One Tiny Lie

“Not a drop,” Grant says, his goofy grin replaced with a mask of sincerity.

“Of course not, Daddy,” Reagan echoes sweetly.

Robert looks down at his doting daughter, who can pull off the innocent, virginal schoolgirl act better than any real one I’ve ever met. Better than . . . well, me, I guess. I can’t tell if he believes her. All he’d have to do is lean in and sniff her drink to know that it’s more booze than mixer. But he doesn’t press it. “So what will you be majoring in, Livie?”

“Molecular biology.”

By the way his eyebrows spike, I can tell he looks impressed.

“Livie’s going into pediatrics,” Connor chirps proudly.

“Good for you. And what made you choose Princeton?”

“My father went here.” The answer rolls off my tongue with ease. It’s as good an answer as any. In truth, I could easily have gone to Harvard, or Yale. I had acceptance letters from all of them, given my school counselors made me apply. But there was never any debate over which one I’d choose.

Robert nods as if expecting that answer. I guess he hears that a lot. It’s not uncommon for several generations to attend Princeton. His brow creases as he ponders this. “What year?”

“1982.”

“Huh . . . I was ’81.” His hand moves to scratch his beard as if he’s deep in thought. “What did you say your last name was again?”

“Cleary.”

“Cleary . . . Cleary . . .” Robert repeats over and over as he rubs his beard with his fingers, and I can tell he’s racking his brain. I take another long sip of my drink as I watch. There’s no way he knows my dad, but I like that he’s trying.

“Miles Cleary?”

I choke on a mouthful of liquid and my eyes widen in surprise.

Robert seems proud of himself. “Well, how about that!”

“Seriously? You knew him? I mean—” I try to temper my excitement.

“Yes.” He nods slowly, as if memories are quickly filling his brain. “Yes, I did. We were both Tiger Inn members. Went to a lot of the same parties. Irish fellow, right?”

I feel my head bobbing up and down.

“Friendly, easygoing.” He chuckles lightly, and I see a hint of something like chagrin pass over his weathered face. “We dated the same girl for a short period of time.” Another chuckle, and his creased cheeks flush with whatever memory that brought up. One that I’m sure I don’t want to hear about. “Then he met that gorgeous dark-haired gal and we didn’t see much of him anymore.” His eyes narrow just a touch as he peers at my face, studying my features. “Looking at you, I’d say he married her. You look like her.”

I smile and nod, averting my gaze to the ground for a moment.

“That is so cool, Livie!” Reagan squeals, her eyes wide with excitement. “We should have them over next time they’re in town!”

Robert is already nodding in agreement with his daughter. “Yes, I’d love to reconnect with Miles.”

“Umm . . .” Just like that, my brief balloon of excitement is deflated by reality. Yes, it would have been great to see my dad and Robert together. To have my parents over here. To watch my dad’s easy laugh. But that’s not going to happen. Ever. I feel Connor’s arm squeeze me, pulling me tightly to him. He’s the only one who knows. Now everyone will know. “Actually, he and my mom died in a car accident when I was eleven.”

There’s a standard “face” for that news when you deliver it. Shock, followed by some paling of the skin, followed by a lifted brow. Usually a single, small nod. I’ve seen it a thousand times. Robert’s face follows precedent to a T, with an additional why-didn’t-you-know-that-about-your-roommate glare in his daughter’s direction. It’s not her fault, though. I never told her. I didn’t avoid telling her; it just didn’t come up in conversation. “I’m . . . I’m sorry to hear that, Livie,” he offers gruffly.

I try to console him with a gentle smile and reassuring words. “It’s okay, really. It was a long time ago. I’m . . . good.”

“Well . . .” There’s that awkward silence, the reason why I generally avoid sharing this about myself in groups of people. Then Grant, who’s still lingering, saves the day by switching topics to the upcoming race, freeing me from being the center of attention. Freeing me to glance up at Ashton for the first time since the conversation about my parents began.

I expect that standard face. But I don’t find it there. I find his eyes locked on me with the most peculiar expression on it. A tiny smile touches his lips; lightness floats in his gaze.

There’s no other way to describe it other than . . .

Peace.

“So this is what all the fuss is about.”

Grinning proudly, Connor clasps my hand as we walk along Prospect Avenue—or “the Street,” as it’s known by everyone in Princeton—and up the steps to the impressive Tudor-style building with brown clovers decorating the front. It’s Thursday night. A line already snakes outside the entrance, but Connor flashes his club ID card and gets us past with no trouble.

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.