One Tiny Lie

by K. A. Tucker

  There’s a very long but easy silence as I gaze out at the blue skies above and the bridge that will take us to Manhattan. “Wow, we’re already here,” I murmur absently.

  “Yeah, you wouldn’t shut up,” Ashton mutters dryly, but he throws me a wink. “So that was who you were talking to before I picked you up?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What was so weird about it? What were you talking about?”

  I sigh heavily. “You.” I notice his one hand grip the steering wheel tightly when I admit that and I quickly confirm, “I didn’t tell him anything about . . . that.” My eyes flitter to the leather strap around his wrist. “I promised you I wouldn’t.”

  His Adam’s apple bobs with his swallow. “Well, then why were you talking about me?”

  I look out the window with a groan. “This is so embarrassing.”

  “More embarrassing than what you’ve already told me?” Ashton leans forward in his seat, fully intrigued, a curious smile on his face.

  “Maybe.” Do I tell him? I stall by scratching my neck and tucking my hair behind my ears, and rubbing my forehead until Ashton finally grabs my fidgeting hand and rests it on the low console between us.

  I clear my throat and I can’t help but notice that my hand is still in his. When he sees me looking at it, he squeezes tight.

  “I’ll let go when you tell me.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then good luck explaining why we’re holding hands to Connor.”

  “Holding hands is the least of my worries,” I mutter, before I look him straight in the face and admit, “I’m supposed to find five good qualities about you.”

  His face twists up into an is-that-all look. “Why is that embarrassing?”

  Looking up at the ceiling, I mutter, “Because I also have to tell you everything I’m thinking.”

  There’s a long pause. Ashton adjusts himself in his seat, sliding his pelvis down so he’s slouching more, his leg bent a little more steeply. And then a wide, mischievous grin spreads across his face. “This is going to be fun.”

  I’m already shaking my head in response. “No, it’s not, because I’m not doing it.”

  “What?” Ashton sits up straighter, glancing at me with wide eyes. “You have to!”

  “No . . .” I pry my hand out of his and fold my arms over my chest. “I don’t.”

  “Well, then, how are you going to know what my five best qualities are?”

  “I’m sure you’ll tell me,” I answer in a wry tone.

  He shrugs as if pondering that over. “You’re right, I could. Let’s see . . .” He runs his tongue over his teeth, and the knot in my stomach warns me that I’m going to regret this. “There’s the way I make a woman scream when I slide my—”

  “Shut up!” He grunts as my fist flies out to punch him in the shoulder, hard.

  “Seriously, Irish. Come on. This will be fun!” Ashton’s eyes sparkle, and his face beams with genuine excitement. I’ve never seen him this happy before, and I’m about to agree to anything, including Dr. Stayner’s insanity.

  Until he asks, “So, do you dream about me?”

  My teeth immediately clamp down on my tongue. Hard.

  “You can let me out in front and I’ll just hop out,” I say as I realize he’s planning on parking.

  He frowns. “Oh, no. I’m coming in.”

  “Oh, is your appointment here?” Is Ashton sick? Does he need a doctor?

  “No. I have a couple of hours to kill.” There’s a pause. “I figured I could meet these kids you come all the way out here to see.”

  “You can’t.” I feel as if there are two worlds colliding that need to be kept separate.

  “Are you ashamed to be seen with me, Irish?”

  “No, I mean . . .” I turn to see a hint of hurt in his eyes. Never. “They won’t just let anyone in, though.”

  He pulls into a spot. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that, Irish. They’ll let me in.”

  “I, um, I brought someone. I hope—” I stare at Gale blankly. I don’t know what to say.

  She looks from me to Ashton and she’s already shaking her head. Relief ripples through my body. I don’t think my emotions can handle a bunch of sick kids and Ashton at the same time.

  But then he flashes that sexy crooked smile and those dimples. “Hi, I’m Ashton. I’m actually here on behalf of my father, David Henley of Henley and Associates.”

  Whatever Gale was going to say fell out of her mouth. “Why, that’s fantastic! We’re so appreciative of your father’s contributions here. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Glancing from left to right, she says, “Normally we don’t allow visitors in there, but I can let it slide this time.”

  “Great.” So not great.

  “The twins are eager to see you, Livie.”

  “I’ve missed them too.” Gesturing at my foot, I add, “I’m sorry about last weekend.”

  “Oh, no worries. Glad to have you mobile. Have fun!” Waving her stack of folders in front of me, she says, “Back to work for me!” and strolls away in the opposite direction. She glances back once and, checking to see that Ashton has already turned and is walking toward the elevator, she winks at me, mouthing “wow.”

  I feel my face blanch. Now everyone is going to think we’re together.

  I catch up to him just as he hits the elevator button. “So you knew that dropping your dad’s name would get you in here?”

  The charm from a moment ago has vanished, replaced by contempt. “At least it’s good for something.”

  “That’s . . . nice of him to donate to the hospital.” Based on Gale knowing his name immediately, he must be a significant contributor.

  “Tax savings. And for his image.” I look down to see him fingering the belt strap. I can’t help myself. I reach up and give his arm a squeeze.

