One Tiny Lie: A Novel (22 page)

When he looks up at me, he frowns. “What?”

I look at my phone and back at him. I hear the tentativeness in my voice as I say, “Connor wants me to meet his parents.” I know why I’m telling Ashton. I want to know what
he
thinks about that.

He shrugs, distracting himself with a blond girl walking past.

“Hey!” I snap, scowling. “I’m standing right
here
!”

Bowing his head, Ashton sighs. “What do you want me to say, Irish?” Looking up at me with that resigned smile and the thinly veiled hurt that he hides from most, he says, “Meet his parents. It probably makes sense.” He pauses, his lips pursed tightly. “You and Connor are together.” I hear the unspoken words as if he’s screaming them.
You and I are not
.

“What if I wasn’t with him? Would it matter to you?” It’s the same line that he’s used on me a few times. Now it’s my turn.

Ashton’s hands lift to cradle the back of his neck. He closes his eyes and tilts his head up to the cool blue autumn sky. And I wait, quietly, watching him, my eyes memorizing the curves of his throat and his neck, fighting the urge to reach out and touch his chest, to share that intimate moment with him again.

He drops his arms and his gaze to me, his jaw visibly taut. “I can’t give you what you want, Irish.” With another heavy sigh, he says, “Do you think you can manage the rest of the way back on your own?”

Biting my bottom lip as the prickly lump forms in my throat, I drop my gaze to my books. “Of course. Thanks, Ashton.”

His mouth opens to say something but then stops. I see the imperceptible shake of his head, as if he’s warning himself. “See you around.” He turns and walks away.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Mediocre

C minus
.

I blink several times, holding it closer to make sure I’m not hallucinating.

I’m not. It’s still there, at the top of my chemistry midterm, in all its ugly red glory.

My first college midterm mark and it’s almost a D. I’ve never had anything but an A.

Ever.

I swallow once, twice, three times as nausea fills my body and blood rushes to my ears, my heart beating off-kilter. Maybe I’m not cut out for Princeton. I know I didn’t study as hard as I should have, with all the distraction. My father was right. Boys do suck the brains out of smart girls. Either that or I’ve killed all my smart brain cells with drinking. All that’s left are the stupid ones that like to giggle and get felt up—okay, down—in cars.

I rush out the door, past the other exiting students, my legs moving as fast as they can without outright running. Bursting out and into the cool drizzle, I force myself to slow down as a pain twinges in my ankle. I’ll reinjure it if I’m not careful.

Without fail, my phone rings. Connor always phones me after this class because he’s getting out of his. I don’t want to answer it, but I do anyway.

“Hey, babe. What’s wrong?”

“I failed my chemistry midterm!” I fight to keep the tears welling in my eyes at bay. I don’t want to bawl out here, in the middle of everyone.

“Seriously? You failed?” There’s no mistaking the shock in his tone.

“Well . . . almost!” I sputter, my breath ragged.

“Okay. Slow down, Livie,” Connor says in a composed voice. “Tell me what happened.”

A take a few deep, calming breaths before I whisper, “I got a C minus.”

Connor heaves a huge sigh. “You had me concerned there, Livie! Don’t worry! I had a few mediocre grades in my first year. It’s nothing.”

I grit my teeth.
It’s not nothing!
I want to scream. It’s my first bad grade. Ever. And it’s in one of my best subjects! By the tightness in my chest, I’m beginning to suspect that I’m having a mild coronary at the age of eighteen.

“You’ll do better next time, Livie. You’re smart.”

Sucking my bottom lip, I nod into the phone. “Yeah, okay.”

“Feel better?”

No
. “Sure. Thanks, Connor.”

“Okay, good.” The phone muffles and I hear Connor shouting to someone on his end. “Need a ride? Yeah . . .” Coming back to me, he says, “I’ve got to go. We have an extra practice today. Coach threatened anyone who’s late with a ten-mile run in the rain.”

“Okay.”

“Talk to you later, Liv.” The phone clicks.

I do not feel better. Not at all. In fact, I somehow feel worse.

I head back to my dorm room with my head down, fighting the tears as the lump in my throat grows. Connor has that automatic confidence in me—like everyone else does. Doesn’t he understand that this almost-D is a big deal for me? What if I
can’t
do better? What if this is the beginning of the end?

By the time I make it to my room, I don’t care who sees my tearstained face. I know I could call Dr. Stayner, but he’ll make this about my parents and I don’t want to hear his autopilot theories today. I should call Kacey, but . . . I can’t. After all she did to help get me here, I don’t want to disappoint her.

So I rely on the only thing that I can right now—Reagan’s fresh tub of Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Therapy ice cream in the freezer compartment of our mini fridge. My pity party is complete once I change into my pajamas, pull my hair back, and crawl under my covers to stare at the wretched paper lying on the floor. I consider setting it on fire, but I’ve heard that the smoke alarms are super-sensitive.

