One Tiny Lie (Ten Tiny Breaths #2)(82)

She cried with me.

At some point Trent came out to stretch a duvet over us. He didn’t say a word, leaving us to our drunken, sobbing stupor. And as the first hints of sun came over the horizon, completely drained of every last emotion, every secret, every lie, I passed out.

“Can I see that picture again?” Kacey asks softly.

I hand her the four-by-six from my purse, so thankful that I had it on me when I left. “I can’t believe how young they are here,” she murmurs, tracing the lines of the image as I had. I smile to myself. Three years ago, Kacey couldn’t even glance in the general direction of our parents’ picture.

Waving it at me before she hands it back, she murmurs, “Proof that he cares a great deal about you, Livie. Even if he is a train wreck.”

I close my eyes and heave a sigh. “I don’t know what to do, Kacey. I can’t go back. I mean . . . he’s engaged. Or he was.” Is he still? I’d received a where-the-hell-are-you text from Reagan earlier. After explaining that I was back in Miami, we shared a few messages, but she had no information for me. Or she didn’t want to tell me, other than to say that she hid out in Grant’s room all day because there was a lot of screaming and yelling.

That made me start worrying about Ashton more. What if he’s not with Dana? What will his father do to him? Will he use whatever he has over his head?

“And he’s definitely a train wreck,” Kacey repeats. “He needs to clear the tracks before he can move on with anyone, and that includes you.”

Just the thought of it stirs an ache in my chest. She’s right. Whatever Ashton and I had, I have to let it go. As much as I want to keep trying, to stay close to him while he battles whatever demons he needs to battle, I can’t keep doing it. Not like this.

Not with Connor and Dana and . . . ugh. The ring. My stomach tightens. This thing between us—love or not—has turned me into a selfish, manipulating idiot who takes what she wants even though it may hurt others. Who kept convincing herself that everything she did was okay because she knew that the man she wanted cared about her.

Who would likely fall back into that trap because it felt so right, despite being so wrong.

“You don’t have to go back.”

I crack an eyelid to look at her, flinching against the harsh daylight as I do. “What . . . just give up on everything?”

She shrugs. “I wouldn’t call it giving up. More like living through trial and error. Or taking a breather. Maybe time away from Ashton and school will put things into perspective. Or maybe they’re already in perspective and you just need a little time to let the dust settle.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” I close my eyes, gratefully absorbing the comfort of being home.

“You sure you don’t want me to stay home?” Dad asks as he pushes the matted hair off my forehead.

I answer with a sneeze and a groan.

With a heavy sigh, he says, “Okay, that does it. I’m staying.”

“No, Daddy.” I shake my head, though I’d love nothing more than to have him comfort me. “You should go. I’ll just get you sick if you stay here and it’s Kacey’s big game tonight. She’d be upset if you missed it.” Scratch that. My sister would be crushed if Dad missed it. “I’ll be—” My words are cut off by another violent sneeze.

Handing me a tissue, Dad cringes. “Well, I’m not going to lie to you, kiddo. You’re kind of grossing me out right now.”

The way he says “kiddo” with his faint Irish brogue makes me giggle.

“Don’t worry. I’m grossing myself out right now, plenty,” I say between nose blows.

He answers with a chuckle and a pat to my knee. “Just teasing. You’ll always be my beautiful little angel, green snot and all.” He busies himself arranging the medicine and liquids on my nightstand while I reposition myself. “Mrs. Duggan is in the family room—”

“Ugh! Dad! I don’t need a babysitter!”

I see the shift before he utters a word. “Yes you do, Livie. You may act like a thirty-year-old sometimes but you’re biologically only eleven, and Child Protective Services frowns upon leaving eleven-year-olds home alone. No arguing,” he says briskly, leaning in to place a kiss on top of my head.

My brow knits as I fumble for my remote. Three back-to-back episodes of lions eating gazelles in the wild are too much.

With a sigh and a mutter about his stubborn girls, he stands up and heads toward the door. But he stops and turns back, waiting, his watery blue irises twinkling with his smile. My scowl lasts all of two more seconds before a grin wins out. It’s impossible to keep a scowl when my dad smiles at me like that. He just has a way about him.

Dad chuckles softly. “That’s my Livie Girl. Make me proud.”

He says the same thing every night.

And tonight, just like every other night, I flash him a toothy smile as I answer, “I’ll always make you proud, Daddy.” I watch him leave, shutting the door quietly behind him.

I wake up to a late-afternoon sky and my last words to my father playing over in my head. Such simple words. A tiny, routine phrase. But in reality, guaranteed to be a lie. I mean, how can anyone commit to something like that? Not every decision you will make is going to be a good one. Some of them will even be disastrous.

I turn and see that the person sitting in the lounger next to me isn’t as red-haired or female as the one who was there when I fell asleep.