The Lie

“Well, it’s the only answer I have right now,” I say gruffly. “You should understand. Your father left you with your mother.”

“I was ten,” she snaps at me, “and I had to put up with a childhood of fighting and crying and name calling and parents who didn’t speak to each other except for yelling. I just wanted my parents to be happy, so I could be happy. They should have broken up way sooner. It’s just bad luck that I wasn’t whisked off to France.”

I sit back and run my hand up and down my face, trying to make sense of everything. I can still taste her lips, feel my fingers in her hair. My first and last glimpses of our desire.

She takes her mobile out of her pocket and glances at it. “It’s getting late. We should probably head back now.”

“Aye,” I say with a sigh, turning the key. As before, it starts without a single cough.

We are both silent during the drive back, the tension between us ebbing and flowing, as if we keep trading thoughts between something wonderful and terrible. The kiss was both of those things.

When we get into the city, there isn’t a lot of time for me to say goodbye to her. I wish I could spend time at her flat, talk some more about what happened before I leave. I’m too afraid to leave the words unsaid between now and Monday. Time alone, to think about what happened, could be damaging for either of us.

I park the car on the street and twist in my seat to face her. I want to tell her to email me later, or even text me. Just to let me know she’s all right, that I’m not as horrible as I think I am.

I open my mouth but she looks at me point blank and says, “Brigs. I’m in love with you.”

A hundred crashing cymbals go off in my chest.

“What?” I whisper, hardly believing my ears. My heart is drumming so bloody fast.

She bites her lip and nods. “I’m sorry. It’s true. And I wasn’t going to ever tell you but I’ve got nothing to lose except a week of employment.” She smiles as if to herself. “I love you.”

Then she gets out of the car, slamming the door and running across the street.

“Wait!” I call after her, but she doesn’t stop. And what is there to say?

My precious truth, that I love her too, would only do more harm than good.





CHAPTER ELEVEN

Brigs

London

Present Day




“Professor McGregor?” The voice is muffled and followed by a knock at the closed door.

I look up from my work, annoyed at being interrupted. I’ve been reading over my manuscript for the first time in years, trying to get back into the headspace of finishing the book. Being with Natasha two nights ago has fueled my creativity, like an energy cell that’s finally being charged, and I don’t want to lose my momentum while I have it.

Maybe if I don’t say anything, don’t make a sound, they’ll go away.

Besides, I have a feeling I know who it is.

“Hello?” the voice sounds again, and this time they try the knob.

The door opens.

Shit.

I knew I should have locked it.

Melissa pokes her head in. “Is this a bad time?”

I eye her sternly over my reading glasses. “Sort of.”

She smiles apologetically. “I’m sorry.”

And yet she still comes in the room, walking over to my desk, a stack of papers in her hand. “I just had a few questions about grading the papers.”

I sigh and quickly pinch the bridge of my nose. I can’t exactly turn her away if it’s something to do with being a teaching assistant. “Okay, what is it?”

“Are you okay?” she asks, cocking her head.

“I’m fine,” I tell her. “Just a bit of a headache.”

Just a bit of wishing you would go away. There’s something so off-putting about Melissa. I just can’t put my finger on it. It’s probably because she told me to stay the hell away from Natasha and I never listened to her. And if I’m lucky enough to see Natasha again, I’m going to have to ask her if it was true, if she put Melissa up to it. Something tells me she didn’t, not from the way she was looking at me on Monday night.

Not kissing her was by far and large the right thing to do.

And yet I still regret it.

“Well,” she says, sitting on the edge of my desk, her short skirt hiked up to show off her legs. “I honestly don’t know what to do. I’ve never graded anyone before. I’m not sure what’s a good essay and what’s a bad one.”

I cock my brow. “Surely you know what a bad essay reads like.”

She shrugs.

I explain. “Well, just think of your essays and the grades you got. Pick your highest grade and work backward. If those essays don’t measure up, go lower. Or if you spot the worst essay in the pile, grade all the other papers against that.”

“There is just so much power right here.” She places her hand at her chest. “I could ruin these students’ lives if I wanted to. Absolutely ruin them.”

I frown at her. “You could, but you won’t. They’re undergrads. Just kids. By the end of the semester you’ll get a better idea of who is doing good and who’s in it to fail, but for now, you’re supposed to give them guidance and hope. Be as constructive as possible.”