There are two more tubs waiting for me when this is done. I’ve decided I’m going to eat myself to death. I’m halfway through the first tub within five minutes—Reagan’s going to kill me—when someone knocks on my door.

I ignore it. Anyone I might want to talk to is at rowing practice. I almost shout, “Go away!” but then the person will know I’m here. So I keep quiet by licking the tablespoon in my hand. The knocking doesn’t stop, though. It keeps going and going and going until I’m sure that Dr. Stayner is outside, delivering on his committal promise early.

With a groan, I roll out of bed and stagger over, spoon in mouth and tub in hand, to throw the door open.

It’s Ashton.

My mouth falls opens and my spoon flies out. He’s got fast reflexes, though, and manages to catch it before it hits the ground.

“What are you doing here?” I note his track pants and shirt. He’s supposed to be at practice.

Stepping around me and into my room, he murmurs with a meaningful look at the tub in my hand, “Keeping you from gaining your
frosh fifteen
.”

I close the door behind me. “Don’t you have practice?”

“Yeah. What are you doing?”

Dragging my feet back toward my bed, I mumble, “I’m eating ice cream in my pajamas in bed. In the dark. Clearly.”

Ashton walks over to turn a small desk lamp on, casting a soft, cozy glow to the room. “Connor said you were freaking out about your midterm?”

His words bring me back to reality and my bottom lip begins to wobble. I can’t even bring myself to say it. So I simply point at the thing on the floor and let the hideous letter speak for itself.

He leans down to pick it up and my breath hitches, staring blatantly at his ass. I don’t care if he catches me doing it. I may as well add “pervert” underneath “failure” on the list of things that define me.

“Shit, I thought you were supposed to be some super-genius, Irish.”

That does it. The tears start streaming down my cheeks in earnest and I can’t control them.

“Oh, God. Livie, I’m kidding! Jeez!” Tucking the paper under his arm, two large hands reach up to grab my chin, both thumbs working to gently brush the tears away. “You really do cry a lot.”

“You should go,” I sob, knowing I’m about to break into ugly-cry mode and I’d rather be buried alive than let Ashton see that.

“Whoa!” Two viselike grips settle on my shoulders. “Hold it. I’m not missing practice so you can kick me out. Come here.” He pries the tub of ice cream out of my hand and places it on the dresser. With his hands on my waist, he lifts me into my top bunk. “Get comfortable,” he says as he grabs the tub and climbs up the ladder.

“I don’t think this will hold both of us,” I mumble between blubbers as he crawls in next to me, forcing me closer to the wall.

“You’d be surprised what these bunks will hold.” The secretive smile tells me that I don’t want the details. So I stay quiet while he pulls the covers up over both of us, adjusts all the pillows so they’re under him, and then forces his arm under my head so that I’m tucked in against his side with my head resting on his chest.

He doesn’t say a word. He simply lies there quietly, his fingers drawing lazy circles along my back while he gives me a chance to calm down. I close my eyes and listen to the rhythm of his heart—slow and steady and therapeutic.

“I’ve never had a C minus before. I’ve never had anything but an A.”

“Never?”

“Never. Not one.”

“Your sister was right. You are too fucking perfect.” I tense at the words. “I’m kidding, Irish.” He sighs. “I know you don’t believe me but you don’t have to be perfect. No one’s perfect.”

“I’m not, I’m trying to be . . . remarkable,” I hear myself murmur.

“What?”

I sigh. “Nothing. Just . . .”
Something my dad used to say
. “What if it doesn’t stop here? What if I get bad grade after bad grade? What if I can’t get into med school? What will I do then? Who will I be?” I’m starting to get frantic again.

“You’ll still be you. And trust me, you’ll always be remarkable. Relax.”

“I can’t!” I burrow my face against his chest. “Have you ever failed anything?”

“No, but that’s because I’m brilliant, remember?” His arm squeezes around me to tell me that he’s teasing. “I’ve had a couple of Cs. One D. Bell curves can be a bitch.” He scoops a spoonful of melting ice cream out and slides it into his mouth. “Have you gotten any other tests back yet?”

I shake my head against his chest in response.

“How are you feeling about them?”

“Before today, I was a little worried. Now?” My hand finds its way up to wrap around his shoulder, wanting to be closer to him, to sop up this sense of security he’s offering me, if only temporarily. “Terrible. Awful. If I did this bad on my best subject, then I definitely failed English.”

“Well . . .” Another spoonful goes into his mouth. “Did you do something different preparing for these than in the past? Did you study?”

“Of course I studied,” I snap.

“Easy.” I hear his hard swallow. “Were you . . . distracted?”

I close my eyes and whisper, “Yes.”

There’s a long pause before he asks, “By what?”