  The elevator doors open. Stepping in behind me, Ashton hits the floor button that I call out and murmurs, “It was either that or I take that nurse into a back room for a few minutes and—”

  “Ashton!” I slap his forearm hard and flinch with the impact. Rowing has given him rock-solid everything. “Definitely a strike against your good traits.”

  “Oh, come on. You don’t actually believe I’m serious, do you?” he says with a low chuckle.

  “As a red sock on your door . . .”

  A pained expression fills his face. “That night was to forget about you. With Connor,” he says softly. “And I haven’t done anything like that since.”

  Do I believe him? “Why not?”

  Turning to me with a heated gaze, Ashton’s hand lifts to cup my chin, his thumb stroking over my lip. “I think you know exactly why not, Irish.”

  “Are you still with Dana?”

  That hoarse tone is back, the one that makes my skin prickle. “What if I say no?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.” I hesitate before asking, “Why did you say we can’t work?”

  His lips part and I think I’m going to get an answer.

  “Your tits look fantastic in that shirt.”

  Not that answer.

  He steps out of the elevator and holds the door while I hobble out, beet-faced. Typical Ashton evading. I bite my tongue and ignore him until we reach the playroom entrance.

  A new wave of anxiety hits me, the same tightness in my chest that I feel every time I’m around these kids, only it’s amplified now. “Okay, there are a few ground rules before I let you near these sweet little boys.”

  “Let’s hear them.”

  “One”—I count on my fingers for emphasis—“no talking about death. No engaging in death talk, no hinting at death.”

  His mouth slants into a tight-lipped frown as he nods. “No worries there.”

  “Two—don’t teach them a bunch of bad words.�
��

  “Aside from what they’ve already learned from you?”

  Rolling my eyes, I say, “Three—be nice to them. And don’t lie. They’re just little boys.”

  A cloud passes over his face but he doesn’t say anything.

  I push through the door to find the twins on the floor with their LEGOs. Eric looks up first. Nudging his brother, they scramble to their feet and walk over to meet me. It’s been two weeks since I last saw them and I note that they’re both moving a touch more languidly, their voices a little less chipper.

  “Hey, you guys!” I say as I force the sudden knot of nerves down, hoping the change in them is just the chemo.

  “What happened?” Derek asks, his hand gripping my right crutch.

  “I tripped and sprained my ankle.”

  “Is he your boyfriend?” Eric asks, pointing at Ashton.

  “Uh, no. He’s a friend. This is—”

  “You’re friends with a boy?” Eric cuts me off.

  I glance up at Ashton, thinking about everything that’s happened between us. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

  Ashton leans down and sticks his hand out. “Call me Ace. That’s what my friends call me.”

  They both look up at me in question and I laugh, remembering just how young they really are, before I nudge my head slightly toward Ashton.

  Eric takes Ashton’s hand first, gesturing him forward like he’s got a secret to whisper in his ear. Of course, a five-year-old’s whisper might as well be through a megaphone. “What’s wrong with you? Livie’s really pretty for a girl.”

  I try not to laugh. Ashton’s eyes flicker to me and there’s a mischievous twinkle in them. A twinge of panic hits me. Of all the ways he could answer this question . . .

  “I’ve tried, little buddy. But Livie doesn’t like me very much.”

  “She’s your friend but she doesn’t like you? Why not?” Derek asks, a deep frown creasing his forehead.

  Ashton shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ve tried as hard as I can, but . . .” Then his shoulders slouch a bit and his smile falters, playing the role of wounded boy to Academy Award perfection.

  The twins cock their heads and stare at me in eerie unison. “Why don’t you like him, Livie?” Derek asks.

  And I have turned into the villain here.

  “Good question. Let’s try and figure it out, guys.” Ashton leads them over to a kids’ table as I catch Diane’s attention with a wave. “Gale said it was fine,” I call out, pointing at Ashton.

  With a wink, she shifts her focus back to her kid, but I don’t miss the frequent and curious glances at Ashton. It’s the same kind of glance he earned from Gale, and from the nurses along the hall, the female parking attendant, and two doctors . . . one of them male.

  I lean my crutches against the wall and gingerly step over to the table where Ashton has already made himself comfortable, his long legs stretched out and his leather jacket lying next to his feet. He pats the chair next to him for me. I take it, not because I want to sit beside him so much as I want to elbow him in the ribs if I have to. Hard.

  The boys pull two chairs up to face Ashton, and by the serious expressions on their faces they think they’re about to uncover a major problem. “So, boys,” Ashton leans forward on his elbows. “Any guesses?”

  “Do you like puppies?” Derek asks in a quiet voice.

  “Yup.”

  “Are you strong? Like Superman?”

  “I don’t know about Superman, but...” Ashton flexes his arms and, even through his thin charcoal shirt, I can see the ripples form. “What do you think?”

  Both boys reach up to touch his arms and they mouth “wow” at the same time. “Feel his muscles, Livie.”

