One Tiny Lie A Novel

man . . . unless he wants answers. “What should I tell him?”
    She shrugs and then grins. “I find shock value works best with him.”
    “Well, I definitely have enough material for that.” She waits with arms crossed as I type:
I drank enough Jell-O shots to fill a small pool, and then proceeded to break out every terrible dance move known to mankind. I am now the proud owner of a tattoo and if I didn’t have a video to prove otherwise, I’d believe I had it done in a back alley with hepatitis-laced needles. Satisfied?
    My stomach tightens as I press “Send.” He keeps telling me to leverage that inner sarcasm he knows is in my head.
    Ten seconds later, my phone beeps again.
That’s a good start. Did you talk to a guy?
    I stare wide-eyed at my phone, processing his reaction—or nonreaction—to my night of scarring debauchery.
    That gives Kacey a chance to grab my phone out of my hand.
    “Kacey, what are you doing!” I chase her around the cab as her fingers furiously type; she’s cackling the entire time. I don’t know how she can run and text, but she does. Not until she’s hit “Send” does she slow enough to toss my phone to me. I fumble as I catch it and quickly check to see what my sister has done.
Not only did I talk to a guy but I’ve now seen two penises, including the one attached to the naked man in my room this morning when I woke up. I have pictures. Would you like to see one?
    “Kacey!” I shriek, smacking her against the shoulder.
    It’s a moment before the response comes.
Glad you’re making friends. Talk to you on Saturday.
    There are a few seconds of silence, during which my shock outweighs anything else, and then we burst out laughing, lifting the entire mood of this goodbye.
    “Okay, I’ve got to go now or I’ll miss my plane,” Kacey says with another tight hug. “Go forth and make thy mistakes.”
    “More than last night?”
    Kacey winks. “I didn’t see you making any mistakes last night.” Opening the taxi door, she waves at me before climbing in. And she keeps waving from the back window, her chin resting on the headrest, as the taxi disappears around the corner.

CHAPTER FOUR
    Regret
    I’m sure most girls do everything in their power to stage a run-in with Ashton Henley after getting drunk and making out with him on a random street corner.
    But I am not most girls.
    And I have every intention of avoiding him for the rest of my Princeton career.
    Unfortunately for me, fate has decided that forty-eight hours is all I get.
    After standing in line at the bookstore for hours, I’m rushing back to the dorm to unload twenty pounds of textbooks before I can join the late-afternoon campus tour. This 250-odd-year-old campus, with acres of stunning Gothic-style architecture, is rich with history that I want to see in person. I don’t have time for diversions.
    Of course, that’s the perfect time for an ambush.
    “What do ya got there, Irish?” A hand swoops in and grabs the course registration paper that’s tucked in between my chest and my books. I suck in a breath and shiver as his finger grazes my collarbone.
    “Nothing,” I mutter, but I don’t bother with more as there’s no point. He’s already intently reviewing my course list and is chewing a very full bottom lip in thought. So I just sigh and wait silently, taking the opportunity to notice things I couldn’t when I was drunk and it was dark. Or when I was naked and cornered. Like how, in the late-afternoon sunlight, Ashton’s shaggy hair has more brown in it than black. And how his thick brows are neatly groomed. And how his eyes have the tiniest green speckles within the brown. And how his impossibly long, dark lashes curl out at the ends . . .
    “Irish?”
    “Huh?” I snap out of my thoughts to find him staring down at me with that smirk on his face, implying he said something to me and I missed it because I was too busy gawking.
    Which I did. Because I was.
    I clear my throat, my ears burning with the rest of my face. I want to ask him why he keeps calling me that, but all I can manage is, “Pardon?”
    Thankfully, he doesn’t tease me. “How’s the tat?” he asks as he slowly slides the paper back to where he got it from, his finger once again grazing my collarbone. My body, once again, shivering and tensing at his touch.
    “Oh . . . great.” I swallow, hugging my books closer to my chest as I avert my gaze in the direction of my residence. At the groups of students milling