One Tiny Lie: A Novel (18 page)

He leans in to kiss away one tear on my cheek and then another, and another, shifting toward my mouth. I don’t know if it’s the intensity of this moment—with my heart aching for him and my body responding and my brain completely checking out—but when his lips settle at the edge of mine and he whispers, “You’re staring at me again, Irish,” I automatically turn to meet them.

He responds immediately, wasting no time closing his mouth over mine, forcing it open. I taste the salt from my tears as his tongue slides in and curls against mine. One hand comes around to grip the back of my neck as he intensifies the kiss, pushing my head back to get closer, deeper. And I let him because I want to be close to him, to help him forget. I don’t worry about how I’m doing, whether I’m doing it right. It has to be right if it feels like this.

My hand never moves from his chest, from the heart that races beneath my fingers, as this single kiss seems to go on forever, until my tears are dry and my lips are sore and I’ve memorized the heavenly taste of Ashton’s mouth.

And then he suddenly breaks free, leaving me panting for air. ”You’re shivering.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” I whisper. And I hadn’t. I still don’t.

All I notice is this pounding heart beneath my fingers and the beautiful face in front of me and the fact that I’m struggling to breathe.

Scooping me into his arms, he carries me out to his room, setting me down on his bed. With purpose, he marches over to his dresser, pushing his door shut as he passes. I don’t say anything. I don’t even look around the room. I simply stare at the definition of his back, my mind blank.

He walks over to drop a simple gray shirt and pair of sweatpants beside me. “These might fit you.”

“Thank you,” I mumble absently, my fingers running over the soft material, my mind reeling.

I can’t explain the next few moments. Maybe it’s because of what happened a month ago and what just happened in the bathroom, but when Ashton demands, “Arms up, Irish,” my body obeys like a well-trained soldier moving in slow motion. I gasp as I feel his fingertips curl under the bottom of my shirt and lift the damp material up, up . . . until it’s sliding over my head, leaving me in my pink sports bra. He doesn’t gawk at me or make some remark to make me nervous. He quietly unfolds the gray shirt next to me and pulls the collar over my head and then slides it down over my shoulders. My arms aren’t in it yet when Ashton kneels in front of me. Swallowing, I watch his face as his hands glide under the shirt to the back of my bra, deftly unhooking the clips, all while his eyes are on mine. Pulling it out to toss on the floor, he waits for me to ease into the sleeves.

“Stand,” he says softly, and again my body responds, putting one hand on his shoulder for support to protect my sprained ankle. The shirt is at least five sizes too big and it hangs halfway down my thighs. So when his hands reach up to seize the waistband of my pants and tug them down, I’m not exposed. But he’s still on his knees and his eyes are still locked on mine. They never wander. Not as my pants reach the floor. Not as his hands glide back up, gripping my thighs as they climb under my shirt to my underwear. A second gasp escapes me as his fingers hook under the elastic band. He pulls them down until they simply fall to the ground. With a sharp intake of air, he squeezes his eyes shut tightly for a moment before opening them.

“Sit,” he whispers, and I do.

He breaks his gaze just long enough to gently slip my damp clothes off around my injured ankle. Unfolding his track pants, he eases them around my ankles and pulls them up as far as he can. “Stand, Irish.” I do as asked, using him for support again as he slides them up and ties the drawstring tight. Never once touching me inappropriately.

And if he had tried, I don’t think I would have stopped him.

When he’s done, when I’m dressed and breathless and unsure of what happened but still standing there in front of him, he reaches down to take my hand. He lifts it up and places it flat over his heart, just as I had done earlier. Only he holds it there, his hand covering mine completely, trembling from cold or something else, his heart pounding too. I look up into sad, resigned eyes.

“Thank you.”

Swallowing my ball of nerves, I whisper, “For what?”

“For helping me to forget. Even for a little while.” Giving my knuckles a kiss, he adds, “This can’t work, Irish. Stick with Connor.”

My stomach drops as he releases my hand. Turning, he walks toward the bathroom, his body rigid, his head bowed forward slightly, as if in defeat.

I’m afraid if I don’t ask now, I’ll never be able to again. “What does a ‘forever girl’ mean?”

His feet falter as he reaches the doorway, one hand on the handle, the other coming up to seize the frame, the bulge in his bicep tightening. His body sways forward into the bathroom and I assume I’m not getting an answer.

“Freedom.” He shuts the door behind him.

My forever girl. My freedom
.

All I can do is grab the crutches that are laid out on the bed and hobble out of there. I need time to think, and thinking around Ashton isn’t possible.

This can’t work, Irish. Stick with Connor.

Dammit. Connor.

