One Tiny Lie: A Novel (5 page)

My stomach tightens as I press “Send.” He keeps telling me to leverage that inner sarcasm he knows is in my head.

Ten seconds later, my phone beeps again.

That’s a good start. Did you talk to a guy?

I stare wide-eyed at my phone, processing his reaction—or nonreaction—to my night of scarring debauchery.

That gives Kacey a chance to grab my phone out of my hand.

“Kacey, what are you doing!” I chase her around the cab as her fingers furiously type; she’s cackling the entire time. I don’t know how she can run and text, but she does. Not until she’s hit “Send” does she slow enough to toss my phone to me. I fumble as I catch it and quickly check to see what my sister has done.

Not only did I talk to a guy but I’ve now seen two penises, including the one attached to the naked man in my room this morning when I woke up. I have pictures. Would you like to see one?

“Kacey!” I shriek, smacking her against the shoulder.

It’s a moment before the response comes.

Glad you’re making friends. Talk to you on Saturday.

There are a few seconds of silence, during which my shock outweighs anything else, and then we burst out laughing, lifting the entire mood of this goodbye.

“Okay, I’ve got to go now or I’ll miss my plane,” Kacey says with another tight hug. “Go forth and make thy mistakes.”

“More than last night?”

Kacey winks. “I didn’t see you making any mistakes last night.” Opening the taxi door, she waves at me before climbing in. And she keeps waving from the back window, her chin resting on the headrest, as the taxi disappears around the corner.

CHAPTER FOUR

Regret

I’m sure most girls do everything in their power to stage a run-in with Ashton Henley after getting drunk and making out with him on a random street corner.

But I am not most girls.

And I have every intention of avoiding him for the rest of my Princeton career.

Unfortunately for me, fate has decided that forty-eight hours is all I get.

After standing in line at the bookstore for hours, I’m rushing back to the dorm to unload twenty pounds of textbooks before I can join the late-afternoon campus tour. This 250-odd-year-old campus, with acres of stunning Gothic-style architecture, is rich with history that I want to see in person. I don’t have time for diversions.

Of course, that’s the perfect time for an ambush.

“What do ya got there, Irish?” A hand swoops in and grabs the course registration paper that’s tucked in between my chest and my books. I suck in a breath and shiver as his finger grazes my collarbone.

“Nothing,” I mutter, but I don’t bother with more as there’s no point. He’s already intently reviewing my course list and is chewing a very full bottom lip in thought. So I just sigh and wait silently, taking the opportunity to notice things I couldn’t when I was drunk and it was dark. Or when I was naked and cornered. Like how, in the late-afternoon sunlight, Ashton’s shaggy hair has more brown in it than black. And how his thick brows are neatly groomed. And how his eyes have the tiniest green speckles within the brown. And how his impossibly long, dark lashes curl out at the ends . . .

“Irish?”

“Huh?” I snap out of my thoughts to find him staring down at me with that smirk on his face, implying he said something to me and I missed it because I was too busy gawking.

Which I did. Because I was.

I clear my throat, my ears burning with the rest of my face. I want to ask him why he keeps calling me that, but all I can manage is, “Pardon?”

Thankfully, he doesn’t tease me. “How’s the tat?” he asks as he slowly slides the paper back to where he got it from, his finger once again grazing my collarbone. My body, once again, shivering and tensing at his touch.

“Oh . . . great.” I swallow, hugging my books closer to my chest as I avert my gaze in the direction of my residence. At the groups of students milling about. Anywhere but at the breathing reminder of my night of scandal.

“Really? Because mine is annoying the hell out of me.”

“It
is
kind of itchy,” I admit, glancing back to see Ashton’s mouth stretched into a wide grin, displaying dimples that are smack dab in the middle of his cheeks and deeper than Trent’s. Deep enough to make my breath hitch now. Deep enough that I remember admiring them in my drunken stupidity. I’m pretty sure I stuck my finger into one. And possibly my tongue.

“At least your itch is on your back,” he says with a sheepish look. His skin is so tanned that it’s hard to tell, but I’m sure I see a slight flush in his cheeks.

A giggle escapes me before I can hold it back. He joins in with a soft chuckle. And then I’m hit with a flash of us—facing each other and giggling. Only my fingers are entwined in the hair at the nape of his neck and his tongue is flicking one of my earlobes. I abruptly stop giggling and pull my bottom lip in between my teeth.

