The Lie

“Then my brother’s name is George,” he says, cavalier.

“Drink up, beautiful,” Rennie says, filling up the glass and sliding it back to me. “You keep talking and I’ll keep filling.”

“You know I’m a poor student, right?” I ask him.

“Aye. And I know you probably need a night out,” he says. “It’s on me. Just as long as when you think it’s time to go home, you let me call you a cab.”

I nod just as a pair of pretty girls come to the end of the bar, trying to get his attention. He leaves to go tend to them as I sip the Scotch. Even the drink reminds me of Brigs, of the night we drank in his office and shared the cigar.

“He’s got a girlfriend, just so you know,” drunk guy says, nudging me with his elbow and nodding at Rennie.

I give him a look. “I wasn’t wondering,” I tell him.

“Still hung up on the married man,” he notes.

I rub my lips together and rotate the glass in my hands, watching the golden liquid spin. “As wrong as it all is, I’m not sure the feeling is going away anytime soon.” I glance at him. “Do you have somebody in your life? Ever been in love?”

He smiles and his whole face becomes youthful, like a young boy, even though his expression is embarrassed. “No, and no. But that’s okay. I’m making peace with it.” He lifts up his drink and has another sip. “Do you want my advice though?”

I cock my head and smile. “Not really.”

He chuckles. “Fair enough. But I’ll tell you anyway. Take it with a grain of salt because it’s coming from someone who doesn’t know anything.” He leans in close and I’m momentarily caught in his eyes. “Tell the man how you feel.”

“I can’t do that,” I whisper. “He’s happy.”

You’re lying, I tell myself. Why are you lying?

“If he’s happy, then it doesn’t really matter…does it?”

I hate the hope this man is putting in my chest. “And what if it does matter? What if he…what if this changes everything? Not just my life, but his and his wife’s and…I can’t be a catalyst.”

“Better to be a catalyst for change than a martyr for lies.”

His words fall over the bar like snowflakes. Soft, but with bite.

I just don’t know how to feel.

But I do end up having a few more drinks, and true to his word, Rennie calls me a cab. I don’t know what else I told the drunk guy, but when I leave I’m feeling empowered and bold and drunk out of my mind.

I get to my flat, my roommate already asleep and snoring lightly in her room. I flop down on my bed and stare up at the ceiling in that drunken mix of wanting to stay up later and drink but also go to sleep at the same time.

My nerves win out in the end.

In the most terrible way.

I open the email app on my phone and compose a message to Brigs.

Every cell in my body is screaming for me to stop, but all I feel is the selfish need to be heard and heard now. It can’t wait. It’s now or never.



Dear Professor Blue Eyes,



Do you believe in fate? Of course you don’t. You often say you think the universe is made of haphazard events that don’t make any sense, that we are the harbingers of our own destiny and doom.

I used to agree with you, though today I’m not so sure.

Today, I had the world make something very clear to me, something you probably aren’t even aware of.

I was walking in the park today, wanting to have a picnic at Princes Street Gardens, and I saw you there.

You were with Miranda and Hamish.

Goddamn it if you weren’t the most beautiful family.

Now I can understand why you canceled today.

What I don’t understand, though, is why you haven’t canceled every day before that.

Why have you continued to spend time with me, all day long, day after day, for months now when you have something that graceful and good and beautiful at home?

Miranda is every single thing that I’m not.

And I accept that.

But I can’t accept why you bother spending all your time with me.

I’m probably the worst research assistant there ever was.

We laugh more than we work.

You’re still the slowest writer in the world.

And yet every day I’m there.

Until one day I’m not.



Tasha



P.S. I’m drunk

P.P.S. I’m writing this because I’m a catalyst for change.

P.P.P.S. I don’t think I should work for you anymore.



Probably not the most succinct email I’ve ever composed, but I figure I’ll worry about that later when I send it.

Oops.

I already sent it.

I stare at the “sent” icon just as my phone dies.

Then I shrug. Whatever.