I forgot about him. Again
.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Just Spit It Out

“I went jogging. You know, trying out something new. Having fun.”

“Oh yeah? And did you have fun?”

“I’m on crutches, Dr. Stayner. I sprained my ankle.”

“Hmm. Well, that doesn’t sound like much fun. But neither is jogging.”

“No, it’s pretty much the opposite of fun.” Between ice packs and classes and a few awkward shower moments with Reagan, the last week and a half has been a nightmare. I missed my volunteer hours last Saturday because I was in too much pain. I would be missing this week as well if Connor hadn’t offered to drive me.

“How is everything else?”

“Confusing.”

“Which boy is confusing you?”

“Which one do you think?” I mutter as I watch for Connor’s white Audi. I told him I’d wait for him on this park bench so he could just pull up to the curb and let me hop in. I’m still so thankful that he’s taking an entire Saturday away from his schoolwork for me. I know he has a giant paper due next week.

And I don’t deserve him after what I let happen with Ashton. His best friend.

I’ve chalked it up to temporary insanity. A momentary lapse in judgment brought on by a simultaneous full-scale Ashton assault on both my heart and my libido.

Once I escaped the situation, Grant drove Reagan and me back to the dorm, where I struggled between icing my foot, pretending to study, squirming under Reagan’s penetrating stare, and setting my memories of the afternoon on repeat.

And I’ve continued doing basically that—missing some classes in the process—for the past eight days. I’ve steered clear of Ashton. He hasn’t come looking for me, which is good, because I can’t handle seeing him while I’m dealing with the overwhelming shame I feel around Connor. Connor swings by to check up on me every day, bringing me flowers and cupcakes and a “get well” bear. It’s as if he has a “how to make Livie explode with guilt after secretly making out with my best friend” list and he’s checking the boxes off one by one. Guilt that makes my teeth grit to keep from blurting out my string of indiscretions, guilt that makes me pepper him with kisses—so many kisses that my lips have started to swell.

The problem is that no amount of kisses I share with Connor can match the intensity of the one I shared with Ashton. It’s the reason that I almost came clean.

But I can’t do it. I’m too scared. I’m too weak. I’m afraid that I could be throwing away a great thing—
the
thing—for one heat-of-the-moment kiss that will never happen again anyway. Connor did say “slow and easy,” after all. That could easily be interpreted as “open.” If I say it enough times in my head, I might start to believe it.

Or I could pretend that the incident with Ashton never happened. Block it out completely.

“Care to tell me what happened?” Dr. Stayner asks casually. “No judgment here, of course.”

Sighing, I mutter, “I can’t.” I’m afraid that if I start talking, I’ll divulge Ashton’s secret. I promised him that I wouldn’t tell anyone.

“Okay . . . well, how can I help?”

“You can’t. I just need to stay away from him. I think he’s broken. Like Kacey broken.”

“I see. And you, being the person that you are, have gotten emotionally involved before you realized it.”

“I think that’s what this is . . .” When my heart aches every time I think of him, when I play out a dozen scenarios for how Ashton became the way he is, when I want to hunt his father down and scream at him? Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s what it means.

“That, coupled with your attraction to him, helps things get out of control quickly, especially if you’re carrying on this relationship with his best friend.”

I dip my head in embarrassment because, once again, my mind-reading shrink has in two sentences summed up a week of inner turmoil. “I can’t let myself get sidetracked by a hot guy and his issues. It’s too distracting. I need to just avoid him for the next . . . year.”

“That will be difficult, given that he lives with Connor.”

“Better than the alternative,” I mutter under my breath, rubbing my forehead.

“Hmm . . .” There’s a long pause, and then I hear Dr. Stayner clap his hands. He must have me on speakerphone. “That’s it! I know what your task is for this week.”

“What? No task, Dr. Stayner. You said no more. You said—”

“I lied. You will find five of Ashton’s redeeming qualities.”

“Have you not been listening to me?”

In true Dr. Stayner fashion, he ignores my question. “As part of your task, you will say what you’re thinking at all times. The truth. Don’t overanalyze, don’t choose your words. Just spit it out. And if he asks you a question, you have to answer it honestly.”

“What? No. Why?”

“Let’s call it an experiment.”

“But . . . No!” I sputter out.

“Why not?”

Because what I’m thinking about around Ashton usually involves his body parts!
“Because . . . no!”

“I expect a full report in a month’s time.”

“No. I’ll barely even see him this month. I have exams. I’m busy.”

“I’m sure you will.”

“No.”

“Work with me.”

I set my jaw stubbornly. “I’ve always worked with you, Dr. Stayner. This time I’m saying no. It’s a bad idea.”

