One Tiny Lie (Ten Tiny Breaths, #2)(86)

The woman’s gaze roams Ashton’s face and then drops down as if to search her memory.

“Who . . .” She tries again. I take two steps forward, as far as Ashton’s death grip on my hand will allow me. It’s close enough to catch the faint smell of urine that I recognize from the seniors homes with patients who have lost all bladder control.

As if giving up on figuring either of us out, the woman’s head rolls to the side and she simply stares out the window.

“Let’s get some air,” Ashton whispers, pulling me with him as he walks to a little radio on the side table. He turns on an Etta James disc and adjusts the volume up a bit. I don’t say anything as he leads me out of her room, closing the door softly behind him. We head down the hallway and a different set of stairs in silence, one that leads out to the home’s backyard garden, a sizeable property with bare oak trees and small paths weaving through the flower beds, long since prepared for winter. I suspect this is a lovely respite for residents in warmer weather. Now, though, with the weak November sun and a bite in the air, I shudder.

Taking a seat on a bench, Ashton doesn’t hesitate to pull me onto his lap and wrap his arms around my body as if to shelter me from the cold. And I don’t hesitate to let him, because I crave his warmth for more than one reason. Even if I shouldn’t.

This is exactly what I was afraid of.

I don’t know what’s right anymore. All I know is that Ashton’s mother is alive and Dr. Stayner sent me here, no doubt to learn the truth. How Dr. Stayner knew . . . I’ll figure that out later.

I close my eyes and inhale, absorbing Ashton’s heavenly scent. Being so close to him after our night together is even harder than I imagined it would be. I feel as if I’m standing at the edge of a cliff and the storm of emotions threatens to push me off—pain and confusion and love and desire. I can feel that gravitational pull, that urge to curl into his body, to slide my hand over his chest, to kiss him, to make myself believe that he’s mine. He’s not mine, though. He’s not even his yet.

“Why, Ashton? Why lie about her death?” Why . . . everything?

“I didn’t lie. I just didn’t correct you when you assumed she was dead.”

The word “Why” is on my lips again, but he speaks before I can say it. “It was easier than admitting my mother doesn’t remember who I am. That every day I woke up hoping that it was the day she died so I could be free of my screwed-up life. So I could be at peace.”

I close my eyes to stave off the tears. Peace. Now I understand what that strange look was, the night that Ashton found out about my parents’ death. He was wishing the same for himself. Heaving a deep breath, I whisper, “You need to tell me. Everything.”

“I’m going to, Irish. Everything.” Ashton’s head tips back as he pauses to collect his thoughts. His chest pushes out against mine as he takes a deep breath. I can almost see the weight lifting off of his shoulders as he lets himself speak freely for the first time. “My mother has late-stage Alzheimer’s. She developed it very early—earlier than most.”

An instant lump forms in my throat.

“She had me when she was in her early forties. Unplanned and highly unexpected. And unwanted by my father. He . . . isn’t one to share. That apparently included my mother’s affections.” He pauses to give me a sad smile. “My mother modeled for years in Europe before meeting my dad and moving to America. I have some of her magazine covers. I’ll show you them one day. She was stunning. I mean drop-dead gorgeous.”

I lift a hand to touch his jawline. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

He closes his eyes and leans into my fingers momentarily before continuing. “When she met my dad, she had no interest in having kids either, so it worked out well. They were married for fifteen years before I was born. Fifteen years of bliss before I ruined everything, according to my father.” He says that last part with an indifferent shrug, but I know he’s far from indifferent. I can see the pain thinly veiled in those brown irises.

Even though I know that I shouldn’t, I press my hand against his chest.

Ashton’s hand closes over it and he squeezes his eyes shut. “I thought I’d never feel you do that again,” he whispers.

I give him a moment before I gently push. “Keep talking.” But I leave my hand where it is, resting against his now racing heart.

Ashton’s lips curve into a small grimace. When his eyes open, he blinks against a glassy sheen. Just the idea of Ashton crying wrenches at my insides. I struggle to keep myself composed. “I still remember the day my mom and I sat at the kitchen table with a batch of cookies that I helped her bake. I was seven. She pinched my cheeks and told me that I was a blessing in disguise, that she didn’t realize what she was missing until the day she found out she was going to have me. She said that something finally clicked inside her. Some maternal switch that made her want me more than anything else in the world. She told me that I made her and my dad so very happy.” That’s when the single tear finally slips down his cheek. “She had no idea, Irish. No idea what he was doing to me,” he whispers, his eyes closing once again as he takes a deep, calming breath.

I brush the tear off his cheek but not before it spurs a dozen of my own, tears that I quickly wipe away because I don’t want to derail the conversation. “When did it start?”