges my presence and hates me for it. I guess that happens when you’re the new guy at work. And in teaching it’s just a little bit worse. Generally, when you have a teaching positon at a prestigious university, you hold on to that for the rest of your career. Turnover is minimal unless you fuck up. Which I did at my last job because of my breakdown. And I’d only been there for two years. Nothing quite like ruining a good thing the moment it’s in your hands.