One Tiny Lie: A Novel (13 page)

I chew the inside of my mouth, thinking. What else do I say? Stop looking at me like that? Stop touching me like that? Stop being so sexy? No . . . if I’m being honest, those things aren’t bothering me right now. Probably because I’m drunk.

“Of course, we could go back to your room and—”

“Ashton!” I smack his chest hard. “Stop crossing the line!”

“We’ve already crossed that line.” His arms suddenly surround and crush me against him, until I can feel every part of him. For just a second, my body responds of its own accord, drawn by the electricity surging through to the very ends of my nerves.

Finally my brain manages to break the magnetic pull. I pinch a muscle in his shoulder hard enough that he flinches as he releases his grip.

He’s not ready to let me go just yet, though, his hands settling on my hips again. “Feisty. Just how I like you, Irish. And I’m kidding.”

“No, you’re not. I
felt
it.” I tilt my head and cock one eyebrow to give him a knowing stare.

That only makes him laugh. “I can’t help that, Irish. You bring out the best in me.”

“
That
defines you?”

“Some would say . . .”

“Is that why you . . . with so many women?”

An amused smirk touches his lips. “What is it you can’t say, sweet little Irish? Is that why I fuck so many women?”

I wait for the answer, curious as to what he’s going to give.

The strangest look passes over his face. “It’s an escape for me. Helps me forget when I want to forget . . . things.” With a smile that doesn’t touch his eyes, he adds, “You think you have me all figured out.”

“If pompous, philandering, narcissistic ass is what I’m thinking, then . . . yeah.” I need to stop drinking. Loose lips syndrome has officially taken over. Next, I’ll bring up my dirty dream.

He nods slowly. “If I don’t mess around, would that make you feel better?”

“Well, it’d certainly make your girlfriend feel better,” I mutter.

“What if I didn’t have a girlfriend?”

I don’t notice that my feet stop moving until his do as well. “You . . . broke up with Dana?”

“What if I said that I did? Would it matter to you?”

Not trusting my voice, I simply shake my head. No, in my head I know it wouldn’t matter because he’s still all wrong.

“Not at all?” His eyes drift to my mouth as he asks in a tone so gentle, so vulnerable, so . . . hurt, almost.

My body involuntarily reacts to him, my hands curling tighter around his neck, pulling him closer to me, wanting to comfort and assure him. What exactly do I feel for him?

The slow song has ended and moved on to a high-tempo rock song, but we’re still standing chest to chest.

I know I shouldn’t ask, but I do it anyway. “What you said in that note. Why?”

He looks away for a moment and I watch his jaw clench. When he meets my eyes, there’s resignation there. “Because you’re not a one-night girl, Irish.” Leaning in to place a kiss on my jawline, he whispers, “You’re my forever girl.”

His hands slip away from me and he turns. With my heart pounding in my throat, I stand there and watch as he calmly walks to the table to grab his jacket.

And then he walks out the door.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Attraction

You’re my forever girl.

I can’t shake his words. Since the moment they escaped those perfect lips of his, they’ve hung over me. They followed me all the way home in a drunken stupor, they crawled into bed with me, and they lingered there all night to greet me the moment my eyes opened in the morning.

Moreover, I can’t shake the way I’ve felt since he said them. Or even the way he made me feel the entire night. I can’t articulate what that feeling is; I just know that it wasn’t there before. And it’s still here now, even though I’m sober.

I’m attracted to Ashton Henley.
There
. I’ve admitted it. Not to him or Reagan or anyone else, but I may as well admit it to myself and learn to deal with it. I’m attracted to my drunken one-night stand, who also happens to be an unavailable whore and my kind-of boyfriend’s roommate and best friend.
Wait
. Is he available? He never answered my question. But I guess a whore is always available, so it’s a moot point.

Lying here, staring up at my ceiling, I have sorted out one thing, though. My body is staging a mutiny over my mind and my heart, and consuming alcohol is like handing it a set of knives.

Reagan’s moans interrupt my silent berating. “Jack bad . . .” As usual, she didn’t pace herself, matching Grant drink for drink. Grant, who has at least a hundred pounds on her. “I feel like a horse’s ass. I’m never drinking again.”

“Didn’t you say that last time?” I remind her wryly.

“Hush now. Be a good roomie and support my self-deception.”

I don’t feel much better, truth be told. “Alcohol really is the devil, isn’t it?” My fanatical Aunt Darla may not be so crazy after all.

“And yet it makes the nights so much fun.”

“We don’t need alcohol to have fun, Reagan.”

“You sound like an after-school special.”

I groan. “Come on. We should probably get to class.”

“Uh . . . which one?”