“Good. One month.”

“You can’t make me.”

“Oh no?”

I purse my lips as I inhale deeply. “I could lie to you.”

“And I could show up at your dorm with a straitjacket and your name painted on it.”

I gasp, feeling my eyes widen. “You wouldn’t . . .” He totally might.

“Let’s not find out, shall we? One month, Livie. Get to know him.”

“What about Connor?”

“I didn’t say jump Ashton’s bones as part of the ‘getting to know him’ process.”

I cringe. “Ohmigod.”

“Sorry, that’s what my boys say. Is that not cool?”

“Nothing about this conversation is cool, Stayner,” I moan. “I should go. Connor will be here any minute.”

“Just trust me on this one, Livie. Just one more time. It’s a good idea.”

“Uh-huh.” With goodbyes, we hang up our phones. My face falls into my palms as I wonder how I got myself into this. I’m not doing it. I refuse. He can come with a straitjacket. It’ll fit me flawlessly by then. The ironic thing is that I blurt out things I shouldn’t half the time I’m with Ashton but it’s never intentional. If I said
everything . . .

A horn honks.

I look up, expecting to see the white Audi. But there’s a sleek black four-door with shiny silver rims instead. The driver side opens and a tall, dark figure in a trendy fall leather jacket and aviator sunglasses steps out and stalks around the car to open the passenger door. “Irish! Get in.”

And I decide that Dr. Stayner is an evil wizard with a crystal ball and puppet strings attached to his fingers. He has somehow masterminded this entire situation. He’s definitely cackling in his office right now.

Cars are honking behind Ashton’s car. “Come on.” There’s a touch of irritation in his tone.

“Dammit,” I mutter, making my way to the waiting car, keeping my gaze on the tan leather interior as I hand my crutches to him. His fingers graze mine as he takes them, sending an electric current through my arm. By the time I’ve eased into my seat and secured my seat belt, Ashton is sliding into the driver side and my pulse is racing.

“How’s your ankle?” he asks as he pulls into traffic, his eyes shifting to my legs. I’d decided to wear a short pleated skirt because nylons are easier on my ankle than socks and pants. Now, as a flash of me straddling Ashton and a skirt around my waist hits me, I’m wishing I were in a one-piece snowsuit.

“Better. I’ve started to walk on it a bit.” The car is a sauna compared to the crisp air outside, I note, shimmying out of my jacket. “Mild sprain. Like I thought.”

“Connor said you went to the hospital?”

Oh, yeah. Connor
. “What are you doing here?” I blurt out and then take a breath. “I mean, what happened to Connor?”

He shrugs. “He has a paper due on Tuesday, so I told him I’d drive you. Are you okay with that?”

“Oh. Of course. Thanks.” And I’m a big fat jerk now. I would have missed another week with the twins if it weren’t for Ashton. He’s being nice. He’d already proven that he’s capable of that by carrying me half a mile in the rain. Now he’s driving me all the way into Manhattan.

“No big deal, Irish,” he murmurs, following the signs to the highway.

I quietly play with my coat zipper as I wonder what Dana would say about all of this. Would it bother her? Are they even still together? He never did confirm or deny it. Should I ask him?

I glance over at Ashton to find him staring at my chest.

“Watch the road!” I snap with a start as heat crawls up my neck, folding my arms over myself.

With a smile of amusement, he says, “So you’re allowed to stare at me but I can’t even look at you?”

“That’s different. I’m not naked.”

“I wasn’t naked when you did a nosedive on the sidewalk, either.”

I shift my body away from him to stare out the window, shaking my head.
I can hear you laughing from here,
Dr. Stayner.

“Hey.” Ashton’s hand rests on my forearm. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m just . . . I haven’t seen you in a while.”

I realize how good that simple gesture feels and how much I’ve missed him. I nod, and look up to see sincere brown eyes on me. “Watch the road,” I warn again, softer this time and much less irritated.

I get the trademark crooked smirk that I’m finding less arrogant and more playful now. He gives my arm a tiny squeeze before letting go.

“Thanks for giving up your Saturday for me.”

“It’s nothing,” he murmurs, checking his side-view mirror as he changes lanes. “I know it’s important to you.” He adds with a hint of hesitation, “I have an appointment later, so I was going to be in Manhattan anyway.”

“An appointment?”

A crease furrows Ashton’s brow. “You looked upset back there, before I picked you up. Why?”

Avoiding my question. I heave a sigh.

“Uh, nothing. Just had a weird phone conversation.” I busy myself with folding my jacket over my lap.

“Who’s Dr. Stayner?”

My hands freeze. “
What?
”

“You just mumbled, ‘I can hear you laughing from here, Dr. Stayner.’ Who’s Dr. Stayner?”

