One Tiny Lie A Novel

the thin dark-brown strap—the stitching around the edges, the way the two ends meet with little snaps—to see that it likely was a belt at one time.
    A belt .
    A small gasp escapes my lips as my eyes fly from his arm to his shoulder and finally land on his chest, at the long scars hidden beneath the ink.
    And I suddenly understand.
    Dr. Stayner says that I see and feel others’ pain more acutely than the average person because of what I went through with Kacey. That I react to it more intensely. Maybe he’s right. Maybe that’s why my heart drops and nausea stirs in my stomach and tears trickle silently down my cheek.
    Ashton’s low whisper pulls my attention to his face, to see the sad smile. “You’re too smart for your own good, you know that, Irish?” I catch his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. I’m still holding his wrist, but he doesn’t pull away from my grasp. He doesn’t pull away from my stare. And when my free hand reaches up to settle on his chest, over the symbol, over his heart, he doesn’t flinch.
    I want to ask so many questions. How old were you? How many times? Why do you still wear it around your wrist? But I don’t. I can’t, because the image of a little boy flinching against the belt beneath my fingertips brings the tears on faster. “You know you can talk to me about anything, right, Ashton? I won’t tell anyone,” I hear myself whisper in a shaky voice.
    He leans in to kiss away one tear on my cheek and then another, and another, shifting toward my mouth. I don’t know if it’s the intensity of this moment—with my heart aching for him and my body responding and my brain completely checking out—but when his lips settle at the edge of mine and he whispers, “You’re staring at me again, Irish,” I automatically turn to meet them.
    He responds immediately, wasting no time closing his mouth over mine, forcing it open. I taste the salt from my tears as his tongue slides in and curls against mine. One hand comes around to grip the back of my neck as he intensifies the kiss, pushing my head back to get closer, deeper. And I let him because I want to be close to him, to help him forget. I don’t worry about how I’m doing, whether I’m doing it right. It has to be right if it feels like this.
    My hand never moves from his chest, from the heart that races beneath my fingers, as this single kiss seems to go on forever, until my tears are dry and my lips are sore and I’ve memorized the heavenly taste of Ashton’s mouth.
    And then he suddenly breaks free, leaving me panting for air. ”You’re shivering.”
    “I hadn’t noticed,” I whisper. And I hadn’t. I still don’t.
    All I notice is this pounding heart beneath my fingers and the beautiful face in front of me and the fact that I’m struggling to breathe.
    Scooping me into his arms, he carries me out to his room, setting me down on his bed. With purpose, he marches over to his dresser, pushing his door shut as he passes. I don’t say anything. I don’t even look around the room. I simply stare at the definition of his back, my mind blank.
    He walks over to drop a simple gray shirt and pair of sweatpants beside me. “These might fit you.”
    “Thank you,” I mumble absently, my fingers running over the soft material, my mind reeling.
    I can’t explain the next few moments. Maybe it’s because of what happened a month ago and what just happened in the bathroom, but when Ashton demands, “Arms up, Irish,” my body obeys like a well-trained soldier moving in slow motion. I gasp as I feel his fingertips curl under the bottom of my shirt and lift the damp material up, up . . . until it’s sliding over my head, leaving me in my pink sports bra. He doesn’t gawk at me or make some remark to make me nervous. He quietly unfolds the gray shirt next to me and pulls the collar over my head and then slides it down over my shoulders. My arms aren’t in it yet when Ashton kneels in front of me. Swallowing, I watch his face as his hands glide under the shirt to the back of my bra, deftly unhooking the clips, all while his eyes are on mine. Pulling it out to toss on the floor, he waits for me to ease into the sleeves.
    “Stand,” he says softly, and again my body responds, putting one hand on his shoulder for support to protect my sprained ankle. The shirt is at least five sizes too big and it hangs halfway down my thighs. So when his hands reach up to seize the waistband of my pants and tug them down, I’m