One Tiny Lie A Novel

festering guilt? It’s a good idea, actually. Punish myself. I deserve it. I roll onto my side, my brain worked into exhaustion. “’Night, Reagan.”
    “’Night, Livie.”
    There’s a pause. “Hey, Livie?” Reagan clears her throat a few times in a way that tells me she’s struggling not to burst out in laughter. “Next time can you please hang the sock on the door to warn me?”

    “They’re beautiful,” I whisper. I’m curled into a ball on my bed with a bouquet of purple irises in my hand and Connor on my phone. And I don’t deserve them. Or you.
    “I remember you saying you loved irises. They’re not in season in the fall, did you know that?”
    I smile as the tears trickle down my cheek. Dad used to surprise Mom with bouquets of dark purple irises every spring. Except it wasn’t really a surprise because he’d do it every Friday night for, like, five weeks straight—for as long as they were in season. Each time, though, Mom’s face would split with a wide grin and she’d fan her face with excitement as if he were proposing to her. Kacey and I used to roll our eyes and mimic Mom’s over-the-top reaction.
    Now my memory of purple irises will be tied to my treachery.
    “I know they’re not.” That means Connor spent an astronomical amount of money, either on imports or special-grown. “What are they for?”
    “Oh . . .” Connor pauses, and I can picture him leaning against the counter in the kitchen. “Just to let you know that I was thinking about you and to not worry about that grade.”
    I swallow. “Thanks.” That grade . Since that C minus paper, I’ve received all of my other midterms back. Cs. All of them except for English lit, which earned a B. The prof even made a note that he liked the way I attacked the complex topic. He made it sound like a B is a good thing. My take on the moral dilemmas faced by the characters in Wuthering Heights and their choices was apparently fascinating to him. Maybe it’s because I can’t seem to get a grasp of my own morals anymore that I can make interesting observations about others’ plights. I feel as though I’ve entered some strange twilight zone where everything I know has been turned upside down. I considered texting Ashton to let him know that I needed more cheering up, but I resisted the urge.
    “My parents are looking forward to meeting you tomorrow.”
    Squeezing my eyes shut tight, I lie, “Same here.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
    October 31
    Dr. Stayner once suggested that all people face a day in their life that defines who they are, that shapes who they will become, that sets them on their path. He said that one day will either guide or haunt them until they take their last breath. I told him he was being dramatic. I told him I didn’t believe it. It makes it sound as if a person is a pliable hunk of clay up until that point—just sitting around waiting to be fired, to solidify those curves and creases that hold their identity, their stability. Or their instability.
    A highly implausible theory. And that, coming from a medical professional.
    Maybe he’s right, though.
    Looking back on it now, I guess I could agree that my day of firing was the day that my parents died.
    And October31 is the day that shattered the design.

    “I am getting so drunk tonight!” Reagan announces with her arms held high and her head back, basking in the early-morning sun. She doesn’t care that we’re standing at a crowded finish line of spectators, waiting for the guys to climb out of their winning boat. Reagan had warned me that this race was a big deal, but I was still surprised to hear that over four hundred boats would be racing today.
    “And how is that different from every other weekend?” I tease, pulling my light jacket tight to my body. Three years in Miami temperatures has spoiled me for the crisp northern air that I grew up in. The fact that it’s mid-morning and we’re down by the river only adds to the chill.
    “What do you mean? It’s completely different. We have a week off from classes and tonight’s party is going to be epic.” She jumps up and down excitedly, those adorable dimples under her eyes appearing, her honey-blond hair wagging in a ponytail. “ And I have the cutest naughty nurse costume.” I can only shake my head at her. I’ve seen it already. It is cute and it’s certainly naughty. And highly unrealistic. Grant won’t know what hit him. “You’re dressing up as the naughty schoolgirl,