One Tiny Lie: A Novel (15 page)

Pushing the heavy door open for me to pass, he gestures dramatically toward the interior. “Welcome to
the best
eating club!” Sounds of laughter and music hit me immediately.

“I imagine you all say that about your respective clubs,” I tease, taking in the floor-to-ceiling dark wood paneling and antique furniture as we move through. Last Saturday, after Robert had confirmed that my dad was a member here, Connor promised to give me a tour. My nerves have been swirling ever since. “It’s nice.” I inhale deeply, as if the act will somehow help me sense Miles Cleary’s presence lingering within the walls.

“You haven’t seen anything yet.” Connor smiles and holds a muscular arm out. “Tour guide at your service.”

Connor shows me around the various floors of the newly expanded and renovated club, highlighting the stunning dining hall, a library, and an upstairs lounge. He saves the basement for last—an open, dimly lit garagelike space called “the taproom.”

“It’s not too bad in here, now,” Connor says, clasping my hand as we take the stairs down. “By midnight, we won’t be able to move. This is the biggest and best taproom at Princeton.” He grins, adding, “And I’m
not
just saying that because I’m a member.”

“Not doubting you,” I murmur as I take in the scene. Plenty of laughing, smiling students—both male and female—mill around with beer in hand. A few are carrying plastic swords and masquerade ball masks. Connor says they were likely at a theme party elsewhere earlier.

The only furniture I can see are a few large green-and-white wooden tables with the eating club’s logo. Somehow, I’m not surprised to find Ty at one, yelling to someone as he pours beer from a pitcher into plastic cups laid out in two pyramid shapes on opposite ends of the table.

“Hey, buddy!” Ty slaps Connor on the back with his free hand. Dipping his head toward me, he bellows in his fake Scottish accent, “Irish!” making me giggle. There’s just something about Ty that’s so easy. He’s crass, loud, and sometimes downright perverted, but you can’t help but like him. I can picture him getting along well with Kacey. Maybe that’s why I feel so comfortable around him. In some strange, kilt-flashing way, Ty reminds me of home.

Connor gives Ty’s shoulders a tight squeeze. “We all come here to eat most days but Ty practically lives here. He’s part of the officer corps. Probably why this place is so wild. I don’t know how he passes a single class.”

Jutting his chin toward a textbook that’s laid out open on a chair nearby, Ty’s face is a mask of confusion. “I don’t know what you mean. I get some of my best work done here.” Tossing the empty pitcher to the ground, Ty holds up two Ping-Pong balls. “Ready?”

Connor shrugs, looking to me. “You in?”

Scanning the table again and the balls, I ask, “What is this . . . beer pong?”

Ty bangs his pint glass down to announce with a grin full of mischief, “A Beirut virgin! I love it!” He jabs a pointed finger at me. “Never call this beer pong. And no wussing out or I’ll kick that beautiful butt through the door!”

“Why do I have the feeling that I’m screwed,” I grumble, taking in all those cups of beer. But I also know that Ty’s threats are not idle, and trying to escape will likely involve humiliation in front of the entire club.

“Crazy Scotsman,” Connor mutters under his breath, but his eyes are twinkling. Roping his arm around my waist, he starts chuckling. “Don’t worry. I’m good at this game. You’re safe with me.”

I give his forearm a light squeeze before he lets go, an ounce of relief washing over me with the reminder. I know I’m safe with Connor. If I were with Ashton, it would be a very different story. He’d probably lose just to get me plastered. Either way, my gulps will be the smallest sips known to mankind.

“What is this, two-on-two? Who’s your partner, Ty?” Connor asks.

“Who do you think?” comes the giddy response a second before a wagging honey-blond ponytail and a grin appears.

“Reagan! Thank God. Save me from this.”

“No can do, roomie.” She pats my back with a lazy hand while accepting a full pint from Grant with the other, shooting him a playful wink. I’m thrilled to see Reagan here tonight. Since the conversation at her parents’ house, she’s been unusually quiet around me. She may be mad at me for not mentioning my parents. I can’t tell and she hasn’t brought it up. But tonight she seems normal, and I’m glad.

