Love isn’t a choice. I can’t control how I feel about him any more than I can control the sun in the sky. But what I can do is control what I do with those feelings.
Around Brigs I bottle it up.
It’s not so hard.
Okay, that’s a lie.
It’s terribly hard.
But he’s not one to give me an opportunity.
God help me if he ever does.
I’m also lucky that I don’t really know anyone in Edinburgh. There’s my Vietnamese flatmate, Hang, that I’m rooming with short term, and though we’re cordial with each other, we’re not exactly chummy.
There’s no one to spill my secrets to. I haven’t even told my friend Melissa back in London the truth: that I’m in love with not only the professor, who is paying me to be his research assistant, but a married man at that.
Some days when I wake up and my heart gets that warm fluttery feeling, I try and talk myself out of it. Convince myself that it’s just a harmless crush, not love, and that when all this is over I’ll go back to London, back to school, meet a nice available boy and get on with my merry life.
Other days I sink into that feeling. I drown in it. Because love shouldn’t be ignored. Or shunned. Or buried. If you’re lucky enough to feel it, you need to indulge it. Give it wings. Let it course through your heart and soul, unfiltered.
And I fucking feel it.
It’s Friday afternoon, and the last I talked to Brigs was through an email sent this morning. I wondered if he needed me to come to the office today to work.
He said no, the first time he ever turned down the offer. No explanation why either.
I hate to admit that it stung a bit and got me thinking. Too much, as usual. I started overanalyzing every last interaction. Wondering if my feelings for him were obvious, if I’m starting to scare him off. The last thing I want is to ruin the thing we have now, this easy, fun, light-hearted working relationship.
Well, I guess it’s not so light-hearted all the time. I do catch his eyes on me. Not always, but often enough.
The thing about Brigs, that I don’t even think he knows, is that his gaze just screams sex.
It shouts it from the rooftops, stamps its feet, and makes you feel it deep in your core.
One moment he’ll be talking about the virtues of Kim Novak’s performance in Vertigo, the next he’s staring at me with those blue eyes of his with a look that can only be described as carnal.
And every time I catch him looking at me that way, I feel every bone in my body light on fire. I can’t even imagine the look I’m giving him back because I’m stripped bare in his gaze, no inhibitions left.
So yeah, maybe he’s starting to catch on that I have some pretty mad feelings for him. And I’m too afraid to ask myself what to do next. Keep on pining and have my heart eventually crushed by our separation.
Or?
There is no or.
No matter what happens, it can’t end well.
I sigh and stare up at the ceiling of my tiny room. My window is open; I’m trying to get a breeze going inside, and outside people are laughing and talking as they walk to and fro on the street beneath the building. It’s maddening that I’m inside, stewing in my feelings, while the rest of the city gets to have fun.
But I’ve never been one to stay home because of a guy.
I put on a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt with the slogan “Nope,” grab my purse and sunglasses, and head out into the street.
I’m flatting in Newington so it’s about a twenty minute walk to head into the city but I could use the exercise. Not that I need it at the moment—my appetite is gone these days for the first time in my life, and my ass has finally shrunk a size. So have my boobs. It’s so not fair. When a girl loses weight, her boobs go first. But when a guy loses weight, his dick stays the same size. If anything it gets larger in proportion.
I’ve always wanted to have a picnic in the Princes Street Gardens, and even though you rarely see anyone doing it alone, I won’t let that stop me. Fuck the happy couples and families. Why should picnicking be reserved just for them?
I stop by a shop to get some cheese and crackers and two cans of cider, and head down toward the grass, trying to find the perfect spot to have my lonely little picnic. The air smells sweet despite it being late summer in the city, and the sun feels wonderful on my back.
I feel fucking alive.
But damn if there aren’t a lot of people here. I guess the park attracts the after-work crowd, and it is a gorgeous Friday after all. It’s hard to find the right spot without being too close to a couple making out or a toddler determined to tramp all over your non-existent blanket.
I think I see a good spot, a little too close to the path, but it will have to do.
And then I stop dead in my tracks.
I see him.
Brigs.
With a child on his shoulders.
Walking with a stunning blonde that looks like January Jones. Or Grace Kelly. Someone with the neck of a ballerina and all the grace of a princess.
I don’t know what to do. I feel like I’m in Jurassic Park, and if I don’t move, he won’t see me. I can’t think of any other option but to turn around and hide my face from his and walk the other way.
But I can’t move. I can’t stop looking. It’s like a horrible car crash.
He and his adorable son and his gorgeous, perfect wife.
How on earth could he not be happy with her? She’s turning heads even as she walks through the gardens, wearing a white sundress, her hair done up in a French twist. Shit, she even manages to make an 80s hairstyle look good.