One Tiny Lie: A Novel (28 page)

I nod slowly.
Five months
. Where will Ashton be in five months? How many women will he “forget” with in by then? And can I handle being at Princeton while he works things out? If he’s even trying to work things out. My stomach is starting to churn again.

“Livie . . .”

“Sorry.”

“I know it’s hard, but you need to focus on yourself for a little while. Get this hang-up out of your head that you”—he lifts his fingers in air quotes—“‘lied’ to your father.”

“But . . .” I avert my gaze to my freshly painted toes, care of Storm. “I know what he wanted for me and I’m going against it. How in the world would that make him
proud
of me?”

Dr. Stayner pats my shoulder. “I don’t guarantee anything, Livie. Ever. But I will guarantee that your parents would be proud of you and your sister. Beyond proud. You are both simply . . . remarkable.”

Remarkable.

“Even though I finally cracked?” I smile sadly, repeating Kacey’s words.

He starts chuckling. “You didn’t, Livie. I’d like to say that you finally came to a crossroad and just needed some guidance. You’re a smart cookie who seems to figure things out. That’s all you need sometimes—a little bit of guidance. Not like your sister. Now,
she
cracked.” He turns to mouth “wow,” and I can’t help the snort of laughter that escapes me.

“I think you are going to be just fine with time. Now is the fun part.”

I raise my brow in question.

“Figuring out
who
you want to be.”

I’m used to Dr. Stayner in small doses—one hour per week on the phone, max. So when he leaves after spending several
days
with me
,
my brain temporarily shuts down like a machine that’s overheated. We spent most of that time out on the back deck, discussing all the options I had before me for my education, for my future career aspirations, and for my social life. He never shared his opinions. He said he didn’t want to skew my own selection process. The only thing he insisted on is that I embrace ambiguity for a while, that I don’t dive into a choice for the sake of making one. He suggested that taking classes without focusing on a major right now à la Reagan isn’t a bad idea. Of course, he had to acknowledge that the longer I waffled, the less likely the “stay at Princeton” option would apply, because I’d fail the semester.

I think my biggest fear about going back to Princeton isn’t Princeton itself—I’ve accepted that the school just isn’t for me. And I’ve already called the hospital to inform them that I’m quitting my volunteer position.

My biggest fear is facing Ashton again and my weakness around him. A simple look or touch could pull me back to him and that’s not good for either of us. I’ve walked away once. Will the second time be harder or easier? Or impossible . . .

My life is full of difficult choices and one that’s easy—Ashton.

And he’s the one choice that I can’t have.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Choices

I swear Reagan was waiting at the door like an eager pet for the sound of the unlocking mechanism, because the second I step through on Friday night, she barrels into me. “I missed you so much!”

“It’s only been two weeks, Reagan,” I say with a chuckle, tossing my purse on the desk. I decided to come back to Princeton after all. Not because I particularly feel like this is the place for me, but because I do know that I want an education, and until they either kick me out or I transfer to Miami—which I looked into while back at home—I may as well be here.

Tucking my hair back behind my ear, I ask casually, “So how has everything been?”

Her nose scrunches up. “Same. Don’t know. Ashton’s staying at my parents’ right now and I can’t get anything out of my dad. Grant’s been staying here a lot because the house isn’t much fun right now. Connor is hurt. But he’ll be fine, Livie. Seriously. He just needs to get laid.” She flops down onto her bed in typical Reagan fashion—dramatically. “Oh, and Ty sprained his ankle. Dumbass.”

I chuckle, but it doesn’t loosen the angst inside.

“What’s your plan for this weekend?” She hesitates. “Are you going to see him?”

I know who “him” is and it’s not Connor. I shake my head. No . . . We need more than two weeks to sort this mess out. It’s too new. Too fresh. Too painful to deal with. “Trying to catch up, if there’s any hope.” I missed a week’s worth of classes, including a test. I slowly climb up the rungs to my bed, pushing out all the memories. “And I’m going to visit the boys at the hospital.” I have to say goodbye properly, for my own closure.

I get a text from Dr. Stayner as I’m taking the train in to the hospital. It has an address, along with the words:

One more task, since you owe me for not completing the last one. Be there at two p.m.

