The Lie

“How was the date?”

“Fine.” It was better than fine. It was…luminous.

“Did you get laid?”

“No.” My conscience stepped in.

“Did he at least kiss you?”

“No.” But I wish he had.

“Are you going out with him again?”

“I shouldn’t.” And I mean that.

She looks utterly crestfallen for a moment then looks me up and down with a one-shouldered shrug. “Maybe if you wore the mini-skirt like I told you.”

“Maybe,” I concede, even though I know I could wear a potato sack and it wouldn’t matter. His soul speaks to me, regardless of what it’s dressed in.

I go into the bathroom and wipe off my makeup in the mirror, before getting undressed and glancing down at my underwear. “Well, Sponge Bob,” I say. “You did good.”

Yet when I crawl into my bed and set my alarm for the morning, my chest feels carved out. Hollow. I knew that seeing Brigs tonight wasn’t going to be easy. I just didn’t anticipate how hard it was going to be and not in the way I thought. I expected that being in close proximity to him, away from the prying eyes and bustle of school, would have brought on an overwhelming sense of grief and pain, a reminder of the damage we had done together. I thought I would relive his last words to me, that I would remember that epic fall into darkness where I couldn’t even save myself.

And while it was there, a potent undercurrent between us, it only came second to what really blindsided me: desire. The overwhelming need to be possessed by him, to have his heart, body, everything. It’s like we are picking up where we left off—not on that phone call, but in my old London flat, with hope and promises and the memories of his stubble razing my skin as he kissed my lips and neck. God, even my nipple had been in his mouth.

Before I know what I’m doing, I’m touching myself, sliding my finger along my clit, wishing it was him, needing to burn off this energy that is sweltering inside me.

I come to thoughts of him, trying not to yell out his name, but I’m screaming it on the inside.

And just like that I’m sated enough to fall asleep, and hopeful enough that tomorrow this need will still be wiped clean.





CHAPTER TEN

Brigs

Edinburgh

Four Years Ago



“Miranda,” I say delicately, standing in the doorway of our kitchen.

She’s at the breakfast table, a cup of tea in front of her, the steam rising in the beams of morning light coming through the window.

Her back is to me. She says nothing.

“Miranda,” I say louder now and slowly walk closer to get a look at her.

When I’m finally in front of her, only then does she look up.

“Brigs,” she says to me. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

I shake my head and pull out the chair, the noise of it scraping against the floor loud and jarring.

“No. Nothing. Why?”

She shrugs and sips her tea, her eyes going to the window.

It’s silent in here. I can hear the grandfather clock ticking and the sound of Hamish playing with his toy cars in the other room.

It would be the perfect morning for any family.

But my heart is cold. The room is cold. Everything about this house is laced with ice.

She takes another sip of her tea and gives me an expectant look. She had a manicure yesterday, her nails polished to stones. “What is it?” she repeats, annoyance in her tone.

I guess it shows how often we actually talk to each other. I can’t remember the last time we had a conversation that didn’t involve Hamish. And that’s not good. That’s why my heart is being torn in a million directions. That’s why I’m feeling everything that no married man should feel.

But it has to stop. I have to try.

“I was thinking,” I tell her slowly, eyeing the window. “It’s a brilliant day outside. Why don’t we drop Hamish off at your parents, or mine, and the two of us go on a drive? Anywhere you want. We haven’t taken Moneypenny out for a spin in years.”

“Oh, Brigs,” she says with a sigh, avoiding my eyes.

“What?”

“I don’t have time for that,” she says simply. “I’ve got a lunch date with Carol.”

“We don’t have to take long. We can go after.”

She shakes her head, making the disagreeable little noise she makes when she’s fed up with slow waiters at a restaurant or when the maid doesn’t dust the china figurines in the sitting room.

“What would we do? Where would we go?”

“Anywhere,” I tell her imploringly, leaning toward her and placing my hand palm down on the table. “And we can do anything. You just say the word.”

“I’d rather not.”

I inhale deeply through my nose, staying silent, hoping she’ll see the need in my eyes.

She doesn’t. She looks at me briefly, then back down to her tea. “I said I’d rather not,” she repeats.

“Tomorrow then,” I tell her. “We’ll go tomorrow.”

She sighs, hastily tucking her hair behind her ear. “I’ve got plans. You know I’m busy on the weekends.”

“You’re busy every day.”