One Tiny Lie (Ten Tiny Breaths #2)(50)
My responding frown tells her I don’t understand why.
“My dad! Aren’t you listening? Oh, Livie.” She gives an exasperated look. “Sometimes I wonder where your head is . . . My dad isn’t crazy about him.”
“Why?”
“He thinks Grant doesn’t take life seriously. Grant’s afraid he’ll kick him off the team if he finds out.”
“But . . . he’s going to Princeton. How much more serious can he get?” I say with a disbelieving snort.
“Serious enough not to do it in the library with the Coach’s daughter,” she mutters, picking up her speed.
Fair enough.
The rain has started up again. It’s a light, cool drizzle and it doesn’t take long to soak through my navy shirt. But I don’t mind it at all. The route Reagan has chosen is a tranquil street through a Pleasantvillesque neighborhood of pretty houses and manicured lawns and large trees, just starting to change colors. It feels good to be away from campus. I feel as though a weight has fallen off my shoulders. Maybe I’m spending too much time there, letting it become a bubble. I let the quiet environment envelop me as I enjoy my escape, focusing on my breathing, surprised that I’m keeping up with Reagan as well as I am.
And I think about Ashton. I wonder about his life, about his parents, about his mother. I wonder how he lost her. Was the cause of death sudden, like a car accident? Or was it an illness, like cancer? Thinking back to our conversation that first week, to his reaction when I told him that I was planning on going into pediatrics and specifically oncology, I have to think that it was cancer.
We haven’t reached the end of the street when Reagan hollers, “Let’s turn around. I’m getting cold and we have almost a mile back home.” She crosses the street to retrace our steps on the other side. “Do you think you can manage a bit faster? This rain sucks.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t trust that weather station anymore,” I call out wryly, sucking back a mouthful of water. My mouth is so parched that my tongue hurts, but I don’t want to overdo the liquids for fear of cramps.
“What weather station?” She glances over her shoulder to give me an impish wink as I speed up, trying to catch her. That only makes her run faster. Too fast for me, I decide, keeping a few paces behind, gazing out on the quiet road ahead. It’s long, with bumps and dips that we’ll need to navigate through, and I need to direct my focus or I’m liable to trip over my own feet.
On the opposite side of the street—the route we were just on—I spot a lone figure jogging. Another insane person out in this weather. My eyes flicker back and forth between the road and the silhouette as I continue. Soon, it’s close enough that I can identify a male. Even closer, I see dark, shaggy hair.
It’s Ashton.
With evenly paced steps, sleek movements, and a stony face, Ashton runs like a well-trained athlete. One in a drenched white T-shirt that clings to every ridge of his chest. And I can’t peel my eyes off of him. My heart is already pounding from the run but now I feel an adrenaline rush coursing through my body, giving me a boost of energy. I feel like I could run ten miles today, like I could leap over cars, like I could—
My hands just barely stop my face from smashing against the sidewalk.
I guess I made enough noise in my fall to alert Reagan, because she screams my name and rushes back. “Are you all right?”
I wince as I pull myself up, a sharp pain shooting through my ankle, a sting in my palm. “Yeah, I’m—” My words end in a hiss as another pain jolts me. “I must have tripped over that ridge in the sidewalk.”
She walks over to inspect the concrete and frowns. “You mean this small, imperceptible hairline crack?”
With a curse under my breath, I mutter, “I warned you.”
“You did. Now what are we going to do?” Biting her bottom lip in, she slides her phone out of her hoodie pocket. “I’ll see if Grant is around. Maybe he can pick us up.”
“That was impressive, Irish!” Ashton calls out between breaths as he crosses the street toward us. Reagan looks up at him in surprise—as if she hadn’t noticed him running this way. I watch as her eyes drop slightly and widen. Exactly. How on earth could you not have noticed that running down the street, Reagan! She fixes me with a knowing stare, telling me that her dirty little sex-in-the-library mind has connected the dots that led to my tumble. “Hi, Ashton,” she offers with a playful lilt, still looking at me.
He gives her a quick nod before crouching down on one knee. While he inspects my ankle, I listen to his ragged pants and swallow the sudden pooling saliva in my mouth. How is there pooling saliva in my mouth? A minute ago I was parched! The pressure from his fingers, though gentle, makes me flinch, bringing me back to reality.
“Can you stand?” he asks, those gorgeous brown eyes full of concern.
“I don’t know,” I mumble, and struggle to get to my feet. His hands are at my waist in an instant to help me. It’s immediately obvious that I’m not going to be jogging or even walking home. “I think it’s sprained.” I’ve sprained my ankle enough times to know the feeling.
“I’m calling Grant,” Reagan announces, holding up her phone.
Suddenly I’m off the ground, cradled in Ashton’s strong arms, and he’s walking down the street, his hands somehow searing my skin through my clothes. “I’m not standing out here in the rain, waiting for Cleaver to show up,” Ashton throws back.