One Tiny Lie (Ten Tiny Breaths #2)(71)
“My parents are looking forward to meeting you tomorrow.”
Squeezing my eyes shut tight, I lie, “Same here.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
October 31
Dr. Stayner once suggested that all people face a day in their life that defines who they are, that shapes who they will become, that sets them on their path. He said that one day will either guide or haunt them until they take their last breath. I told him he was being dramatic. I told him I didn’t believe it. It makes it sound as if a person is a pliable hunk of clay up until that point—just sitting around waiting to be fired, to solidify those curves and creases that hold their identity, their stability. Or their instability.
A highly implausible theory. And that, coming from a medical professional.
Maybe he’s right, though.
Looking back on it now, I guess I could agree that my day of firing was the day that my parents died.
And October 31 is the day that shattered the design.
“I am getting so drunk tonight!” Reagan announces with her arms held high and her head back, basking in the early-morning sun. She doesn’t care that we’re standing at a crowded finish line of spectators, waiting for the guys to climb out of their winning boat. Reagan had warned me that this race was a big deal, but I was still surprised to hear that over four hundred boats would be racing today.
“And how is that different from every other weekend?” I tease, pulling my light jacket tight to my body. Three years in Miami temperatures has spoiled me for the crisp northern air that I grew up in. The fact that it’s mid-morning and we’re down by the river only adds to the chill.
“What do you mean? It’s completely different. We have a week off from classes and tonight’s party is going to be epic.” She jumps up and down excitedly, those adorable dimples under her eyes appearing, her honey-blond hair wagging in a ponytail. “And I have the cutest naughty nurse costume.” I can only shake my head at her. I’ve seen it already. It is cute and it’s certainly naughty. And highly unrealistic. Grant won’t know what hit him. “You’re dressing up as the naughty schoolgirl, right?”
Apparently the theme for all female costumes must begin with “the naughty”—Grant and Ty’s idea. The unfortunate thing is that I’m sure I’ll be the oddball if I don’t comply. “A schoolgirl, I can manage. Not the naughty part.” Reagan saw my pleated skirt—the one I wore the day Ashton drove me to the hospital—and decided to complete the costume for me, coming home with garters, thigh-highs, and red stilettos. I sigh. Truth be told, I don’t think I want to go. The sooner this weekend is over with, the sooner I can rid myself of this guilt choking the air out of my lungs. But Reagan doesn’t want to hear any of that.
She turns to give me puppy-dog eyes normally reserved for Grant. “Don’t you dare bail on me, Livie. It’s Halloween!”
“I . . . I don’t know. I have this thing and then my volunteering . . .” Not to mention I’ve barely slept the past four nights, my mind unwilling to shut down, my stomach unable to stop rolling. Dread—that’s what is ripping me apart. Dread over meeting Connor’s parents, dread over seeing Ashton with his sweet and unsuspecting girlfriend.
Dread over seeing Ashton’s father.
I don’t even know if he’ll be here; I never asked. But just the thought makes me sick. There are few things that spawn violence in me. Hurting those I care about is one. Hurting a child is another. He’s done both. Maybe if I attack Ashton’s father, I can avoid meeting Connor’s parents altogether?
“Relax!” Reagan says, nudging me with her body. “Say, ‘Hi, nice to meet you, ba-bye.’ End of story.”
“And then what, Reagan? How do I break up with him? It’s not like he’s done anything wrong that I can use against him.” Not like me. A sour taste fills my mouth. I’m going to have to look him in the eye and hurt him. Can I avoid that part? It’s only been about two months. What’s the etiquette? Maybe I could do it through email . . . Kacey would be the right person to ask but, seeing as I’ve kept my sister in the dark up until now, it will spark an afternoon of questions I’m not ready to face and things I’m not willing to admit to having done.
“Livie!” I turn to see Connor in his tight orange-and-white sleeveless top and black shorts—the team uniform—break through the crowd with a wide grin on his face. He’s toweling the sweat off of his glistening body.
I take a deep, calming breath. You can do this. Just keep being nice to him. Just a few more days until I rip his heart out and stomp on it.
“Want a hug?”
I give him a wrinkled-nose smile and curl my shoulder away from him. That’s not fake, actually. A sweaty Connor is far from appealing. He chuckles and plants a kiss on my forehead instead. “Okay, later, maybe. What’d you think of the race?”
“It was amazing.” I had watched the guys with balled fists as they rowed in to first place standing—their movements synchronized, powerful, graceful.
“It was.” Scanning the sea of heads, he says, “I’ll be back soon. Stay right here. Okay?” A slight frown creases his brow. “You okay? You seem a little bit off lately.”
I immediately force a smile. “I’m good. Just . . . nervous.” I lift to my tiptoes to give him a light peck on the lips.