One Tiny Lie (Ten Tiny Breaths #2)(57)

“Uh, nothing. Just had a weird phone conversation.” I busy myself with folding my jacket over my lap.

“Who’s Dr. Stayner?”

My hands freeze. “What?”

“You just mumbled, ‘I can hear you laughing from here, Dr. Stayner.’ Who’s Dr. Stayner?”

“I . . . uh . . . he’s . . .” I said that out loud! I’m already blabbing my thoughts without realizing it! Puppet strings! Gah! Ohmigod. Did I just say this out loud too? From the corner of my eye, I check Ashton’s expression. He’s glancing between me and the road with a quirked brow. I can’t tell. I need to stop thinking. All thinking must stop! “Relax, Irish! You’ve got crazy eyes. Kind of freaking me out now.”

I can’t tell. I don’t think so. Forcing myself to take a few deep breaths, I will my eyes back into my head.

“By your reaction, I’m guessing he’s a psychiatrist?”

Kacey was right—you’re not just a pretty face.

“You think I have a pretty face, Irish?”

I slap my hand over my mouth. I did it again!

When his laughter dies down, Ashton lets out a heavy sigh. “So . . . you’re in therapy?”

Do I want Ashton to know about Dr. Stayner? How do I even answer his question? Technically I’m not in therapy but, yes, Dr. Stayner is a psychiatrist. One that I may or may not have on speed dial. In any case, explaining Dr. Stayner and the last four months will make me sound like a wack job.

“It’s a really long drive to New York,” he warns me, strumming his fingers over the steering wheel.

I shouldn’t have to explain anything to Ashton. It’s none of his business. He has his secrets and I have mine. But maybe this is an in. Maybe talking about my issues will help him talk about his. And, given all the time I’ve spent trying to puzzle him out, I need an in . . .

“Yes, he’s my psychiatrist,” I say quietly as I stare out at the road. I can’t meet his eyes right now. I don’t want to see judgment there.

“And why are you seeing a psychiatrist?”

“My unruly sex drive?”

“Irish...” The way he says my nickname makes me glance in time to catch him lift in his seat and tug at his jeans slightly, as if to make himself more comfortable. “Tell me.”

Maybe there’s some negotiating to be had here. “Only if you tell me why you call me Irish.”

“I told you I’d explain that, but first you have to admit that you want me.”

My mouth clamps shut. No, there’s no negotiating with Ashton.

“Seriously, Irish. Tell me about your shrink.” There’s a pause. “Unless you want explicit details about my unruly sex drive and how you can help me with it.” He says it in a gravelly tone, the one that makes my mouth instantly dry and my thighs warm, as images of the first night and last week and my dream collide into one embarrassingly hot mess in my head. Damn Ashton! He knows exactly how to make me squirm. He enjoys it, too, laughing softly as my face turns red. Suddenly talking about Dr. Stayner doesn’t seem so embarrassing at all.

“You won’t tell anyone?”

“Your secrets are safe with me.” By the way his jaw tightens, I instantly believe him.

“Okay. Back in June, my sister had this crazy idea . . .” At first my explanation is full of stilted sentences. But as I get further into it—as Ashton’s cute chuckles grow more frequent, hearing how I spent my summer with Kacey swan-diving off a bridge and grocery-shopping in matching Oscar Mayer wiener costumes—it gets easier to talk, easier to divulge, easier to laugh about it.

Ashton doesn’t interrupt me once. He doesn’t make me feel stupid or crazy. He simply listens and smiles and chuckles quietly as he drives. He’s actually a great listener. That’s a redeeming quality. One down, four to go.

Shaking his head, Ashton murmurs, “This guy sounds like a lunatic . . .”

“I know. Sometimes I wonder if he’s even licensed.”

“Why do you keep talking to him, then?”

“He’s cheap?” I joke feebly. In truth, I’ve asked myself that question a thousand times. There’s only one answer I can come up with. “Because he feels it’s important and I owe him for my sister’s life. You don’t understand what . . .” My words drift as I swallow the sharp lump in my throat. “My sister was in the car accident that killed my parents. It was bad, Ashton. Four other people died. And she almost did.” I pause to study my entwined fingers in my lap. Talking about it is still hard for me. “In a way, she did die that night. She was in the hospital for a year before she was strong enough to be released . . .” I can’t help the derisive snort and shake of my head, still bitter with the doctors who discharged her. Strong enough . . . What was she strong enough for? Lifting bottles and bongs to her lips? Pleasing more guys than I ever want to know about? Beating the hell out of a bag of sand? “My sister was lost for a long time. Years. And then Dr. Stayner—” I swallow as tears well in my eyes, trying to keep them at bay. A few slip out anyway. I rush to wipe them away but Ashton’s hand somehow beats me, his thumb brushing against my cheek quickly and gently before it pulls back to rest on his thigh again. “Dr. Stayner brought her back to me.”

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.