“Of all the dumb things to do,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “At least it’s small.”

I’m still trying to push the previous image of us out of my head as I hear myself agree with him, not thinking. “Yeah, I could barely read it until I really leaned in—” My stomach hits the ground like a bag of rocks, taking all the blood from my face with it. Did I just say that out loud? No, I didn’t. I wouldn’t.

By the twinkle in his eyes, I know without a doubt that I did. I think I’m going to be sick. “It . . . I wasn’t . . . I really need to get going.” I start sidestepping around him as a bead of sweat trickles down my back.

Stepping with me and nodding toward my books, he says, “You’re taking a lot of science classes.” Escape plan thwarted. What is he doing? Why is he chatting me up? Is he hoping for a repeat? Would I want one?

My eyes flitter across his appearance. Yes, I’ll admit it. He’s beautiful. As Reagan pointed out, he may well be one of the hottest guys on campus. I’ve been here four days. I have nothing to base it on, and yet I’m confident that it’s true. And I’ve had too many face-flushing memory flashes in the last few days to try and deny that I didn’t enjoy that night.

But . . . no, I don’t want a repeat. I mean, when I look at him, all I see is
wrong
. He doesn’t even look like a Princeton student. Not that there’s one specific type of person at Princeton; there isn’t. From what I’ve seen, it has a wonderfully diverse student body. Nothing like the sweater-vest-spoiled-brat stereotype portrayed in countless eighties movies.

But Ashton just doesn’t fit in my mental image of Princeton. I don’t know if it’s his faded jeans that hang just slightly too low, or the thin gray shirt with sleeves pushed halfway up his arms, or the tattoo snaking up his inner forearm, or the frayed leather cuff around his wrist . . . I don’t know what it is.

“Irish?”

I hear him call my name.
Gah!
Not my name.
His
name for me. By that crooked smirk on those full lips, he’s caught me staring again and he’s enjoying it.

I clear my throat and abruptly force out, “Yup. All science. All but one.” An English lit class. It’s impractical, useless for my medical career, but it will satisfy Dr. Stayner’s “suggestion” to pick one course that I would otherwise skip right over in the course calendar.

“Let me guess. Pre-med?”

I nod, smiling. “Pediatrics. Oncology.” Unlike so many students who toil over what to do with their lives, I’ve known my chosen career since the day my friend Sara Dawson died of leukemia. I was nine. The decision came quite easily. I cried and asked my dad what I could have done. With a gentle smile, he reassured me that there was nothing I could have done for Sara, but that I was bright enough that I could grow up to be a doctor and save other kids. Saving kids sounded like a noble life. A goal that I’ve never questioned or wavered from since.

Now, though, as I look at Ashton’s scowl, you’d think I told him my dream was to work in a sewage plant. There’s a pause, and then he changes topic completely. “Look, about Saturday night . . . Can we just pretend it never happened?” he asks, sliding his hands into his pockets.

My mouth drops for a second as my brain replays those words. The words I’ve been playing over and over in my own head for the last three days. Can I? I’d like to. It would make it easier if I could just press a Delete button on all the images that still blaze in my head, making me suddenly blush and lose focus on . . .everything. “Sure,” I say with a smile. “Well . . . as long as we can get my sister and Reagan to pretend as well.”

One arm lifts to rub the back of his head, pulling his shirt tighter against his chest, enough that I can see the curves. The ones I had my hands all over. “Yeah, well, I figure your sister can’t cause too much trouble, being from out of town.”

“No, she can’t,” I agree.
She can just randomly text me pictures of a chubby bald man holding a tattoo gun to your ass, like she did yesterday.
I promptly erased it, but I’m sure that’s not the last of them.

“And Reagan won’t say a word,” I hear Ashton say. Dropping his arm to his side, he looks off in the distance, muttering more to himself, “She’s good like that.”

“Okay, great, well . . .” Maybe I can just put all this behind me and get back to being me. Livie Cleary. Future doctor. Good girl.

Ashton looks back at my face, his eyes dropping to my lips for a second, likely because I’m chewing on the bottom one so much I’m about to gnaw it off. I feel as though I should say something more. “I hardly remember it, so . . .” I let my voice drift off as I deliver that lie with a degree of coolness that surprises me. And impresses me.

His head tilts to the side and he looks off again, as if deep in thought. Then an amused grin touches his lips. “I’ve never had a girl tell me that before.”