Rolling my head to the side, I can see that the red digital clock on the dresser reads one p.m. “Shit!”

“Still angry with me, Livie?” Dr. Stayner asks in that smooth, unperturbed way of his.

I kick a loose stone as I make my way to my train. “I’m not sure yet. Maybe.” That’s a lie. I know that I’m not. But that doesn’t mean that I won’t be again by the time I hang up the phone.

“You never could hold a grudge . . .” Kacey was right. He can read minds. “How are you?”

“I skipped class yesterday,” I admit, adding dryly, “Doesn’t sound like part of my autopilot master plan, does it?”

“Hmm . . . interesting.”

“Well.” I roll my eyes and confess, “not really. I slept in. It wasn’t intentional.”

He chuckles. “And how do you feel, now that it happened?”

I frown. “Strangely, okay.” Twenty-four hours after a mini meltdown—one where I texted my lab partner in a panic and he assured me at least five times that the prof didn’t notice that I was missing and that I could borrow his notes—I’m oddly unbothered.

“You mean, like missing a class is not the end of the world?” There’s a soft chuckle again.

I smile into the phone, defeated by his ease. “Maybe not.”

“Good, Livie. I’m glad that you will survive this heinous offense. And how was your first day of volunteering at the hospital?” I catch the shift in his inflection. I recognize it well. It’s the one where he already knows the answer but is asking me anyway.

“Livie? You there?”

“It was good. The kids are sweet. Thanks for setting it up.”

“Of course, Livie. I’m a firm believer in gaining experience where you can.”

“Even if I don’t belong there?” I retort, my words laced with bitterness.

“I never said that, Livie, and you know that.”

There’s a long pause and then I blurt out, “It was hard.” He waits silently for me to elaborate. “It was harder than I thought it would be.”

He seems to know exactly what I mean without me saying it. “Yes, Livie. It’s hard for grumpy old men like me to walk those halls. I knew it would be especially tough on you, given your nurturing spirit.”

“It will get better, though, won’t it? I mean,” I say as I dodge a woman who’s stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, looking confused, “I won’t feel so . . . sad every day that I’m there, will I? I’ll get used to it?”

“Maybe not, Livie. Hopefully, yes. But if it doesn’t get easier, and if you decide that you want to head in a different path, find another way to help children, that’s okay too. You’re not failing anyone by changing your mind.”

I chew the inside of my mouth as I consider that. I have no intention of changing anything and it’s not as if he’s encouraging me to give up. I know that. It’s almost as if he’s giving me permission, if I should so choose. Which I’m not doing.

“Now tell me what’s going on with these boys who are chasing you.”

Boys? Plural?
My eyes narrow as I glance around, surveying the people in the area. “Are you following me?”

I have to wait a good ten seconds for him to stop howling with laughter before I can continue. I know what I want to ask him, but now that I’m talking to him, I feel stupid. Should I be asking the renowned PTSD therapist about something so trivial? So girly? I can hear Dr. Stayner sipping something on the other end of the phone as he waits quietly. “How do you know when a guy likes you? I mean,
really
likes you? Not just . . .” I swallow as my cheeks redden. I might start to choke on my words soon. “Not just in a physical way?”

There’s a long pause. “It’s usually by the things he does rather than the things he says. And if he does them without making a show of it, then he’s got it bad.”

You’re my forever girl.

Just words
. There, Dr. Stayner has confirmed it. I shouldn’t be hung up on what Ashton said to me while drunk because they’re just words. It doesn’t mean there’s anything there aside from a case of raging hormones. I feel my heart sink a little with that realization. But at least it’s an answer and not the unknown.

I should stick with Connor. He’s what feels right.

“Thanks, Dr. Stayner.”

“Is this about that Irish fellow you met?”

“No . . .” I heave a sigh. “Ashton.”

“Ah, the Jell-O thief.”

“Yeah. He also happens to be Connor’s best friend and roommate.” And he may or may not have a girlfriend, but I leave that part out. It’s already complicated.

“Well, that’s quite the pickle you’re in, Livie.”

My only response is a grunt of agreement.

“How would you feel if this Ashton fellow was interested? More than physically, I mean.”

I open my mouth, but I realize I don’t have an answer aside from, “I don’t know.” And I don’t, truthfully. Because it doesn’t matter. Connor is perfect and easy. Ashton is far from perfect. I know now what Storm and Kacey mean when they call someone “sex on a stick.” That’s what Ashton is. He’s not a forever guy. Connor is a forever guy. Well, I think he’s a forever guy. It’s just too soon to tell.

“Have you at least admitted to yourself that you’re attracted to Ashton?”