Everyone’s here except . . . Tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, I discreetly survey the room, looking for that tall, dark form.

“He has a big test tomorrow,” Reagan murmurs with a knowing smirk. “He’s not coming.”

“Oh.” I leave it at that, though I can’t ignore the disappointment creeping through me. And then I silently scold myself. I’m here with Connor.
Connor. Connor
. How many times do I have to repeat that name before it sticks?

“Okay, Gidget!” Ty calls out. “Get over here. Connor and the virgin are goin’
down
tonight!”

My face flushes as heads turn in my direction. “I’ve never played this game before!” I clarify in a loud voice, though Ty’s not wrong in any regard.

“Heads, we start,” Ty announces as a coin flies up into the air. They win the toss and a crowd quickly forms. Apparently, Beirut is a spectator sport. I soon find out it’s because you get to watch people get really drunk. Really fast.

Connor explains the basic rules—if your opponents sink a ball or you completely miss the table with your ball, you drink. Well, there are two problems with these rules for me. One: our opponents are outstandingly good, and two: I am outstandingly bad.

Even with Connor’s talent at sinking balls, it’s not long before Ty and Reagan are in the lead. And when alcohol-induced relaxation spreads through my limbs, my aim gets even worse, to the point that people step away from the table when it’s my turn, to avoid a ball to the groin.

“You really aren’t getting better at this with practice, are you?” Connor teases, pinching my waist.

I stick my tongue out in response, slyly studying Connor’s ripped arms and perfectly shaped backside in a rare pair of jeans as he assesses the table, a look of concentration on his face. Almost brooding, but not quite. It’s attractive. Enough so that I’m annoyed when it’s interrupted momentarily by a cute blond placing her arm on his bicep. “Hey, Connor.” Her smile is unmistakably flirtatious.

“Hey, Julia.” He flashes those winning dimples at her but then he’s immediately back to the game, studying the shot, obviously disinterested in her. Obvious enough for me and certainly for Julia, who appears crestfallen.

By the time we reach the last cup—Ty and Reagan winning—I’ve given up on following along. I just drink when Grant—the self-appointed referee—yells the order at me.

Connor lays a kiss on my cheek and murmurs, “You’re a trooper. I think you need to get outside for some air. Come on.” With an arm wrapped around my waist, partly for affection but also for support, I’m sure, Connor leads me up the stairs and through an exit to a quiet space.

“This is nice.” I inhale the cool, crisp air.

“Yeah, it’s getting hot and sweaty down there,” Connor murmurs, his hand pushing my hair off my face. “You having fun?”

I’m sure my grin speaks for itself but I answer anyway. “Yes, this is a lot of fun, Connor. Thanks for having me here.”

Planting a kiss on my forehead first, Connor then turns to lean against the wall next to me. “Of course. I’ve been dying to bring you. Especially now that we know your dad was a member.”

I smile wistfully as I lean my head back. “Was your dad a member?”

“Nah, he was part of Cap. Another big one.”

“Didn’t he want you to join that one?”

Slipping his fingers in between mine, Connor says, “He’s just happy that I ended up at Princeton.”

“Yeah.”
Just like I’m sure my dad would be . . .

Connor appears deep in thought. “You know, I never appreciated how good I had it with my dad growing up until these last few years.” There’s a long pause and then he adds, “Until I met Ashton.”

I had been so distracted by Beirut and the girl hitting on Connor that I’d actually managed to stop thinking about Ashton for a while. Now he’s back and I feel uneasy. “What do you mean?”

Connor sighs, his face twisting as if he’s deciding how to answer. “I’ve been around Ash when his dad comes to see a race. He’s a different person. I don’t know how to explain it. The relationship is just . . . strained. That’s the impression I get, anyway.”

Curiosity gets the better of me. “Well, haven’t you asked him?”

A snort answers my question before his words do. “We’re guys, Livie. We don’t talk about feelings. Ashton’s . . . Ashton. I know you think he’s a dick, but he’s a good guy when he wants to be. He’s had my back more times than I care to admit. You remember that story about me in the rowing boat? You know . . .”

