The Lie

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 and 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.”