One Tiny Lie (Ten Tiny Breaths #2)(60)

I lean my crutches against the wall and gingerly step over to the table where Ashton has already made himself comfortable, his long legs stretched out and his leather jacket lying next to his feet. He pats the chair next to him for me. I take it, not because I want to sit beside him so much as I want to elbow him in the ribs if I have to. Hard.

The boys pull two chairs up to face Ashton, and by the serious expressions on their faces they think they’re about to uncover a major problem. “So, boys,” Ashton leans forward on his elbows. “Any guesses?”

“Do you like puppies?” Derek asks in a quiet voice.

“Yup.”

“Are you strong? Like Superman?”

“I don’t know about Superman, but...” Ashton flexes his arms and, even through his thin charcoal shirt, I can see the ripples form. “What do you think?”

Both boys reach up to touch his arms and they mouth “wow” at the same time. “Feel his muscles, Livie.”

“Oh, no.” I wave away, but Ashton is already grabbing my hand and placing it on his biceps. My fingers barely wrap around half of them. “Wow, strong,” I agree, rolling my eyes at him, but I can’t help the small smile. Or the heat racing up my neck.

“Are you rich?” Eric asks.

Ashton shrugs. “My family is, so I guess I am, too.”

“What are you going to be when you grow up?” Derek asks.

“Dude, he’s already grown-up!” Eric elbows his brother.

“No, I’m not yet,” Ashton says. “I’m still in school. But I’m going to be a pilot.”

I frown. What happened to being a lawyer?

“Does your breath smell?” Eric asks.

Ashton blows into his hand and inhales. “I don’t think so. Irish?”

“No, your breath doesn’t smell.” I smile, ducking to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and hide my blush. His mouth tastes like mint and heaven. Minty heaven.

“Why do you call her Irish?”

“Because she’s Irish, and when she gets drunk, she’s got a mean streak in her.”

“Ashton!”

The boys start giggling. By the snort of laughter from Diane, I’d say she heard that.

“Honestly.” I bury my face in my hands for a moment, which only makes the boys giggle more and Ashton grin more, and soon I’m laughing along with them.

Eventually the questions get more serious. “Do you have a mom and dad?” Eric asks.

Ashton didn’t expect that question. I can tell because he falters, and I see his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallows. “Everyone has a mom and dad.”

“Where are they?”

“Uh . . . my dad is at his house and my mom isn’t around anymore.”

“Did she die?” Eric asks with complete innocence.

A flicker of pain flashes across Ashton’s face.

“Remember the deal, boys,” I warn with a raised brow.

“I thought that was just our deaths,” Derek says solemnly.

“No, it’s a blanket rule. It applies to everyone.”

“Okay, sorry, Ace,” Eric says, hanging his head.

Ashton leans forward and squeezes his shoulder. “Don’t you worry about a thing, little man. She’s a bit strict with her rules, isn’t she?”

Eric rolls his eyes dramatically. “You have no idea.”

The boys keep throwing out questions in typical innocent-child style and Ashton keeps answering them. I find out that Ashton’s mom was from Spain, which is where he gets his dark eyes and tanned complexion. I find out that he’s an only child. I find out that he was born and raised in New York. I’m finding out more about him in this brief interrogation by two curious five-year-olds than I thought possible. Maybe more than most people have ever learned about Ashton Henley.

Finally, Ashton stands and announces, “Sorry to leave, but I have somewhere I need to be. It was real, hanging with you guys.” He holds out a hand in a fist-bump.

“Yeah, it was real,” Eric mimics casually as he and his brother return the gesture, their fists so tiny next to Ashton’s. All three of them turn to look at me, and I realize that I must have made a sappy sound.

Pinching my elbow lightly, Ashton says, “I’ll be back in three hours to pick you up by the main entrance, okay?” With that, he’s gone.

The rest of the volunteer shift goes downhill quickly. Lola comes in, looking smaller and paler and more feeble than the last time I saw her. Derek whispers to me that she’s been coming in less and less. The boys last only another hour before they say that they’re not feeling well, twisting my stomach. I spend the rest of the shift with other children—one recuperating from surgery after a car accident, another one there for a rare heart condition.

And I find myself watching the clock for more than one reason.

A different guy picks meets me at the main entrance three hours later. Not the playful, teasing one who shared a miniature table with two sick kids and made them giggle. Not the one who listened with quiet ease while I disclosed my long string of embarrassing, psychiatrist-inspired adventures.

No . . . the guy sitting next to me says barely a word, shares barely a look as we leave the city. I don’t know what happened, but something has changed. Something to make his jaw taut and his eyes glaze over. To make him so discontented that my chest aches with the growing tension. More than I already left the hospital with.