One Tiny Lie A Novel

doesn’t work, then I pray that someone slipped Drano into my glass so I can start convulsing and be done with this horror.
    My prayers aren’t answered, though, and soon I’m left with nothing but burning cheeks as I listen to Ty bellow with thunderous laughter, turning half of the bar our way. Even Grant and Reagan can’t keep a straight face as they wipe my drink off themselves. I can’t meet Connor’s eyes. He hasn’t said a word. What if he believes it?
    With teeth gritted so tightly that I think they may crack, I turn toward Ashton, intent on stabbing him with my glare. He’s not even looking at me, though. He’s busy reading the menu. And smiling, clearly proud of himself.
    I don’t know what I expected from him tonight, but a comment like that wasn’t it. If I don’t leave right now, Connor will witness me turn into a female version of Tarzan and leap onto his best friend’s back. Through a clenched jaw and to no one in particular, I say, “Be back in as sec.” My chair makes a loud screeching sound as I push it back and escape to the restroom.
    Once there and safely locked inside my stall, I lean my forehead against the cool door, thumping against it a few times. Is this how it’s going to be from now on? How am I going to deal with him? I’m used to being teased by my sister and Trent and Dan and . . . well, all of them, really. They get a kick out of making me blush because I’ve always been so uncomfortable when it comes to this stuff. Why, then, does it make my blood boil when Ashton does it?
    Maybe he wants me to lose my cool in front of Connor. If the note is true and he’s jealous of his best friend, then convincing Connor that I’m a nut job would effectively scare him away. No . . . that just seems like too much work for a guy who has a girlfriend and one-night stands waiting in the wings. Dammit! I’m thinking too much about this. I’m analyzing and overanalyzing, moving on to obsessing. This is why I’ve avoided guys up until now. They make you crazy.
    And this is also why I need to stop thinking about Ashton and focus on “slow and easy” Connor.
    My eyes sting as I dig my phone out of my purse to I text my sister:
Ashton is an ass.
    Her response comes almost immediately:
A giant ass.
    I quickly text back, playing the game we’ve played since we were young—still childish, only now more colorful:
A giant leprous ass
A giant leprous ass that plays his penis like a banjo
    I giggle with the visual in my head as I type:
A giant leprous ass who plays his penis like a banjo while singing “Old McDonald.”
    The responding text is a picture—one of Ashton leaning over in the tattoo artist’s chair, the man with the ink gun at work. Ashton’s face is twisted into a hideous, exaggerated wince.
    I burst out in a fit of giggles, the tension sliding off my shoulders. Kacey always knows how to make things better for me. I’m still giggling, typing out a response to her, when a door squeaks open. I clamp my hand over my mouth.
    “Did you see who’s here?” a nasally female voice asks.
    “If you’re talking about Ashton, then . . . how could anyone miss him,” another voice drawls as the sound of water rushing from a tap fills the room.
    My ears perk up. I hit “Send” on my text to Kacey, telling her that I love her. Then I set my phone on silent.
    “He’s sitting at a table with two girls, though,” the second voice continues.
    That’s when I know for sure. They’re talking about my Ashton. I mean . . . not my Ashton, but . . . My cheeks heat. I probably shouldn’t be listening to this. But it’s too late; I can’t leave now. I’m one of those girls .
    “So what? He was here with a girl the last time I was here and I still went home with him,” the first voice murmurs haughtily, and I picture her leaning forward to apply lipstick in the mirror. She moans. “God, that was such a great night.”
    Now I’m downright uncomfortable. The last thing I want to hear are details about Ashton’s dirty exploits. I wonder if he chased this one into a classroom and defaced her books with hearts and his number, too.
    Either she hasn’t noticed that there’s someone in the stall or she doesn’t care, because she continues. “We did it out on the back deck. Out in the open. Anyone could have seen us!” she whispers excitedly. “And you know me . . . I’m pretty respectable . . .” I roll my eyes and decide that Ashton likely didn’t have to do