One Tiny Lie (Ten Tiny Breaths, #2)(17)

“What kind of doctor is he? I mean . . .” She’s twirling a strand of her long hair around her fingers. Nervous Reagan is a rare sight.

I open my mouth to answer but stop, an impish idea coming to me. I still owe Reagan for the vodka shot she practically forced down my throat last night. . . Pressing my lips together to hide my smile as I rifle through my dresser for a pair of jeans and a shirt, I say calmly, “Oh, his focus is primarily schizophrenia.”

There’s a pause. I don’t look, but I’m sure her mouth is hanging open. “Oh . . . well, is there anything I need to worry about?”

Grabbing my toiletry bag, I walk over to the door but make a point of pausing as my hand closes over the knob, looking up as if deep in thought. “I don’t think so. Well, unless I start to . . .” I wave my hand dismissively. “Oh, never mind. That probably won’t happen again.” With that, I quietly slip out the door. I make it about four feet before I burst into giggles, loud enough that someone moans, “Shut up!” from a nearby room.

“I’ll get you for that, Livie!” Reagan shrieks through the closed door, followed by her howls of laughter.

Sometimes humor does make it better.



“I knew the text was from Kacey,” Stayner says as he tips his head back to drain the last of his coffee—the largest cup of it that I’ve ever seen. I on the other hand have let mine grow cold, barely touching it as Dr. Stayner coaxed out every last embarrassing detail from my first week on campus.

He’s big on talking things out. I remember Kacey cursing him for it in the beginning. My sister was broken back then. She refused to discuss anything—the accident, the loss, her shattered heart. But, by the end of that intense inpatient program, Dr. Stayner had dragged out every last detail there was to know about Kacey, helping her heal in the process.

She warned me about him too, back when the calls started. Livie, just tell him what he wants to know. He will find out one way or another, so make it easier on yourself and just tell him. He probably already knows anyway. I think he uses Jedi mind tricks.

In the three months of our nontherapy sessions, I’ve never had a truly difficult conversation with Dr. Stayner, nothing that I found too painful, too tragic, too hard to bring up. True, he’s asked me to do things that still give me heart palpitations, like bungee jumping and watching a back-to-back marathon of the Saw movies, which gave me nightmares for weeks after. But our actual conversations—about Mom and Dad, about what I remember of my childhood, even about my uncle Raymond and why we left Michigan—were never difficult or uncomfortable. Most of them were pleasant.

Still, two hours talking about my drunken make-out session and everything that has ensued since has left me drained and my face smoldering. I knew I’d likely be questioned about last Saturday night. I planned on glazing over the more embarrassing moments, but Dr. Stayner has a way of drawing out every last detail.

“You’ve come far in our few months together, Livie.”

“Not really,” I counter.

“You’re going on a date with a guy tonight, for Pete’s sake!”

“It’s not really a date. It’s more of a—”

His dismissive wave quiets my objection. “Three months ago you would have blown the guy off for a textbook without even thinking twice.”

“I guess.” I push back a strand of hair that has blown across my face with the light breeze. “That or just dropped to the ground, unconscious.”

Dr. Stayner snorts. “Exactly.”

There’s a pause, and I cast a sidelong glance. “Does that mean my therapy is over? I mean, look at me. I’ve practically become an exhibitionist. And if I don’t cut back on the partying soon, you’ll have to admit me to an alcohol abuse program.”

Dr. Stayner bursts out in a round of loud, boisterous laughter. When his amusement dies down, he spends a few moments staring down at his cup, his index finger running along the rim.

And I start to get nervous. Dr. Stayner is rarely quiet for this long.

“I’m going to let you live your college life the way you need to live it,” he says quietly. “You don’t need me telling you what to do or how to have fun. You need to make those decisions for yourself.”

I flop back against the bench with a sigh of relief, a strange calm washing through me. As quickly as Dr. Stayner planted himself into my life, he’s stepping right back out. “I guess Kacey was wrong,” I say more to myself, the declaration lifting a weight off my shoulders that I didn’t realize was there.

There’s that soft laughter again. “Oh, your sister . . .” He drifts off as a group of cyclists speed past. “When Kacey was first admitted into my care, I wondered about you, Livie. I truly did. I questioned how you turned out so well, all things considered. But I had my hands full with Kacey and Trent, and you seemed to be motoring along on a clear path. Even when Kacey came to me in the spring with her concerns, I was skeptical.” He pulls his glasses off to rub his eyes. “It’s the people like your sister—the obviously shattered ones—who make my job easy.”

I frown, his words puzzling. “But I’m not like her, right?” I catch the waver in my voice.

Dr. Stayner’s shaking head answers me before his words do. “Oh, no, Livie. You are surprisingly alike in many ways, but you are not alike in those sorts of matters.”