I don’t even question him anymore. The man’s brilliant. I simply respond with:

Okay.

“Hi, Livie.” Gale’s beaming smile greets me at the front desk. When Kacey told Dr. Stayner that I was back in Miami, he contacted the hospital to let them know, in vague terms, what was happening. When I made the final decision that I would not be continuing on with the volunteer program, he sat with me while I called to let them know. They’ve been incredible with it all.

“The boys will be so happy to see you.”

“How are they?”

She winks. “Go see for yourself.”

Walking through the halls doesn’t make me as sick as it did before, I notice. I know it’s not because I have somehow gotten used to it. It’s because I’ve let go of the idea that this has to be my future.

The twins run to me with energy I haven’t seen in a while, clutching my legs and making me giggle.

“Come here!” Each of them grabs hold of a hand. They pull me over to the table. If they were upset that I left so abruptly two weeks ago, they aren’t showing it.

“Nurse Gale said you were gone, doing some . . . I don’t get what she said. Something about a . . .
soul
? You lost it? And you needed to go find it?” Eric ends that with a quizzical frown.

Soul searching.
I chuckle. “Yes. I was.”

“Here.” Derek pushes forward a stack of papers with drawings on them. “She told us to help you think of all the things you could be when you grow up.”

“I
told
her you wanted to be a doctor,” Eric interjects with an eye roll. “But she thought it’d be good to give you backup ideas.”

Looking at each of them in turn, at their eager little faces, I begin flipping through each sheet, evaluating all of my options.

And I’m laughing harder than I’ve laughed in a long time.

I step out of the cab in front of a large white Victorian house in Newark at exactly two p.m. By the sign out front, it appears to be a nursing home of sorts. A fairly nice one at that, I note as I enter through the front door and into a modest but charming foyer with dark mahogany floors, pastel striped wallpaper, and a floral arrangement sitting on a side table. Across from me is an unattended front desk with a notice directing visitors to a registration book. I sigh as I glance around, looking for a clue as to what I’m supposed to do next. Dr. Stayner gave me no further instruction than to go to this address. Normally he’s quite explicit with his demands.

I pull my phone out of my pocket, about to text him for guidance, when a young blond woman in baby blue nurse scrubs strolls by.

With a smile in greeting, she says, “You must be Livie.”

I nod.

“He’s waiting for you in room 305. Stairs are around the corner, to your left. Third floor and follow the signs.”

“Thanks.” So Dr. Stayner is here. Why am I not surprised? I open my mouth to ask the nurse what she knows about room 305, but she’s gone before I can utter a word.

I follow her directions, taking the staircase to the third floor, the lingering scent of industrial-grade cleaner trailing the entire way. I can’t help but notice the eerie quiet as I climb. It only amplifies the creaking steps. Aside from an occasional cough, I hear nothing. I see nothing. It’s as if the place is empty. My gut tells me it’s far from it.

Following the room numbers on the doors, I watch the progression until I reach my destination. The door is propped open.
Okay, Dr. Stayner.
What do you have for me now?
With a deep inhale, I step hesitantly around the corner, expecting to find my graying psychiatrist.

A short, narrow hallway leads into a room that I can’t see fully from the doorway. All I can see is the corner ahead and a dark-haired, tanned, beautiful man hunched over in a chair—his elbows on his knees, his hands folded and pressed to his mouth as if he’s waiting with trepidation.

My breath hitches.

Ashton is on his feet immediately. His lips part as he stares at me, as if he wants to speak but doesn’t know where to begin. “Livie,” he finally manages, and then clears his throat. He’s never called me Livie before.
Never.
I don’t know how that makes me feel.

I’m too shocked to respond. I hadn’t expected to see him today. I hadn’t prepared myself.

I watch with wide eyes as Ashton takes five quick strides over and seizes my hand, his worried brown eyes locked on mine, a slight tremble in his grip. “Please don’t run,” he whispers, adding more quietly, more gruffly, “and
please
don’t hate me.”

That snaps me out of my initial shock but it sends me into another one. Did he honestly think I’d run from him the second I saw him? And how on earth could Ashton ever think that I’d
hate
him?

