The Lie

“This is so exciting,” my mum squeals. I don’t think I’ve seen her squeal in a long time. She places her glass on the coffee table and claps her hands together, her bracelets jangling. “Have you given any thought to where the wedding is going to be? When? Oh and the dress. Kayla, darling, you’re going to look so beautiful.”

I want to keep the grin on my face. I really do. But it’s starting to falter.

Move on, move on, move on.

The memories of my mother and Miranda going dress shopping. How long they took—months—before they found the perfect one. How Miranda squirreled that dress home, hiding it in the closet and forbidding me to look at it.

I kept my word. I did. And on our wedding day, she really did take my breath away.

I wish that memory could be pure. I wish that I could grieve like any normal man would. Feel the sorrow and not the shame.

But all I feel is shame. All I feel is shame.

All my fault.

The thought races through my head, lightning on the brain.

All my fault.

I close my eyes and breathe in slowly through my nose, remembering what my therapist had taught me.

Move on, move on, move on.

It wasn’t my fault.

“Brigs?” I hear my father say, and I open my eyes to see him peering at me curiously. He gives me a quick, encouraging smile. “Are you all right?” He says this in a low, hushed voice, and for that I’m grateful. My mother and Kayla are talking wedding plans, and they haven’t noticed.

Lachlan, on the other hand, is watching me. He knows my triggers just as I know his. But while we can drink alcohol-free champagne for his sake, we can’t ignore fucking life for mine. We can’t pretend that love and marriage and babies don’t happen, just because all of mine were taken away.

All my fault.

I exhale and paste on a smile. “I’m fine,” I say to my father. “Guess I’m a wee bit stressed about classes tomorrow. This will be the first real week of school. The first one never counts for anything. Everyone’s lost or hung over.”

He gives a little laugh. “Yes, I remember those days.” He finishes the champagne and checks his watch, managing to spill leftover droplets on the carpet as he turns his wrist. “What time is your flight tonight?”

“Ten p.m.,” I tell him. “I should probably go upstairs and make sure I have everything.”

I make for the stairs as Lachlan calls after me, “I’ll drive you to the airport.”

“No worries,” I say. I can tell from the intensity in his eyes that he wants to talk. And by that, he wants me to talk. The last year, leading up to my new job at Kings College and the move to London, Lachlan was on me to make sure I was handling things, that I was doing okay. Maybe it’s because I helped him get help for his drug and alcohol addiction, maybe he’s just more aware of me in general, as a brother and as a friend.

Our relationship has always been a bit strained and rocky, but at least now he’s one of the few people I can count on.

“It’s not a problem,” he says gruffly, the Lachlan brand of tough love. “I’ll drop Kayla off at home, then take you over.”

I exhale and nod. “Sure, thank you.”

I quickly go upstairs and make sure my overnight bag is in order. When I’m in Scotland I usually stay in my old room at my parents. It makes me feel terribly old, staring down at my old bed, let alone trying to sleep in it, but there’s something comforting about it, too.

My flat in Edinburgh city is being rented at the moment, so there’s no staying there. Eventually I’ll probably sell it. I accepted my position as professor of film studies at the university with a grain of salt and with no real long-term commitment. I’m renting a nice flat in the Marylebone area now, but until I feel like this job is solid and I’m in for the long haul, I’m treating my new life with delicate hands.

“How is Winter?” Lachlan asks me later after I’ve said my goodbyes to my parents and Kayla, and we’re in his Range Rover, lights flashing past on the A-90.

“He’s a handful,” I tell him, tapping my fingers along the edge of the door. “And a right bugger sometimes. And I’m pretty sure my neighbors will file a complaint when he barks again in the middle of the night.”

“He’s not even a year old yet,” Lachlan says. “Give it time. He’s still a puppy.”

“Aye. He’s a shitting machine is what he is.”

Lachlan’s a dog expert and a dog rescuer. When he’s not being a hotshot rugby player, he operates a rescue shelter for dogs, especially pit bulls, and tries to build awareness for them. Kayla works for him, and so far the organization – Ruff Love – has been doing really well. He’s the reason why I adopted Winter to begin with. I found him as a puppy last Christmas during a snowstorm by our grandpa’s house in Aberdeen, hiding out in the neighbor’s barn. When the neighbors wouldn’t claim the dog, it was either I take the white fluff ball in or Lachlan would take him to his shelter. The bloody dog grew on me, I guess, and now he’s a royal pain in the arse who looks like he strolled in off the set of Game of Thrones. Still, life would be pretty boring without him, even though I have to hire a dog walker to deal with his excess energy when I’m at school.