One Tiny Lie (Ten Tiny Breaths #2)(70)

“Hey, Reagan. How’s it going?”

She flops into her bed. “I got kicked out of the library for being too loud.”

I snort. “Too loud at what exactly?” Schoolwork isn’t a guaranteed pastime for Reagan at the library, after all.

“Studying by myself. Go figure, right?” I giggle, knowing exactly why. Reagan tends to talk out loud when she’s working through her textbooks. I think it’s cute, but most people would find it annoying. “If only they knew . . .” There’s a pause, and then she casually mentions, “I saw Connor there tonight.”

“Oh yeah?” I try to make that light and airy as the guilty virgin slut coils tighten around my chest.

The bed frame creaks as Reagan shifts beneath me. “He asked how you were doing. You know, because of a bad midterm mark.”

I sigh. “I’m doing . . . better.”

“Good.”

I pause to take a deep breath. And then I just blurt it out. “I think I’m going to end things with Connor.”

“Oh yeah? Maybe you should wait until after the weekend.” There’s another shift and the sound of tugging sheets, as if Reagan can’t get comfortable.

I find it strange that she doesn’t ask why, that she doesn’t sound at all shocked by my statement. Why not? I’m shocked. If I had written down on a piece of paper everything that I thought should comprise the ideal man for me, and then drew a caricature, I’d have a page with Connor on it. “He wants me to meet his parents.” How can I do that now? His mother will know! Mothers have radar for these things. She’ll out me publicly. It will be the first stoning in Princeton rowing history.

“So meet his parents and then break it off. You’re not promising marriage. Otherwise you’ll make things really awkward for Connor and yourself the day of the race. It’s already going to be awkward.”

“Why?”

“Because Dana will be there.”

That name . . . it’s like a punch to my sternum. “So what if she’s there. There’s nothing going on between Ashton and me.” Liar! Liar! Liar!

There’s a pause. “Well, that’s good, because Ashton’s going to be dead by tomorrow anyway.”

“What?” Panic bursts.

“He skipped practice tonight. My dad tracked him down. He’s probably still out running laps, and it’s cold out there.”

I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel about that. Guilty, definitely, because he’s being punished for being with me. But . . . my hands press flat against my belly as my heart ruptures with emotion. He knew it would happen and he did it anyway.

Reagan is still talking. “And don’t forget there’s the Halloween party that night. You don’t want to make that super awkward. It’s not like you and Connor are sleeping together yet . . . .right?”

“Right . . . Is Dana going to be there?”

“No, I overheard Ashton saying that she’ll be visiting her family in Queens.”

I breathe a sigh of relief.

“Anyway, that’s my vote. Wait until next week before you dump your pretty boy.”

I sigh. “Yeah, I guess.” What’s another few days of festering guilt? It’s a good idea, actually. Punish myself. I deserve it. I roll onto my side, my brain worked into exhaustion. “’Night, Reagan.”

“’Night, Livie.”

There’s a pause. “Hey, Livie?” Reagan clears her throat a few times in a way that tells me she’s struggling not to burst out in laughter. “Next time can you please hang the sock on the door to warn me?”

“They’re beautiful,” I whisper. I’m curled into a ball on my bed with a bouquet of purple irises in my hand and Connor on my phone. And I don’t deserve them. Or you.

“I remember you saying you loved irises. They’re not in season in the fall, did you know that?”

I smile as the tears trickle down my cheek. Dad used to surprise Mom with bouquets of dark purple irises every spring. Except it wasn’t really a surprise because he’d do it every Friday night for, like, five weeks straight—for as long as they were in season. Each time, though, Mom’s face would split with a wide grin and she’d fan her face with excitement as if he were proposing to her. Kacey and I used to roll our eyes and mimic Mom’s over-the-top reaction.

Now my memory of purple irises will be tied to my treachery.

“I know they’re not.” That means Connor spent an astronomical amount of money, either on imports or special-grown. “What are they for?”

“Oh . . .” Connor pauses, and I can picture him leaning against the counter in the kitchen. “Just to let you know that I was thinking about you and to not worry about that grade.”

I swallow. “Thanks.” That grade. Since that C minus paper, I’ve received all of my other midterms back. Cs. All of them except for English lit, which earned a B. The prof even made a note that he liked the way I attacked the complex topic. He made it sound like a B is a good thing. My take on the moral dilemmas faced by the characters in Wuthering Heights and their choices was apparently fascinating to him. Maybe it’s because I can’t seem to get a grasp of my own morals anymore that I can make interesting observations about others’ plights. I feel as though I’ve entered some strange twilight zone where everything I know has been turned upside down. I considered texting Ashton to let him know that I needed more cheering up, but I resisted the urge.