“Ass up? Yes, I remember.” I giggle.

Dropping his head with a sheepish grin, Connor admits, “I think Coach would have kicked me off the team if it hadn’t been for Ashton. I don’t know what he said or did, but he bought my pardon somehow. I know I joke about Ash being a lousy captain but he’s actually a good one. A great one. The best we’ve had in my three years here. All the guys respect him. And it’s not just because he gets more action than all of us combined.”

That earns my eye roll. I’m hating the idea of Ashton with anyone—girlfriend or otherwise—more each day, and that comment created a stomach-wrenching visual.

“Anyways, sorry for bringing Ashton up. I love the guy but I don’t want to talk about him. Let’s talk about . . .” He rolls around to grasp my waist with his hands. Leaning down, he slides his tongue into my mouth with a kiss that lasts way longer than anything we’ve ever done before. I find I don’t mind it, though. I actually enjoy it, allowing my hands to rest against his solid chest. God, Connor really does have a nice body and, clearly, other girls have noticed. Why are my hormones only beginning to appreciate this tonight?

It’s probably the beer.

Or maybe they’re finally starting to accept that Connor could be
very
right
for me.

“I did warn you,” I remind her as I stretch my calf muscles.

“You can’t be that bad.”

I make sure she sees my grimace in response. Outside of required track and field at school, and that time Dr. Stayner had me chasing live chickens at a farm, I’ve avoided all forms of running. I don’t find it enjoyable and I usually manage to trip at least once while doing it.

“Come on!” Reagan finally squeals, jumping up and down with impatience.

“Okay, okay.” I yank my hair back into a high ponytail and stand, stretching my arms over my head once more before I start following her down the street. It’s a cool, gray day with off-and-on drizzle, another strike against this running idea. Reagan swears that the local forecast promised sunshine within the hour. I think she’s lying to me but I don’t argue. Things have still been kind of strange between us since her dad’s party. That’s why, when she asked me to go running with her today, I immediately agreed, slick roads and all.

“If we take this all the way to the end and turn back, that’s two miles. Can you handle that?” Reagan asks, adding, “We can stop and walk if you flake out.”

“Flakes are good at walking,” I say with a grin.

She sniffs her displeasure. “Yeah, well, you probably lose weight when you sneeze.”

It takes a few minutes but soon we manage a good side-by-side pace, where my long, slow strides match her short, quick legs well. That’s when she bursts. “Why didn’t you tell me about your parents?” I can’t tell if she’s angry. I’ve never seen Reagan angry. But I can tell by the way she bites her bottom lip and furrows her brow that she’s definitely hurt.

I don’t know what else to say except, “It just never came up. I swear. That’s the only reason. I’m sorry.”

She’s silent for a moment. “Is it because you don’t like talking about it?”

I shrug. “No. I mean, it’s not like I avoid talking about it.” Not like my sister, who shoved everything into a tomb with a slow-burning stick of dynamite. Since the morning I woke up to find Aunt Darla sitting by my bed with puffy eyes and a Bible in her hand, I’ve just accepted it. I had to. My sister was barely alive and I needed to focus on her and on keeping
us
going. And so, at eleven years old and still half-dead from a flu that saved me from the car accident in the first place, I got out of bed and showered. I picked up the phone to notify my school, my parents’ schools. I walked next door to tell our neighbors. I helped Aunt Darla pack up our things to move. I helped fill out insurance paperwork. I made sure I was enrolled in the new school right away. I made sure everyone who needed to know knew that my parents were gone.

We run in silence for a few moments before Reagan says, “You know you can tell me anything you want to, right?”

I smile down at my tiny friend. “I know.” I pause. “And you know you can tell me anything, right?”

Her wide, cheery grin—with those cute dimples just under her eyes—answers for her.

I decide that this is the perfect time to divert the topic completely. “Like you can stop pretending that you and Grant aren’t together.” I manage to grab hold of Reagan’s arm just in time to keep her from diving into the pavement. When she has regained her balance, she turns to stare wide-eyed at me, her cheeks flaming. “I thought you were impervious to blushing, Reagan.”