One Tiny Lie A Novel

about. Anywhere but at the breathing reminder of my night of scandal.
    “Really? Because mine is annoying the hell out of me.”
    “It is kind of itchy,” I admit, glancing back to see Ashton’s mouth stretched into a wide grin, displaying dimples that are smack dab in the middle of his cheeks and deeper than Trent’s. Deep enough to make my breath hitch now. Deep enough that I remember admiring them in my drunken stupidity. I’m pretty sure I stuck my finger into one. And possibly my tongue.
    “At least your itch is on your back,” he says with a sheepish look. His skin is so tanned that it’s hard to tell, but I’m sure I see a slight flush in his cheeks.
    A giggle escapes me before I can hold it back. He joins in with a soft chuckle. And then I’m hit with a flash of us—facing each other and giggling. Only my fingers are entwined in the hair at the nape of his neck and his tongue is flicking one of my earlobes. I abruptly stop giggling and pull my bottom lip in between my teeth.
    “Of all the dumb things to do,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “At least it’s small.”
    I’m still trying to push the previous image of us out of my head as I hear myself agree with him, not thinking. “Yeah, I could barely read it until I really leaned in—” My stomach hits the ground like a bag of rocks, taking all the blood from my face with it. Did I just say that out loud? No, I didn’t. I wouldn’t.
    By the twinkle in his eyes, I know without a doubt that I did. I think I’m going to be sick. “It . . . I wasn’t . . . I really need to get going.” I start sidestepping around him as a bead of sweat trickles down my back.
    Stepping with me and nodding toward my books, he says, “You’re taking a lot of science classes.” Escape plan thwarted. What is he doing? Why is he chatting me up? Is he hoping for a repeat? Would I want one?
    My eyes flitter across his appearance. Yes, I’ll admit it. He’s beautiful. As Reagan pointed out, he may well be one of the hottest guys on campus. I’ve been here four days. I have nothing to base it on, and yet I’m confident that it’s true. And I’ve had too many face-flushing memory flashes in the last few days to try and deny that I didn’t enjoy that night.
    But . . . no, I don’t want a repeat. I mean, when I look at him, all I see is wrong . He doesn’t even look like a Princeton student. Not that there’s one specific type of person at Princeton; there isn’t. From what I’ve seen, it has a wonderfully diverse student body. Nothing like the sweater-vest-spoiled-brat stereotype portrayed in countless eighties movies.
    But Ashton just doesn’t fit in my mental image of Princeton. I don’t know if it’s his faded jeans that hang just slightly too low, or the thin gray shirt with sleeves pushed halfway up his arms, or the tattoo snaking up his inner forearm, or the frayed leather cuff around his wrist . . . I don’t know what it is.
    “Irish?”
    I hear him call my name. Gah! Not my name. His name for me. By that crooked smirk on those full lips, he’s caught me staring again and he’s enjoying it.
    I clear my throat and abruptly force out, “Yup. All science. All but one.” An English lit class. It’s impractical, useless for my medical career, but it will satisfy Dr. Stayner’s “suggestion” to pick one course that I would otherwise skip right over in the course calendar.
    “Let me guess. Pre-med?”
    I nod, smiling. “Pediatrics. Oncology.” Unlike so many students who toil over what to do with their lives, I’ve known my chosen career since the day my friend Sara Dawson died of leukemia. I was nine. The decision came quite easily. I cried and asked my dad what I could have done. With a gentle smile, he reassured me that there was nothing I could have done for Sara, but that I was bright enough that I could grow up to be a doctor and save other kids. Saving kids sounded like a noble life. A goal that I’ve never questioned or wavered from since.
    Now, though, as I look at Ashton’s scowl, you’d think I told him my dream was to work in a sewage plant. There’s a pause, and then he changes topic completely. “Look, about Saturday night . . . Can we just pretend it never happened?” he asks, sliding his hands into his pockets.
    My mouth drops for a second as my brain replays those words. The words I’ve been playing over and over in my own head for the last three days. Can I? I’d like to. It would make it