Dammit!
If I answer him truthfully, it makes it that much harder to deny. It makes it more real. “Yes,” I finally grumble reluctantly.
Yes, I’m attracted to my kind-of boyfriend’s man-whore best friend. I’m even having dirty dreams about him.

“Good. Glad that’s out of the way. I feared it would take months before you stopped being so stubborn.”

I roll my eyes at the know-it-all doctor.

“You know what I would do in the meantime?”

My mouth twists, curious. “What?”

“I’d wear my hair in pigtails.”

At least five seconds pass before I can get around my shock to ask,
“What?”

“Boys with crushes on girls can’t control themselves around pigtails.”

Great
. Now I’m being mocked by a psychiatrist.
My
psychiatrist. I see the station up ahead and, checking my watch, I know that the train will arrive shortly. The one that takes me to Children’s Hospital so I can focus on things that matter. Shaking my head, I say, “Thanks for listening, Dr. Stayner.”

“Call me anytime, Livie. Seriously.”

I hang up, not sure if I feel better or worse.

“Now can you tell us apart?” Eric stands side by side next to a paler-looking Derek. He’s rubbing his smooth scalp. Both of them are grinning.

I purse my lips to keep from smiling as I pull my brows together tightly. My eyes shift from one to the other and back again, scratching my chin as if I’m truly confused. “Derek?” I point to Eric.

“Ha, ha!” Eric’s scrawny arms shoot out in a funny little dance. “Nope! I’m Eric. We win!”

Tilting my head back, I smack my forehead. “I’ll never get you two right!”

“We shaved my head this morning,” Eric explains as he skips over to me. “It’s really smooth. Touch it.”

I oblige, running my fingers over the faint hairline that I can still see. “Smooth,” I agree.

He scrunches his nose. “It feels weird. But it’ll grow back, like Derek’s always does.”

Like Derek’s always does
. My stomach muscle spasms for just a second. How many rounds of treatment has that poor kid endured? “It definitely will, Eric,” I say, forcing a smile as I walk over to the table and take a seat. “So what do you want to do today?”

Derek silently takes a seat beside me. By his slower movements, I can tell he doesn’t have the energy of his brother, who just started his treatments this week, according to Connie. “Draw?” he suggests.

“Sounds like a good plan. What do you want to draw?”

His forehead creases as he thinks hard. “I want to be a policeman when I grow up. They’re strong and they can save people. Can I draw that?”

With a deep inhale, I smile. “I think that’s a great idea.”

As the boys get to work, I scan the playroom. There are several other kids here today, including a little girl in an entirely pink ensemble—pink pajamas, pink fuzzy slippers, pink handkerchief covering what I assume is a hairless head. She clutches a pink teddy bear under one arm. Someone—likely another volunteer—trails behind her as she floats from toy to toy, casting furtive glances over in our direction.

“Hi, Lola!” Eric calls out and then, leaning in to me, whispers, “She’s almost four. She’s okay. For a girl.”

“Well, then, we should invite her to sit down with us,” I say, raising an eyebrow and waiting.

Eric’s eyes widen when he clues in that I’m suggesting he do the asking. A shy smile curves his mouth as he watches her out of the corner of his eye.

It’s his brother, though, who turns around and says in that soft, raspy voice, “Do you want to sit with us, Lola?”

Eric scrambles to take the seat next to me, edging in a little closer, watching Lola like a hawk as she gingerly picks her way to the empty seat between him and Derek. “Feel my head, Lola,” he says, leaning forward to point his smooth scalp in her face.

Giggling, she shakes her head and folds her hands under her arms, recoiling slightly.

Derek doesn’t find it amusing, though, and glowers at his brother. “Stop telling people to touch your head.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s weird.” Derek’s eyes flicker over to Lola and the glower vanishes instantly. “Right, Lola?”

She just shrugs, her eyes flickering back and forth behind the two brothers, not saying anything.

Giving up on his attempt to impress Lola with his smooth scalp, Eric occupies himself with his picture, drawing a tank. His brother, though, slides a sheet forward and, holding out his box of crayons, offers, “Here, do you want to draw a picture with me?”

And that’s when it hits me. Derek has a crush on little Lola. I share a look with the middle-aged volunteer who trailed her here. She winks, confirming it.

The boys and Lola color for an hour straight, using up a stack of paper as they draw themselves as everything from a policeman to a werewolf to a scuba-diver to a rock star and the entire time, I can’t take my eyes off Derek as he dotes on Lola, helping her hold her crayon properly, drawing parts of her picture that are harder for a four-year-old than an almost-six-year-old.

I watch while my heart melts and aches at the same time.