One Tiny Lie (Ten Tiny Breaths, #2)(66)

He drops his arms and his gaze to me, his jaw visibly taut. “I can’t give you what you want, Irish.” With another heavy sigh, he says, “Do you think you can manage the rest of the way back on your own?”

Biting my bottom lip as the prickly lump forms in my throat, I drop my gaze to my books. “Of course. Thanks, Ashton.”

His mouth opens to say something but then stops. I see the imperceptible shake of his head, as if he’s warning himself. “See you around.” He turns and walks away.





CHAPTER SIXTEEN


Mediocre


C minus.

I blink several times, holding it closer to make sure I’m not hallucinating.

I’m not. It’s still there, at the top of my chemistry midterm, in all its ugly red glory.

My first college midterm mark and it’s almost a D. I’ve never had anything but an A.

Ever.

I swallow once, twice, three times as nausea fills my body and blood rushes to my ears, my heart beating off-kilter. Maybe I’m not cut out for Princeton. I know I didn’t study as hard as I should have, with all the distraction. My father was right. Boys do suck the brains out of smart girls. Either that or I’ve killed all my smart brain cells with drinking. All that’s left are the stupid ones that like to giggle and get felt up—okay, down—in cars.

I rush out the door, past the other exiting students, my legs moving as fast as they can without outright running. Bursting out and into the cool drizzle, I force myself to slow down as a pain twinges in my ankle. I’ll reinjure it if I’m not careful.

Without fail, my phone rings. Connor always phones me after this class because he’s getting out of his. I don’t want to answer it, but I do anyway.

“Hey, babe. What’s wrong?”

“I failed my chemistry midterm!” I fight to keep the tears welling in my eyes at bay. I don’t want to bawl out here, in the middle of everyone.

“Seriously? You failed?” There’s no mistaking the shock in his tone.

“Well . . . almost!” I sputter, my breath ragged.

“Okay. Slow down, Livie,” Connor says in a composed voice. “Tell me what happened.”

A take a few deep, calming breaths before I whisper, “I got a C minus.”

Connor heaves a huge sigh. “You had me concerned there, Livie! Don’t worry! I had a few mediocre grades in my first year. It’s nothing.”

I grit my teeth. It’s not nothing! I want to scream. It’s my first bad grade. Ever. And it’s in one of my best subjects! By the tightness in my chest, I’m beginning to suspect that I’m having a mild coronary at the age of eighteen.

“You’ll do better next time, Livie. You’re smart.”

Sucking my bottom lip, I nod into the phone. “Yeah, okay.”

“Feel better?”

No. “Sure. Thanks, Connor.”

“Okay, good.” The phone muffles and I hear Connor shouting to someone on his end. “Need a ride? Yeah . . .” Coming back to me, he says, “I’ve got to go. We have an extra practice today. Coach threatened anyone who’s late with a ten-mile run in the rain.”

“Okay.”

“Talk to you later, Liv.” The phone clicks.

I do not feel better. Not at all. In fact, I somehow feel worse.

I head back to my dorm room with my head down, fighting the tears as the lump in my throat grows. Connor has that automatic confidence in me—like everyone else does. Doesn’t he understand that this almost-D is a big deal for me? What if I can’t do better? What if this is the beginning of the end?

By the time I make it to my room, I don’t care who sees my tearstained face. I know I could call Dr. Stayner, but he’ll make this about my parents and I don’t want to hear his autopilot theories today. I should call Kacey, but . . . I can’t. After all she did to help get me here, I don’t want to disappoint her.

So I rely on the only thing that I can right now—Reagan’s fresh tub of Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Therapy ice cream in the freezer compartment of our mini fridge. My pity party is complete once I change into my pajamas, pull my hair back, and crawl under my covers to stare at the wretched paper lying on the floor. I consider setting it on fire, but I’ve heard that the smoke alarms are super-sensitive.

There are two more tubs waiting for me when this is done. I’ve decided I’m going to eat myself to death. I’m halfway through the first tub within five minutes—Reagan’s going to kill me—when someone knocks on my door.

I ignore it. Anyone I might want to talk to is at rowing practice. I almost shout, “Go away!” but then the person will know I’m here. So I keep quiet by licking the tablespoon in my hand. The knocking doesn’t stop, though. It keeps going and going and going until I’m sure that Dr. Stayner is outside, delivering on his committal promise early.

With a groan, I roll out of bed and stagger over, spoon in mouth and tub in hand, to throw the door open.

It’s Ashton.

My mouth falls opens and my spoon flies out. He’s got fast reflexes, though, and manages to catch it before it hits the ground.

“What are you doing here?” I note his track pants and shirt. He’s supposed to be at practice.

Stepping around me and into my room, he murmurs with a meaningful look at the tub in my hand, “Keeping you from gaining your frosh fifteen.”