The Lie

The last thing I want is to move too fast, to scare her—or myself—away. The truth is, I don’t really know what this is, other than the fact that I have this insatiable need to see her again, to be with her. I haven’t been able to laugh, feel joy, or bypass the years of grief in such a long time. To come alive with her is nearly addicting.

I keep this in mind as I do a quick tidying of my flat before taking Winter for a walk around Regent’s University. When I get back, none of my nervous energy has dissipated. Winter seems to pick up on that too, running around the drawing room while I quickly jump in the shower.

I pause briefly when I’m done, eyeing my body in the mirror. I may be older than I was four years ago, but at least I don’t look it. In fact, I look better than before, the gym paying off, my muscles showcased well by my lean frame. It seems absolutely crazy to think that with everything I feel for Natasha, everything we’ve gone through, she still hasn’t seen me naked. She’s barely touched me.

It was for the best, of course, and I have to remind myself not to dwell on it, nor the fact that the future is full of possibility. For all I know, being actual platonic friends may be the easiest—and the smartest—thing to do.

By the time seven-thirty rolls around, I’ve been sitting on the couch for a while, attempting to work on my manuscript on my laptop, having consumed about two pots of Earl Grey tea. I’m absolutely wired, my leg bouncing, my eyes forever dancing to the door and back.

Eventually I take to staring out the window to the street below, Winter at my side doing the same thing. My eyes are trained to the left, where she would come out of Baker Street station.

Then she appears, jeans and a jacket, and I wish I had binoculars so I could really spy on her and see the expression on her face, if she’s nervous, happy, whatever. That would make me one hell of a pervy professor, but I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t be the first.

The intercom sounds and I buzz her in without a word. I wait by the door for her to knock, and when she does, I still jump a little. I wait a moment, curling and uncurling my fists at my side, trying to compose myself, before opening it.

“Hi,” she says brightly, staring up at me.

I can’t help but take a moment to just drink in the sight of her. It does something so unearthly to me, this weightlessness in my chest.

“Hi,” I say, swallowing thickly. I open the door wider. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

She steps one foot in before Winter is bounding toward her like a fluffy white steam train.

“Winter, sit!” I command, pointing at him to get his arse on the ground.

But Winter doesn’t care. He runs right to Natasha and starts to jump on her.

“Winter!” I yell, grabbing his collar, but Natasha is giggling and sinking to a crouch so she can muss with him on his level.

“I’m so sorry, he’s such a special case,” I try and explain, shutting the door behind her.

“He’s lovely,” she says as he licks her all over her face.

Lucky fucking dog.

I grab his collar again and pull him back. “I’ve had him for a year almost and he’s pretty much still a puppy. I’m sure he’ll outgrow that but I’m not sure if he’ll outgrow being a jerk.”

She’s smiling as she stands back up, wiping her face with her sleeve. “He’s beautiful. Where did you get him again?”

“Found him on Christmas Eve. Poor little bastard was left alone by someone in a barn, don’t know who. There was a snowstorm and I took him to my grandfather’s place. That obviously didn’t last one night. He’s been with me ever since.”

I let go of Winter and he immediately sticks his nose in her crotch.

I smirk at her. “Well, at least he knows where to go.”

“Hey,” she says, mouth agape as she swats me across the arm. “And ow, what’s with your bicep?”

“Nothing at all,” I tell her, flexing automatically. “Shall I give you the tour?”

My flat is pretty nice. It’s not as big as my brother’s out in Edinburgh—that’s what smart investments and rugby money gets you—but it’s still fairly large for this part of London. I actually lucked out, considering it’s a rental. And though it’s a bit more than what I’m used to spending, the place is starting to feel like home and that says a lot. The last couple of years I’ve just been adrift.

I take her around, pointing out the maple floors and the white-washed walls and cornices, realizing that aside from a few random women I’ve brought in here on drunken nights, I haven’t shown anyone my apartment. Not Lachlan, not my parents. It’s not that they haven’t hinted that they’d like to stop by, it’s just that I’ve never offered. It’s like I’m scared to let them see this new life and my utter lack of confidence in it.

But now, with Natasha slowly walking in front of me, her boots echoing on the wood floors, I realize I’m not afraid. I want to share this with her, I crave her opinion, and I need her to be part of it all in some way.

“This is beautiful, Brigs,” she says in soft awe as we come back to the drawing room.