A tiny smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as I look down to study his sneakers, feeling like I’ve finally scored a point. Livie: one. Mortifying conversation: a million. “I guess there’s a first time for everything.”

His low, throaty laugh pulls my attention back up to see twinkling eyes. He’s shaking his head as if thinking of a private joke.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s just . . .” There’s a pause, as though he’s not sure whether he should say it or not. In the end, he decides to, delivering my pinnacle of humiliation with a wide grin. “You had a lot of firsts that night, Irish. You kept pointing each one out.”

I can’t keep the strangled sound from escaping, as if I’m dying. Which I might be, given my heart just stopped beating. I don’t know whether my arms slackened or I actually threw them in the air to cover my gasp, but somehow I’ve lost the death grip I had on my textbooks. They end up scattered all over the grass. Right next to the last shred of my dignity.

I practically collapse to collect my books as I rack my brain. The problem is, I don’t remember talking to Ashton a whole lot. And I certainly don’t remember pointing out all my—

That stupid vault opens up in my brain, just enough to let another explicit memory slip out. A flash of that brick wall against my back and Ashton against my front and my legs wrapped around his waist and him pressing against me. And me, whispering in his ear that I’ve never felt that before and how it’s harder than I thought it would be . . .

“Ohmigod,” I moan, clutching my stomach. I’m sure I’m going to be sick. I’m going to become an exhibitionist vomiter.

My heart is back to beating—racing, actually—as a new level beyond mortification slams into me. I sounded just like the actress in that awful video of Ben’s that Kacey made me watch over the summer. Literally. I accidently walked in on those weirdos watching it one night. Kacey took that as an opportunity to pin me down on the couch while Trent, Dan, and Ben howled with laughter at my flaming cheeks and horrified shrieks.

My sister is the Antichrist. This is all her fault. Hers and Stayner’s. And those stupid Jell-O shooters. And—

“Irish!” My head snaps up at the sound of Ashton’s voice. It takes me a moment to realize that he’s crouching in front of me, holding a textbook, a curious look on his face. His hand cups my elbow and he pulls me to my feet. “You’re in your head a lot, aren’t you?” he muses, holding my textbook out.

I’m not sure how to answer that, so I don’t. I simply purse my lips for a moment, accept my book, and say quietly, “Consider Saturday night forgotten.”

“Thanks, Irish.” He rubs his forehead with his fingertips. “I didn’t want that getting out. I regret it. I mean . . .” He cringes as he looks at me, as if he bumped into me and is checking to see if I’m hurt. I hear the slightest exhale, and then he takes a few steps backward. “See you around.”

I offer him a tiny nod and a tight-lipped smile. Inside, I’m screaming at the top of my lungs, “Not a chance in hell!”

“Dammit,” I mutter, arriving at the rendezvous location for the tour ten minutes late. I glance around but see nothing that resembles a tour group. They’re gone, off to learn about the historical significance of this foremost college, and I am stuck here, replaying the entire conversation with Ashton over and over again. Each time, those words—his words—suspend in my thoughts.

I regret it.

He regrets me. The man whore regrets messing around with me. Enough to track me down and ask that I not tell anyone. He even felt bad when he let that fact slip. That’s what that cringe was.

It was one thing when
I
was regretting
him
. I mean, I did something stupid and completely out of character. I gave away a whole pile of firsts to a guy I don’t even know. Who’s probably had a hundred drunken one-night flings that went farther than the one the other night did with me.

Who regrets me.

I take a seat on the steps and stare vacantly down at my hands. Every rational bone in my body is telling me to stop thinking about it, but I can’t. I swallow several times, but the dryness in my throat won’t abate as I run through all the reasons why Ashton might regret me. Does he find me that unattractive? Was waking up on Sunday one of those “coyote ugly” mornings Kacey always talks about? I know I must have looked terrible, with my hair a wild rat’s nest and my eyes bloodshot and my breath harsh enough to wilt daisies.

Maybe it was my “skill level”? I sure as hell know I’m not experienced, but . . . was I
that
bad?

I’m so wrapped up in trying to comfort my ego that when I hear a guy say “excuse me” nearby, I keep my focus on the ground, dismissing him entirely, hoping he’s talking to someone else. His next words, though—not so much the words but how he says them—make my head snap up, searching for the owner.

“Are you okay?”

I know my mouth is hanging open as I watch him take a seat next to me on the step, but I don’t care. I just nod in awe as I stare at the deep green eyes and pleasant smile.