You
. I can’t say that. It’s not Ashton’s fault that my hormones and my heart are wreaking havoc on my brain. “Lots of things.” My hand absently shifts down to his chest to settle where the tattoo is. Where the scar is.

Ashton’s muscles against my cheek automatically tense. “I told you, I wanted you to forget about that.” For a long time, I hear nothing but his heartbeat as my fingers first draw, then rub that spot on his chest, memorizing the ridge. It’s enough to lull me into an almost-sleep.

“Dana’s dad is a significant client of my father’s, and keeping her happy keeps her dad happy.” My hand falters for a second at the sound of her name, as guilt slams into my gut. But I force it back in motion as I pace my breathing. “If her dad is happy, then that makes
him
happy. And if he’s happy . . .” He says that as if it makes complete sense. All it tells me is that this man—his father—abused him as a small child and still has control over him as a grown man.

Keeping my hand moving slowly, I whisper, “So, you’re still with her . . . but not by choice.”

“As far as an arranged relationship goes, she’s perfect. She’s sweet and pretty. And she lives far away.” He’s numb to it. I hear it. He’s acquiescent and numb.

“Does she know about this arrangement?”

A small derisive snort escapes. “She thinks we’ll get married. And if—” He clamps his mouth shut. But I think I know where that train of thought was going. If his father wants Ashton to marry her . . . A shiver runs from the base of my neck down my back, around my ribs, into my throat, enveloping me with icy dread. God, what is he holding over Ashton’s head?

My body instinctively curls into his, pressing against him. I roll my head just enough to lay a sympathetic kiss against his chest. Or is it more of a relieved kiss? Relieved that I’m not wrecking a happy home because it’s all a sham?

“Can’t you get away from him?”

“Eventually. It could be months, years. I won’t know until I know. I was managing okay, though.” He pauses. “And then the most beautiful girl on this planet punched me in the jaw.”

A small half-giggle slips out. “You deserved that, Jell-O thief.”

The sound of his chuckle vibrates through my body. “I’ve never had a girl tremble like that for me before while fully dressed, Irish.”

“Shut up and give me that ice cream.” I lift my body up and reach for the spoon, but his long arm span makes it impossible to reach.

“I think you’ve done enough damage to yourself for one night.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. Why are you here and not at practice again?”

“Because I knew there’d be a hot chick with a terrific rack and chocolate ice cream smeared all over her face here.”

I freeze. My eyes drop to my shirt. My threadbare white cotton pajama top does nothing to hide the fact that I’m not wearing a bra. And my face? Based on the side of Ashton’s shirt, I’d say he’s telling the truth. “How bad is it?”

“You know how clowns have lipstick around the outside of their lips . . .”

Ohmigod!
I jab my palm into his solar plexus as I move to get up.

His hands around my biceps stop me. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“To wash my face!”

In a split second, Ashton has me lying on my back again with no effort, my wrists pinned beneath his hands and his weight. “Let me help you with that.” He leans down and lets the tip of his tongue run leisurely around the outside of my mouth, beginning at the top, going from left to right, and then the bottom, from left to right, gently lapping up ice cream as he goes.

If there’s such thing as a virgin slut, I believe I fit the description.

How did I get myself into this again?
I close my eyes, the urge to both giggle and scream at the top of my lungs overpowering. I woke up this morning, as I have every other morning since I last saw Ashton, telling myself to let go, to stop thinking about him and stay on the course that I’ve set out on. The slow-and-easy Connor course.

How, then, do I end up in my bed, struggling not to pant while Ashton licks chocolate ice cream off my face, while I try my own Jedi mind tricks to get a repeat of our night in the car? I haven’t said a word to stop him and I could. I could tell him to stop. I could call him a male whore. I could tell him that he’s making
me
feel like a whore.

But I don’t do any of that because I don’t want him to stop.

I let out a tiny whimper as he pulls back slightly. “It’s almost better,” he murmurs, his breathing shallow. He moves on to my lips, running his tongue along my top lip from left to right, followed by my bottom lip, left to right. I can’t help my mouth parting open for him. I can’t stop my tongue from automatically sliding out, reaching for him.

That’s when he pulls back and looks at me with those sad eyes.

I think I know the answer but I want to hear him say it, so I ask, “Why did you come? The truth.”

He swallows. “Because I couldn’t stand knowing that you were upset. But . . .” I watch as his eyes close and his head bobs forward. “I can’t play this game with you, Irish. I’m going to hurt you.”

His light stubble grazes against my palm as I lift his chin up so I can meet his eyes again.

And I ignore.

I ignore his words. I ignore the guilt in my stomach and the screams in my head. I ignore the internal battle I can see going on inside him. I want to forget all the uncertainties growing in my life and make him forget dark closets and tape and belts and his silent prison.