One Tiny Lie

“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.

“Are you sure?” he asks with a soft chuckle. His chuckle is just as pleasant as his smile.

“Are you from Ireland?” I blurt out before I’m able to control it. Closing my eyes, I try to explain myself by stumbling over my words. “I mean . . . I thought . . . you have an accent . . . you sound Irish.” And you sound like a moron, Livie.

“I’m Connor,” he says. “And I am. I’m originally from—”

“Dublin,” I interrupt as a bubble of excitement grows inside me.

He nods once, beaming as if pleased. “I moved to America when I was twelve.”

My grin widens. I can’t stop. I must look like an idiot.

“And do you have a name, miss? Or should I just call you Smiley?”

“Oh, yes, right.” I purse my lips to get my face under control and I thrust out my hand. “Livie Cleary.”

His eyebrow shoots up as he accepts my hand. His is warm and strong and . . .comfortable.

“My dad grew up in Dublin. Your accent . . . you sound like him.” My dad had moved to America when he was thirteen, so he’d lost the thickness of the brogue, but it was still there, slipping in and out of his words gracefully. Just like Connor’s.

“You mean your dad is charming and smart as well?”

I giggle as I drop my gaze momentarily, biting my tongue before I accidentally correct him with the past tense. Was charming and smart. Two minutes into a conversation isn’t exactly the time to be bringing up my dead parents.