The Lie

I need us to get off this topic, so I ask her about her date the other night, and things eventually swing in that direction, leaving the complicated mess that is my love to the side.

When I go back to my flat that night though, tipsy from the beer, head swimming with too many thoughts, I wonder why Brigs hasn’t contacted me. It’s been days. I’ve been afraid to contact him, not wanting him to feel pressure or to rush something that is so extremely delicate. So I sit and wait and stew, wondering if everything I could have hoped for, ever wanted, will ever be.

It isn’t until later, when I’m winding down for bed, putting tea on in the kitchen and hoping a bit of chamomile and a hit of Scotch will put my raging mind to rest, that I get this horrible feeling of dread. It’s like a black, swampy shadow makes its way across the room, and I end up pulling my robe tight around me, even though the feeling also seems to come from inside my bones.

I shudder and try to ignore it. I bring the teapot into my room, grab my iPad, and begin mindless scrolling through all the usual sites. Just Jared, Perez Hilton, IMDB, Variety, The Hollywood Reporter, TMZ, US Weekly. Anything to distract me.

I’m half-asleep with the iPad on my face when my phone rings. I jump, blinking at the harsh overhead lights of my room, and quickly grab my phone from under the pillow.

It’s Brigs.

My heart was already racing, but now it’s hurtling forward, leaps and bounds.

I suck in my breath. Afraid of so many things. Of new beginnings. Of the end. Every way you look at it, it’s scary, and I know when I answer this call my life will be propelled in some direction that will forever change me.

I answer it. “Hi,” I say, my voice just a whisper.

There is a long, heavy pause.

I hear his breath. Ragged.

He swallows loudly.

“Natasha,” he says, and his voice is just so wrecked that a shiver runs through me. That feeling that something is wrong is back, a bony hand hovering at my chest.

“Brigs,” I say. “What is it? What happened?”

A few more beats pass. I hear him breathing. Whimpers. Is he crying?

“Please speak to me,” I whisper. “Please. Tell me what’s going on.”

“They’re dead,” he says so faintly I have to strain to hear.

“Who is dead?” I ask.

“They died,” he says, and now he sounds flat. Horribly flat. “Miranda and Hamish.”

I’m speechless. Stunned. I blink and try to breathe. It’s just a horrible joke. How could they be dead? His wife and son?

“Brigs…” I say. I lick my lips, unsure how to go on. I’m not finding this funny, but then again, and this is big, neither is he. I’ve never heard him so serious.

Just keep talking. Find out what’s really going on, I tell myself. No one is dead. That can’t happen. There’s an explanation.

“They’re dead, Natasha,” he says, voice cracking. He breathes in deeply, his breath breaking, and in that break I can feel his very real anguish deep into the heart of me. “They’re dead. It’s all our fault. We did this. We did this.”

I can’t swallow. My heart has climbed up my chest and I am fighting paralysis everywhere.

“Brigs,” I whisper. “Please don’t say these things. Miranda and Hamish—”

“There was a car accident,” he interrupts, that flat monotone again. God, it feels like a slab of concrete. “She was drunk, driving without a car seat. I tried to stop them but I couldn’t. I was the first at the scene where they went off the road, both of them thrown from the car. It wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t told her the truth about us.”

“What?” I gasp, unable to take any of it in.

“I told her I wanted a divorce. She wouldn’t accept it. So I told her the truth.”

“No, no, no,” I mutter to myself, my pulse taking wings.

“She lost it. That upset her more than anything. As I should have known. I should have known.” He sucks in his breath and lets out a sob that I feel in my very marrow. “If I could take it all back, I would. I would. Don’t you see what’s happened? We killed them.”

I can’t even form words. None of this feels real. But I know it’s real to him.

“I’m so sorry,” I say meekly. So quiet and pathetic because what can I say? How can this be anything but a bad dream? A joke? “Are you sure they’re dead?”

Stupid. So stupid. But I don’t know what to say. I’m spinning and spinning around this truth and I can’t accept it.

“Of course I’m fucking sure,” he snaps. “I’m…fuck, Natasha. They’re dead! It’s my fault. How can I ever go on with this, with what I’ve done?”

“It’s not your fault,” I tell him, pleading, tears starting to fall from my eyes. “It’s not our fault. You didn’t know. How could you know?”

“I should have known,” he says. “And now my son, my son—” He stops, breaking down into sobs.

Oh my god.

Oh my god.

“I’m so sorry, I’m sorry,” I cry out, my body starting to shake as the truth slowly takes hold. “Brigs, please, I’m sorry.”