  “Oh, no.” I wave away, but Ashton is already grabbing my hand and placing it on his biceps. My fingers barely wrap around half of them. “Wow, strong,” I agree, rolling my eyes at him, but I can’t help the small smile. Or the heat racing up my neck.

  “Are you rich?” Eric asks.

  Ashton shrugs. “My family is, so I guess I am, too.”

  “What are you going to be when you grow up?” Derek asks.

  “Dude, he’s already grown-up!” Eric elbows his brother.

  “No, I’m not yet,” Ashton says. “I’m still in school. But I’m going to be a pilot.”

  I frown. What happened to being a lawyer?

  “Does your breath smell?” Eric asks.

  Ashton blows into his hand and inhales. “I don’t think so. Irish?”

  “No, your breath doesn’t smell.” I smile, ducking to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and hide my blush. His mouth tastes like mint and heaven. Minty heaven.

  “Why do you call her Irish?”

  “Because she’s Irish, and when she gets drunk, she’s got a mean streak in her.”

  “Ashton!”

  The boys start giggling. By the snort of laughter from Diane, I’d say she heard that.

  “Honestly.” I bury my face in my hands for a moment, which only makes the boys giggle more and Ashton grin more, and soon I’m laughing along with them.

  Eventually the questions get more serious. “Do you have a mom and dad?” Eric asks.

  Ashton didn’t expect that question. I can tell because he falters, and I see his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallows. “Everyone has a mom and dad.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Uh . . . my dad is at his house and my mom isn’t around anymore.”

  “Did she die?” Eric asks with complete innocence.

  A flicker of pain flashes across Ashton’s face.

  “Remember the deal, boys,” I warn with a raised brow.

  “I thought that was just our deaths,” Derek says solemnly.

  “No, it’s a blanket rule. It applies to everyone.”

  “Okay, sorry, Ace,” Eric says, hanging his head.

  Ashton leans forward and squeezes his shoulder. “Don’t you worry about a thing, little man. She’s a bit strict with her rules, isn’t she?”

  Eric rolls his eyes dramatically. “You have no idea.”

  The boys keep throwing out questions in typical innocent-child style and Ashton keeps answering them. I find out that Ashton’s mom was from Spain, which is where he gets his dark eyes and tanned complexion. I find out that he’s an only child. I find out that he was born and raised in New York. I’m finding out more about him in this brief interrogation by two curious five-year-olds than I thought possible. Maybe more than most people have ever learned about Ashton Henley.

  Finally, Ashton stands and announces, “Sorry to leave, but I have somewhere I need to be. It was real, hanging with you guys.” He holds out a hand in a fist-bump.

  “Yeah, it was real,” Eric mimics casually as he and his brother return the gesture, their fists so tiny next to Ashton’s. All three of them turn to look at me, and I realize that I must have made a sappy sound.

  Pinching my elbow lightly, Ashton says, “I’ll be back in three hours to pick you up by the main entrance, okay?” With that, he’s gone.

  The rest of the volunteer shift goes downhill quickly. Lola comes in, looking smaller and paler and more feeble than the last time I saw her. Derek whispers to me that she’s been coming in less and less. The boys last only another hour before they say that they’re not feeling well, twisting my stomach. I spend the rest of the shift with other children—one recuperating from surgery after a car accident, another one there for a rare heart condition.

  And I find myself watching the clock for more than one reason.

  A different guy picks meets me at the main entrance three hours later. Not the playful, teasing one who shared a miniature table with two sick kids and made them giggle. Not the one who listened with quiet ease while I disclosed my long string of embarrassing, psychiatrist-inspired adventures.

/>   No . . . the guy sitting next to me says barely a word, shares barely a look as we leave the city. I don’t know what happened, but something has changed. Something to make his jaw taut and his eyes glaze over. To make him so discontented that my chest aches with the growing tension. More than I already left the hospital with.

  I last an hour in silence, gazing out at the darkening skies and the streetlights, tucking my hair behind my ears a dozen times, adjusting and readjusting myself in my seat, before I decide to close my eyes and pretend to sleep, just as we approach the turnoff for Princeton.

  “Did you get into the hospital’s Ambien supply before I picked you up, Irish?” It’s more the sound of his voice than his question that makes my eyes fly open with surprise. I turn to see a tiny smile breaking through that cloud and I heave a sigh of relief.

  “Sorry,” I mumble. But I’m not. I’m happy to see Ashton more relaxed.

  “How was the rest of your volunteer session?”

  “Hard. Sometimes I wonder if it will get easier. I love being around kids and I want to help them, but . . .” Tears trickle down my cheek. “I don’t know if I can handle wondering which ones I’m around are going to survive.” Ashton is silent as I brush my hand across my cheek and sniffle.

  “I wondered about that, back when you told me what you wanted to be,” he says quietly. “It takes a special kind of person to be able to sit back and wait for someone to die, especially when you can’t stop it from happening.”

  Is that what happened to you, Ashton? Did you have to watch your mother die? I don’t say that out loud. Instead, I say, “I’m not sure that I’m that kind of person.” Pausing, I add, “Wow. I’ve never admitted that out loud before. To anyone.”

  “Not even your doctor?”