One Tiny Lie A Novel

the dresser. With his hands on my waist, he lifts me into my top bunk. “Get comfortable,” he says as he grabs the tub and climbs up the ladder.
    “I don’t think this will hold both of us,” I mumble between blubbers as he crawls in next to me, forcing me closer to the wall.
    “You’d be surprised what these bunks will hold.” The secretive smile tells me that I don’t want the details. So I stay quiet while he pulls the covers up over both of us, adjusts all the pillows so they’re under him, and then forces his arm under my head so that I’m tucked in against his side with my head resting on his chest.
    He doesn’t say a word. He simply lies there quietly, his fingers drawing lazy circles along my back while he gives me a chance to calm down. I close my eyes and listen to the rhythm of his heart—slow and steady and therapeutic.
    “I’ve never had a C minus before. I’ve never had anything but an A.”
    “Never?”
    “Never. Not one.”
    “Your sister was right. You are too fucking perfect.” I tense at the words. “I’m kidding, Irish.” He sighs. “I know you don’t believe me but you don’t have to be perfect. No one’s perfect.”
    “I’m not, I’m trying to be . . . remarkable,” I hear myself murmur.
    “What?”
    I sigh. “Nothing. Just . . .” Something my dad used to say . “What if it doesn’t stop here? What if I get bad grade after bad grade? What if I can’t get into med school? What will I do then? Who will I be?” I’m starting to get frantic again.
    “You’ll still be you. And trust me, you’ll always be remarkable. Relax.”
    “I can’t!” I burrow my face against his chest. “Have you ever failed anything?”
    “No, but that’s because I’m brilliant, remember?” His arm squeezes around me to tell me that he’s teasing. “I’ve had a couple of Cs. One D. Bell curves can be a bitch.” He scoops a spoonful of melting ice cream out and slides it into his mouth. “Have you gotten any other tests back yet?”
    I shake my head against his chest in response.
    “How are you feeling about them?”
    “Before today, I was a little worried. Now?” My hand finds its way up to wrap around his shoulder, wanting to be closer to him, to sop up this sense of security he’s offering me, if only temporarily. “Terrible. Awful. If I did this bad on my best subject, then I definitely failed English.”
    “Well . . .” Another spoonful goes into his mouth. “Did you do something different preparing for these than in the past? Did you study?”
    “Of course I studied,” I snap.
    “Easy.” I hear his hard swallow. “Were you . . . distracted?”
    I close my eyes and whisper, “Yes.”
    There’s a long pause before he asks, “By what?”
    You . I can’t say that. It’s not Ashton’s fault that my hormones and my heart are wreaking havoc on my brain. “Lots of things.” My hand absently shifts down to his chest to settle where the tattoo is. Where the scar is.
    Ashton’s muscles against my cheek automatically tense. “I told you, I wanted you to forget about that.” For a long time, I hear nothing but his heartbeat as my fingers first draw, then rub that spot on his chest, memorizing the ridge. It’s enough to lull me into an almost-sleep.
    “Dana’s dad is a significant client of my father’s, and keeping her happy keeps her dad happy.” My hand falters for a second at the sound of her name, as guilt slams into my gut. But I force it back in motion as I pace my breathing. “If her dad is happy, then that makes him happy. And if he’s happy . . .” He says that as if it makes complete sense. All it tells me is that this man—his father—abused him as a small child and still has control over him as a grown man.
    Keeping my hand moving slowly, I whisper, “So, you’re still with her . . . but not by choice.”
    “As far as an arranged relationship goes, she’s perfect. She’s sweet and pretty. And she lives far away.” He’s numb to it. I hear it. He’s acquiescent and numb.
    “Does she know about this arrangement?”
    A small derisive snort escapes. “She thinks we’ll get married. And if—” He clamps his mouth shut. But I think I know where that train of thought was going. If his father wants Ashton to marry her . . . A shiver runs from the base of my neck down my back, around my ribs, into my throat, enveloping me with icy dread. God, what is he holding over Ashton’s head?
    My body instinctively