Whatever is going on, Ashton clearly doesn’t comprehend the depth of my feeling for him. Yes, I left two weeks ago. It was something I had to do. For me. But I’m here now and I don’t ever
want
to run or walk or
anything
away from Ashton again.

I just pray to God that I won’t
have
to.

What the hell is that damn psychiatrist of mine up to now?

Stepping backward, Ashton silently leads me farther into the room until I can see the entire space. It’s quaint, simple—with pale yellow paper adorning the walls, crown molding lining the ceiling, and several vine plants suspended before a bay window, soaking up the mid-afternoon sunshine. All of those details vanish, though, as my eyes land on the woman lying in the hospital bed.

A woman with salt-and-pepper hair and a faintly wrinkled face that surely would have been described as beautiful at one time, especially with those full lips. Lips as full as Ashton’s.

And it all just . . . clicks.

“This is your mother,” I whisper. It’s not a question because I know the answer with certainty. I just don’t know the mountain of “whys” behind it.

Ashton’s hand never slips from mine, his grip never weakens. “Yes.”

“She’s not dead.”

“No, she’s not.” There’s a long pause. “But she
is
gone.”

I appraise Ashton’s solemn expression for a moment before turning back to the woman. I don’t mean to stare, but I do anyway.

Her eyes flicker from my face to Ashton’s. “Who . . .” she begins to say, and I can tell she’s struggling to form her words, her mouth working the shapes but unable to make the sounds come out. And in her eyes . . . I see nothing but confusion.

“It’s Ashton, Mom. This is Livie. I told you about her. We call her Irish.”

The woman’s gaze roams Ashton’s face and then drops down as if to search her memory.

“Who . . .” She tries again. I take two steps forward, as far as Ashton’s death grip on my hand will allow me. It’s close enough to catch the faint smell of urine that I recognize from the seniors homes with patients who have lost all bladder control.

As if giving up on figuring either of us out, the woman’s head rolls to the side and she simply stares out the window.

“Let’s get some air,” Ashton whispers, pulling me with him as he walks to a little radio on the side table. He turns on an Etta James disc and adjusts the volume up a bit. I don’t say anything as he leads me out of her room, closing the door softly behind him. We head down the hallway and a different set of stairs in silence, one that leads out to the home’s backyard garden, a sizeable property with bare oak trees and small paths weaving through the flower beds, long since prepared for winter. I suspect this is a lovely respite for residents in warmer weather. Now, though, with the weak November sun and a bite in the air, I shudder.

Taking a seat on a bench, Ashton doesn’t hesitate to pull me onto his lap and wrap his arms around my body as if to shelter me from the cold. And I don’t hesitate to let him, because I crave his warmth for more than one reason. Even if I shouldn’t.

This is exactly what I was afraid of.

I don’t know what’s right anymore. All I know is that Ashton’s mother is alive and Dr. Stayner sent me here, no doubt to learn the truth. How Dr. Stayner knew . . . I’ll figure that out later.

I close my eyes and inhale, absorbing Ashton’s heavenly scent. Being so close to him after our night together is even harder than I imagined it would be. I feel as if I’m standing at the edge of a cliff and the storm of emotions threatens to push me off—pain and confusion and love and desire. I can feel that gravitational pull, that urge to curl into his body, to slide my hand over his chest, to kiss him, to make myself believe that he’s mine. He’s not mine, though. He’s not even
his
yet.

“Why, Ashton? Why lie about her death?” Why . . .
everything
?

“I didn’t lie. I just didn’t correct you when you assumed she was dead.”

The word “Why” is on my lips again, but he speaks before I can say it. “It was easier than admitting my mother doesn’t remember who I am. That every day I woke up hoping that it was the day she died so I could be free of my screwed-up life. So I could be at peace.”

I close my eyes to stave off the tears.
Peace
. Now I understand what that strange look was, the night that Ashton found out about my parents’ death. He was wishing the same for himself. Heaving a deep breath, I whisper, “You need to tell me. Everything.”

“I’m going to, Irish. Everything.” Ashton’s head tips back as he pauses to collect his thoughts. His chest pushes out against mine as he takes a deep breath. I can almost see the weight lifting off of his shoulders as he lets himself speak freely for the first time. “My mother has late-stage Alzheimer’s. She developed it very early—earlier than most.”