One Tiny Lie A Novel

conversations—about Mom and Dad, about what I remember of my childhood, even about my uncle Raymond and why we left Michigan—were never difficult or uncomfortable. Most of them were pleasant.
    Still, two hours talking about my drunken make-out session and everything that has ensued since has left me drained and my face smoldering. I knew I’d likely be questioned about last Saturday night. I planned on glazing over the more embarrassing moments, but Dr. Stayner has a way of drawing out every last detail.
    “You’ve come far in our few months together, Livie.”
    “Not really,” I counter.
    “You’re going on a date with a guy tonight, for Pete’s sake!”
    “It’s not really a date. It’s more of a—”
    His dismissive wave quiets my objection. “Three months ago you would have blown the guy off for a textbook without even thinking twice.”
    “I guess.” I push back a strand of hair that has blown across my face with the light breeze. “That or just dropped to the ground, unconscious.”
    Dr. Stayner snorts. “Exactly.”
    There’s a pause, and I cast a sidelong glance. “Does that mean my therapy is over? I mean, look at me. I’ve practically become an exhibitionist. And if I don’t cut back on the partying soon, you’ll have to admit me to an alcohol abuse program.”
    Dr. Stayner bursts out in a round of loud, boisterous laughter. When his amusement dies down, he spends a few moments staring down at his cup, his index finger running along the rim.
    And I start to get nervous. Dr. Stayner is rarely quiet for this long.
    “I’m going to let you live your college life the way you need to live it,” he says quietly. “You don’t need me telling you what to do or how to have fun. You need to make those decisions for yourself.”
    I flop back against the bench with a sigh of relief, a strange calm washing through me. As quickly as Dr. Stayner planted himself into my life, he’s stepping right back out. “I guess Kacey was wrong,” I say more to myself, the declaration lifting a weight off my shoulders that I didn’t realize was there.
    There’s that soft laughter again. “Oh, your sister . . .” He drifts off as a group of cyclists speed past. “When Kacey was first admitted into my care, I wondered about you, Livie. I truly did. I questioned how you turned out so well, all things considered. But I had my hands full with Kacey and Trent, and you seemed to be motoring along on a clear path. Even when Kacey came to me in the spring with her concerns, I was skeptical.” He pulls his glasses off to rub his eyes. “It’s the people like your sister—the obviously shattered ones—who make my job easy.”
    I frown, his words puzzling. “But I’m not like her, right?” I catch the waver in my voice.
    Dr. Stayner’s shaking head answers me before his words do. “Oh, no, Livie. You are surprisingly alike in many ways, but you are not alike in those sorts of matters.”
    “Really? I’ve always seen the two of us as polar opposites.”
    He chuckles. “You’re both stubborn as mules and sharp as whips. Of course your wit is a tad more sugarcoated than hers. Your sister wears her temper on her sleeve, but...” He purses his lips. “You’ve surprised me a few times with your outbursts, Livie. And I’m not easily surprised.”
    I watch those same cyclists cross along another path as I take in his words, a tiny smile touching my lips. No one has ever compared me to my sister quite like that before. I’ve always been the studious, responsible one. The trustworthy one. Cautious, calm, and levelheaded. My sister’s the firecracker. I’ve secretly envied her for that.
    And I think back on the past summer, jam-packed with things I never thought I could do, and a whole lot of other things I never even considered doing. Kacey had been there with me for a lot of it, eagerly embarrassing herself along with me. “This summer was interesting,” I admit with a smile. I turn to look at the graying doctor and I ask him the one question he’d never answered before, hoping that he will now. “Why did you have me doing all those crazy things? What was it really about?”
    He puckers his lips as if deciding what to say. “Would you believe me if I said it was purely for my own entertainment?”
    “I might,” I answer truthfully, earning his chuckle. “I mean, I get the speed dating, but I don’t see how line dancing or prolific cussing has helped me. I’d think it would have the