The Lie

I have to take a moment outside the Sherlock Holmes Museum—closed for the day—and stare at my shadowed reflection in a mirror, trying to get my breathing under control. I keep telling myself there’s no reason to feel like this, but my body doesn’t care in the slightest.

Eventually I have to pry myself away from the wall of the building and head into the pub next door, otherwise he’ll start to think I’m standing him up. I already ran away from him once, I can’t let him think I’m doing it again.

The pub isn’t all that busy, and I spot him sitting at the bar, laughing with the bartender. His smile is dashing and genuine as always, flooding me with warm memories. He’s dressed down, wearing dark jeans, a t-shirt, and his leather moto jacket he always used to wear. I stop and watch him for a few seconds, unobserved, wishing in some ways that this was another instance of watching him from afar. I just want to take in every single detail and hold them in my mind, examine them like precious stones and see just how they make me feel.

But Brigs turns his head and looks at me, as if pulled by an imaginary string, and he gazes at me with wonder. His mouth quirks up into a small smile, his body twisting in his seat to face me.

I will my feet to move and walk on over, suddenly shy.

I stop beside him and rest my hand on the empty stool. “Is this seat taken?” I ask.

His eyes gently crinkle at the corners. He nods. “It’s all yours.”

I try to sit on the stool as gracefully as I can.

“What will you have?” he asks me, his body still turned in his seat facing me, one foot propped up on the rung at the bottom of my stool.

“A snakebite,” I tell him.

“Still have a fondness for that drink,” he remarks, looking me over. “You can change your hair, but not your appetite.”

I study him, wondering if that was innuendo. He has this way of setting his jaw that makes you think he’s struggling to keep all sorts of urges in control.

I clear my throat. “Do you like my hair?”

He reaches out and gently tugs on a strand, rubbing it between his fingers. I freeze, holding my breath, unprepared for how intimate this feels. “It suits you,” he says after a moment. “Brightens you up. Not that you ever needed it.”

Then as abruptly as he touched my hair, his hand falls away and he signals to the bartender. “Max, a snakebite for the lady. I’ll take another pint.”

Max gives me a nod and gets to work.

“So, you come here often, I guess?” I ask him since he seems to be right at home here.

He nods. “I live right across the street.”

“Really? And the Sherlock Holmes Museum right here. I remember you being quite the fan.”

He gives me a quick smile. “And what else do you remember?”

I eye him carefully, unsure of his game here, if there is anything. “I remember everything.”

“All good things, I hope,” he says as Max slides the drinks toward us.

I exhale. Slowly. I’ve just noticed his left hand, the absence of the wedding ring that was always there.

Oh my god. I can’t do this.

“Natasha,” Brigs says, leaning into me. “It’s okay.”

I stare up at him with wild eyes. “What’s okay?”

“This,” he says softly.

How? How?

He nods at my snakebite, a mix of lager, hard cider, and cassis. It gets you drunk fast which is why I normally just have one, and a lot of pubs won’t serve it.

“You’re just having a drink with me,” he explains. “That’s all.”

You tried to leave your wife for me, I think. How could any of this be that simple?

I take a large gulp of my drink and lapse into a coughing fit like an amateur.

Brigs places his hand on my back, as if to pat me there, but he doesn’t. He just presses his palm between my shoulder blades. Warm, even through my shirt. I briefly close my eyes, because god, even that simple contact feels so fucking good.

“So,” he says slowly. “Seen any good films lately?”

I almost laugh at how cavalier he sounds. I look at him and his hand drops away, leaving my back feeling cold and bare. He’s smiling, waiting for a response, his foot still resting on the rung of my stool, like he needs to be tethered to me in some way.

“Lately, no,” I tell him, having another sip and taking it easier this time. “But in the last four years, yes.”

“Still on your Christopher Nolan kick?”

“Yes,” I say emphatically. “Have you seen The Dark Knight Rises and Interstellar? He just keeps getting better.”

He shakes his head. “Nah. He peaked with Inception. Or even before that.”

I roll my eyes. “You still don’t understand that film.”

“Maybe because I haven’t watched it a million times like you have,” he says. “Ogling Leo and what’s his face. You shouldn’t have to watch a film a million times in order to understand it. That says something right there.”

“It says that you don’t become obsessed with anything,” I tell him. “Remember when I told you that I saw X-Men eight times in the theatre when it came out?”