One Tiny Lie A Novel

you and Stayner would get along well . . .” We pass campus signs, indicating we’re not far and my day with Ashton is almost over. I don’t know when I’ll see him again. The thought hurts.
    “That’s right. You’re supposed to be spilling your guts to me, right?”
    My head falls back against the headrest as I mutter, more to myself, “You first.”
    I didn’t really mean anything by it. Ashton is riddled with secrets, but I know they’re not going to start trickling out of his mouth anytime soon. Still, I sense the temperature in the car plummet.
    “What do you want to know?” His tone is low and quiet. Hesitant, even.
    “I—” My voice falters. I start with what I think is an innocent question, my voice as casual as possible. “You told the boys that you want to be a pilot. Why?”
    With an exhale, he mutters, “Because you told me not to lie to them.”
    Okay . “What about being a lawyer?”
    “I’ll be a lawyer until I can be a pilot.” His tone is so calm and quiet that it lulls me into a sense of comfort.
    Switching gears, I ask, “What’s your favorite memory of your mother?”
    There’s a slight pause. “I’ll pass on that one, Irish.” Still calm and quiet, but the cutting edge is there.
    I watch him as he begins absently fingering the strap. “How old were you?”
    “Eight.” The answer comes with a crack. I close my eyes and turn to watch the house lights pass by, hoping they’ll replace the vision of the scared little boy that’s blazing in my skull.
    Ashton’s hand curls around mine. “He only lost control the once. The scars, I mean. He never left evidence the other times.” The other times . “The closet was usually his favorite. He’d put me in there for hours. Usually with duct tape, to keep me quiet.” I try to suppress the sob with my free hand but I can’t, and it comes out in a strange, guttural cry.
    We’re silent for a moment, but I need to know more about Ashton. Everything. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I ask, “Why do you wear it?”
    “Because I’m a fucking prisoner in my life, Irish!” As if that sudden outburst revealed more than he intended, his mouth clamps shut. He releases my hand.
    I alternate between furtive glances at him and smoothing the pleats in my skirt, but I don’t say anything as he turns into the quiet parking lot. When he pulls into a corner spot, off to the end, I expect him to shut the ignition and jump out, anxious to be rid of me. But he doesn’t. He lets the car idle with the radio playing softly as his fingers pinch the bridge of his nose.
    “You probably think I’m exaggerating, aren’t you.” His tone is tempered again. I sit still and listen. “I’m living it up, right? This school, the money, the girlfriend . . . this fucking car.” He slams his fist on the dashboard angrily. “Poor fucking me, right?” His hands fold at the back of his neck as he leans back to close his eyes. “He’s controlling me, Irish. My life. And everything in it. I’m trapped.” There’s no mistaking the pain in his voice now. It’s raw and agonizing, and it squeezes my chest .
    I don’t have to ask whom he’s talking about. I’m sure it’s the same person who gave Ashton his scars. I so badly want to ask how he’s trapped and why, but I don’t want to push him too hard. He might shut down. So instead I whisper, “How can I help?”
    “Make me forget.” He looks at me. The sadness that I saw in his eyes a week ago is revealing itself again.
    “I . . .” I falter. What is he asking me to do? He uses sex to forget, he already suggested that. But I won’t . . . I can’t . . . Panic is bubbling inside and it must be clear on my face.
    “Not that, Irish,” he whispers. “I don’t want that from you. I won’t ever ask for that.” He releases his seat belt and then reaches over to undo mine. Taking my hand, he pulls it toward his chest. With no hesitation and enormous relief, I shift in my seat until I can rest it over his heart. It responds immediately, starting to beat faster and harder as his hand presses tightly over mine, warming it.
    “Your hand like this? I can’t even describe how incredible it feels,” he whispers with a wistful smile. I bite my lip as a thrill rushes through my insides, knowing that I’m making him feel this good, that I feel so connected to him.
    Resting his head back on his seat and closing his eyes, he quietly asks, “Do you think about me,