“I . . . uh . . . he’s
 . . .
”
I said that out loud! I’m already blabbing my thoughts without realizing it! Puppet strings! Gah! Ohmigod. Did I just say this out loud too?
From the corner of my eye, I check Ashton’s expression. He’s glancing between me and the road with a quirked brow.
I can’t tell. I need to stop thinking. All thinking must stop!
“Relax, Irish! You’ve got crazy eyes. Kind of freaking me out now.”

I can’t tell. I don’t think so. Forcing myself to take a few deep breaths, I will my eyes back into my head.

“By your reaction, I’m guessing he’s a psychiatrist?”

Kacey was right—you’re not just a pretty face
.

“You think I have a pretty face, Irish?”

I slap my hand over my mouth. I did it again!

When his laughter dies down, Ashton lets out a heavy sigh. “So . . . you’re in therapy?”

Do I want Ashton to know about Dr. Stayner? How do I even answer his question? Technically I’m not in therapy but, yes, Dr. Stayner is a psychiatrist. One that I may or may not have on speed dial. In any case, explaining Dr. Stayner and the last four months will make me sound like a wack job.

“It’s a really long drive to New York,” he warns me, strumming his fingers over the steering wheel.

I shouldn’t have to explain anything to Ashton. It’s none of his business. He has his secrets and I have mine. But maybe this is an
in
. Maybe talking about my issues will help him talk about his. And, given all the time I’ve spent trying to puzzle him out, I need an in . . .

“Yes, he’s my psychiatrist,” I say quietly as I stare out at the road. I can’t meet his eyes right now. I don’t want to see judgment there.

“And why are you seeing a psychiatrist?”

“My unruly sex drive?”

“Irish...” The way he says my nickname makes me glance in time to catch him lift in his seat and tug at his jeans slightly, as if to make himself more comfortable. “Tell me.”

Maybe there’s some negotiating to be had here. “Only if you tell me why you call me Irish.”

“I told you I’d explain that, but first you have to admit that you want me.”

My mouth clamps shut. No, there’s no negotiating with Ashton.

“Seriously, Irish. Tell me about your shrink.” There’s a pause. “Unless you want explicit details about
my
unruly sex drive and how you can help me with it.” He says it in a gravelly tone, the one that makes my mouth instantly dry and my thighs warm, as images of the first night and last week and my dream collide into one embarrassingly hot mess in my head. Damn Ashton! He knows exactly how to make me squirm. He enjoys it, too, laughing softly as my face turns red. Suddenly talking about Dr. Stayner doesn’t seem so embarrassing at all.

“You won’t tell anyone?”

“Your secrets are safe with me.” By the way his jaw tightens, I instantly believe him.

“Okay. Back in June, my sister had this crazy idea . . .” At first my explanation is full of stilted sentences. But as I get further into it—as Ashton’s cute chuckles grow more frequent, hearing how I spent my summer with Kacey swan-diving off a bridge and grocery-shopping in matching Oscar Mayer wiener costumes—it gets easier to talk, easier to divulge, easier to laugh about it.

Ashton doesn’t interrupt me once. He doesn’t make me feel stupid or crazy. He simply listens and smiles and chuckles quietly as he drives. He’s actually a great listener. That’s a redeeming quality.
One down, four to go.

Shaking his head, Ashton murmurs, “This guy sounds like a lunatic . . .”

“I know. Sometimes I wonder if he’s even licensed.”

“Why do you keep talking to him, then?”

“He’s cheap?” I joke feebly. In truth, I’ve asked myself that question a thousand times. There’s only one answer I can come up with. “Because he feels it’s important and I owe him for my sister’s life. You don’t understand what . . .” My words drift as I swallow the sharp lump in my throat. “My sister was in the car accident that killed my parents. It was bad, Ashton. Four other people died. And she almost did.” I pause to study my entwined fingers in my lap. Talking about it is still hard for me. “In a way, she
did
die that night. She was in the hospital for a year before she was strong enough to be released . . .” I can’t help the derisive snort and shake of my head, still bitter with the doctors who discharged her.
Strong enough . . .
What was she strong enough for? Lifting bottles and bongs to her lips? Pleasing more guys than I ever want to know about? Beating the hell out of a bag of sand? “My sister was lost for a long time. Years. And then Dr. Stayner—” I swallow as tears well in my eyes, trying to keep them at bay. A few slip out anyway. I rush to wipe them away but Ashton’s hand somehow beats me, his thumb brushing against my cheek quickly and gently before it pulls back to rest on his thigh again. “Dr. Stayner brought her back to me.”