One Tiny Lie A Novel

year?”
    “1982.”
    “Huh . . . I was ’81.” His hand moves to scratch his beard as if he’s deep in thought. “What did you say your last name was again?”
    “Cleary.”
    “Cleary . . . Cleary . . .” Robert repeats over and over as he rubs his beard with his fingers, and I can tell he’s racking his brain. I take another long sip of my drink as I watch. There’s no way he knows my dad, but I like that he’s trying.
    “Miles Cleary?”
    I choke on a mouthful of liquid and my eyes widen in surprise.
    Robert seems proud of himself. “Well, how about that!”
    “Seriously? You knew him? I mean—” I try to temper my excitement.
    “Yes.” He nods slowly, as if memories are quickly filling his brain. “Yes, I did. We were both Tiger Inn members. Went to a lot of the same parties. Irish fellow, right?”
    I feel my head bobbing up and down.
    “Friendly, easygoing.” He chuckles lightly, and I see a hint of something like chagrin pass over his weathered face. “We dated the same girl for a short period of time.” Another chuckle, and his creased cheeks flush with whatever memory that brought up. One that I’m sure I don’t want to hear about. “Then he met that gorgeous dark-haired gal and we didn’t see much of him anymore.” His eyes narrow just a touch as he peers at my face, studying my features. “Looking at you, I’d say he married her. You look like her.”
    I smile and nod, averting my gaze to the ground for a moment.
    “That is so cool, Livie!” Reagan squeals, her eyes wide with excitement. “We should have them over next time they’re in town!”
    Robert is already nodding in agreement with his daughter. “Yes, I’d love to reconnect with Miles.”
    “Umm . . .” Just like that, my brief balloon of excitement is deflated by reality. Yes, it would have been great to see my dad and Robert together. To have my parents over here. To watch my dad’s easy laugh. But that’s not going to happen. Ever. I feel Connor’s arm squeeze me, pulling me tightly to him. He’s the only one who knows. Now everyone will know. “Actually, he and my mom died in a car accident when I was eleven.”
    There’s a standard “face” for that news when you deliver it. Shock, followed by some paling of the skin, followed by a lifted brow. Usually a single, small nod. I’ve seen it a thousand times. Robert’s face follows precedent to a T, with an additional why-didn’t-you-know-that-about-your-roommate glare in his daughter’s direction. It’s not her fault, though. I never told her. I didn’t avoid telling her; it just didn’t come up in conversation. “I’m . . . I’m sorry to hear that, Livie,” he offers gruffly.
    I try to console him with a gentle smile and reassuring words. “It’s okay, really. It was a long time ago. I’m . . . good.”
    “Well . . .” There’s that awkward silence, the reason why I generally avoid sharing this about myself in groups of people. Then Grant, who’s still lingering, saves the day by switching topics to the upcoming race, freeing me from being the center of attention. Freeing me to glance up at Ashton for the first time since the conversation about my parents began.
    I expect that standard face. But I don’t find it there. I find his eyes locked on me with the most peculiar expression on it. A tiny smile touches his lips; lightness floats in his gaze.
    There’s no other way to describe it other than . . .
    Peace.

    “So this is what all the fuss is about.”
    Grinning proudly, Connor clasps my hand as we walk along Prospect Avenue—or “the Street,” as it’s known by everyone in Princeton—and up the steps to the impressive Tudor-style building with brown clovers decorating the front. It’s Thursday night. A line already snakes outside the entrance, but Connor flashes his club ID card and gets us past with no trouble.
    Pushing the heavy door open for me to pass, he gestures dramatically toward the interior. “Welcome to the best eating club!” Sounds of laughter and music hit me immediately.
    “I imagine you all say that about your respective clubs,” I tease, taking in the floor-to-ceiling dark wood paneling and antique furniture as we move through. Last Saturday, after Robert had confirmed that my dad was a member here, Connor promised to give me a tour. My nerves have been swirling ever since. “It’s nice.” I inhale deeply, as if the act will somehow help me sense Miles Cleary’s presence