One Tiny Lie A Novel

adding dryly, “Doesn’t sound like part of my autopilot master plan, does it?”
    “Hmm . . . interesting.”
    “Well.” I roll my eyes and confess, “not really. I slept in. It wasn’t intentional.”
    He chuckles. “And how do you feel, now that it happened?”
    I frown. “Strangely, okay.” Twenty-four hours after a mini meltdown—one where I texted my lab partner in a panic and he assured me at least five times that the prof didn’t notice that I was missing and that I could borrow his notes—I’m oddly unbothered.
    “You mean, like missing a class is not the end of the world?” There’s a soft chuckle again.
    I smile into the phone, defeated by his ease. “Maybe not.”
    “Good, Livie. I’m glad that you will survive this heinous offense. And how was your first day of volunteering at the hospital?” I catch the shift in his inflection. I recognize it well. It’s the one where he already knows the answer but is asking me anyway.
    “Livie? You there?”
    “It was good. The kids are sweet. Thanks for setting it up.”
    “Of course, Livie. I’m a firm believer in gaining experience where you can.”
    “Even if I don’t belong there?” I retort, my words laced with bitterness.
    “I never said that, Livie, and you know that.”
    There’s a long pause and then I blurt out, “It was hard.” He waits silently for me to elaborate. “It was harder than I thought it would be.”
    He seems to know exactly what I mean without me saying it. “Yes, Livie. It’s hard for grumpy old men like me to walk those halls. I knew it would be especially tough on you, given your nurturing spirit.”
    “It will get better, though, won’t it? I mean,” I say as I dodge a woman who’s stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, looking confused, “I won’t feel so . . . sad every day that I’m there, will I? I’ll get used to it?”
    “Maybe not, Livie. Hopefully, yes. But if it doesn’t get easier, and if you decide that you want to head in a different path, find another way to help children, that’s okay too. You’re not failing anyone by changing your mind.”
    I chew the inside of my mouth as I consider that. I have no intention of changing anything and it’s not as if he’s encouraging me to give up. I know that. It’s almost as if he’s giving me permission, if I should so choose. Which I’m not doing.
    “Now tell me what’s going on with these boys who are chasing you.”
    Boys? Plural? My eyes narrow as I glance around, surveying the people in the area. “Are you following me?”
    I have to wait a good ten seconds for him to stop howling with laughter before I can continue. I know what I want to ask him, but now that I’m talking to him, I feel stupid. Should I be asking the renowned PTSD therapist about something so trivial? So girly? I can hear Dr. Stayner sipping something on the other end of the phone as he waits quietly. “How do you know when a guy likes you? I mean, really likes you? Not just . . .” I swallow as my cheeks redden. I might start to choke on my words soon. “Not just in a physical way?”
    There’s a long pause. “It’s usually by the things he does rather than the things he says. And if he does them without making a show of it, then he’s got it bad.”
    You’re my forever girl.
    Just words . There, Dr. Stayner has confirmed it. I shouldn’t be hung up on what Ashton said to me while drunk because they’re just words. It doesn’t mean there’s anything there aside from a case of raging hormones. I feel my heart sink a little with that realization. But at least it’s an answer and not the unknown.
    I should stick with Connor. He’s what feels right.
    “Thanks, Dr. Stayner.”
    “Is this about that Irish fellow you met?”
    “No . . .” I heave a sigh. “Ashton.”
    “Ah, the Jell-O thief.”
    “Yeah. He also happens to be Connor’s best friend and roommate.” And he may or may not have a girlfriend, but I leave that part out. It’s already complicated.
    “Well, that’s quite the pickle you’re in, Livie.”
    My only response is a grunt of agreement.
    “How would you feel if this Ashton fellow was interested? More than physically, I mean.”
    I open my mouth, but I realize I don’t have an answer aside from, “I don’t know.” And I don’t, truthfully. Because it doesn’t matter. Connor is perfect and easy. Ashton is far from perfect. I know now what Storm and Kacey mean when they call someone “sex on a stick.”