One Tiny Lie A Novel

you at the dorm,” I say, swallowing nervously as my eyes do a furtive glance around the room, looking for Ashton. I’m not sure how to act around him now. I can’t even guess how he’s going to act around me.
    “I couldn’t make it back in time, so I met up with Grant and we took a cab here together.” Reagan shoots a secretive look to Grant as she takes a seat next to him.
    “Oh yeah?” Biting the inside of my mouth to keep my grin in check, I ask, “How was your politics class?” Reagan is embracing an assortment of classes: in three different conversations, she’s told me she’s thinking of majoring in Politics, Architecture, and two days ago, History of Music. I don’t think Reagan has a clue what she wants to do after Princeton. I don’t know how she sleeps at night with that level of ambiguity.
    “Very political,” she answers dryly.
    “Hmm. Interesting.” Interesting, because one of her classmates, Barb, swung by our dorm room to drop off photocopies of notes for Reagan, who couldn’t make it to class. Reagan is obviously lying but I don’t know why. I suspect it has something to do with the lanky guy next to her. If I wanted to get back at her for . . . oh, everything . . . I’d call her on it in front of everyone. But I don’t.
    “Who’s playing tonight?” Ty asks, banging the drink menu noisily against the table.
    “Dude, that doesn’t make the waitress come any faster and it makes you look like a complete dick,” Grant mutters, snatching the thing out of his hand.
    Apparently it does work, though, because Cheryl appears within seconds to place our order on the table. “What can I get the rest of you?”
    Ty’s face looks ready to split, he’s grinning so wide. “What was that you said, Grant?”
    “I said ‘nice gut.’ Eat another bag of chips.”
    Ty’s grin doesn’t falter as he slaps his stomach in response. There’s nothing resembling a gut there. I take a sip of my drink as I survey each of them with curiosity. None of the guys have an ounce of flab on them, anywhere. Their bodies are all very different—Ty being on the shorter side and thick, Grant tall and lanky, Connor that perfect balance of height and build—but all are equally in shape. I’d imagine it’s due to the grueling workout schedule Reagan’s dad has them on.
    “What’s everyone drinking?”
    I hate that my heart skips a beat at the sound of that voice. I hate it because I’m usually also hit with the memory of his mouth on mine. It lingers like a sugary aftertaste, one I can’t seem to rid myself of—even with Connor sitting next to me. Tucking a strand of hair back behind my ear, I glance discreetly over my shoulder to find Ashton, his eyes scanning the crowd slowly, one hand absently scratching the skin above his belt. His shirt is lifted just high enough and his jeans are hanging just low enough that I can see the V-shape of his pelvis beginning. My breath hitches, recalling those same ridges in my room less than two weeks ago. Only he didn’t have a stitch of clothing on him then.
    “You okay, Irish?”
    As soon as I hear the name, I know I’ve been caught staring. Again. With a furtive glance over at Connor, I’m relieved to see that he’s occupied with Grant. I tilt my head back up to find Ashton’s knowing smirk.
    “I’m fine,” I say, sliding my straw into my mouth, taking an extra-long sip of my drink. The Jack in it is potent, which is good because it means that warm tingle will start flowing through me quicker. And I’m going to need all the warm tingle that I can get tonight if Ashton’s going to be here. I’m also going to turn into an alcoholic if this keeps up.
    “Hey, why did we start calling you Irish, anyway?” Ty asks as Ashton’s beautiful frame glides into the seat beside me. He sits with his legs bent and spread out, unconcerned that he’s encroaching on my space, that his knee leans against mine.
    Good question . One I don’t necessarily have the answer for. I’m about to swallow my mouthful of drink and explain that “Cleary” is an Irish name, but Ashton butts in before I can get the words out to announce in a loud voice that the entire table and likely the surrounding ones can’t miss, “Because she told us that she wants to fuck an Irishman.”
    Caramel-colored liquid explodes from my mouth, spraying all over the table, catching Reagan and Grant on the shirt as I start to choke. And I pray that I’ll choke to death. And if that