One Tiny Lie A Novel

imagine the questions that would spark. “I have a party to go to tonight,” I admit with reluctance.
    “Oh.” Eric finally takes his eye patch off to inspect it. “We were supposed to have a party today but they cancelled it.”
    “Why’d they do that?”
    “Because of Lola.”
    Lola. Dread runs its icy fingers down my back. There’s only one reason I can think of that would make them cancel a party for a bunch of kids who need it more than anything. I don’t want to ask. Still, I can’t keep the tremble out of my voice. “What about Lola?”
    I catch Derek’s head shift slightly as he and his brother share a look. When Eric looks up at me again, it’s with sad eyes. “I can’t tell you because we made that deal.”
    “Lola—” I clear my throat against the bulge instantly within it, as a strange numbness washes over me.
    “Livie, why can’t we talk about it? Is it because it makes you so sad?”
    “Is it because it makes you so sad? ”His little voice, so innocent and curious. So enlightening. Good question, Eric . Was that rule for their benefit or mine? I close my eyes against the rush of tears threatening . I can’t break down in front of them. I can’t .
    And then little hands settle on each of my shoulders.
    Through blurry eyes, I find each twin standing on either side of me, Derek now watching me with a furrowed brow. “It’s okay, Livie,” he says in that raspy voice. “It’ll be okay.” Two five-year-old boys, both suffering from cancer, who just lost a friend, are comforting me.
    “Yeah. Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it,” Eric adds.
    “You’ll get used to it .” Words that steal the air right out of my lungs and turn my blood cold, as if it froze in my veins. I know it didn’t because I’m still alive; my heart is still beating.
    All the same, in five words, in one second, something profound just died inside of me.
    I swallow and give each of their little hands a squeeze and a kiss. I give them my most heartwarming smile as I say, “Excuse me, boys.”
    I see my reflection in the glass as I stand and walk toward the playroom door. My movements are slow and steady, almost mechanical, like those of a robot. Turning to the left, I head down the hall toward the public washrooms.
    I keep going.
    I get on the elevator, I get off of the elevator, I walk past the main desk and out the main entrance.
    Out of the hospital.
    Away from my autopilot future.
    Because I don’t ever want to get used to it.

    Why the hell did I come?
    I ask myself this as my stupid red stilettos click up the stairs to the house. I ask myself this as I push past a group of already drunk partiers, one of them trying to cop a feel under my skirt as I pass. I ask myself this as I step into the kitchen to find Reagan perched on the edge of the counter with a slice of lime in one hand, a salt shaker in the other, and Grant’s face in her well-exposed cleavage.
    Tequila. That’s why the hell I came here tonight.
    To drown myself in tequila so the thinking stops and the doubts fade and the churning guilt in my stomach stills for one damn night.
    And, so I can thank Ashton for the photo and find the nerve to tell him that I think I’m in love with him. Because there is some tiny hope hidden deep in my heart that my saying it will make a difference.
    I snatch the shot glass out of Grant’s hand before he unburies his face and I down it. The burn is almost intolerable. I steal Reagan’s lime to kill the vile taste before I vomit. Of all the things to want to drink  . . . Gah!
    “Livie!” Reagan cries, her hands flailing wildly, scattering salt in every direction. “Look! Livie’s here!” A loud cheer of approval fills the kitchen and I automatically blush in response. I have no clue who any of these people are and I highly doubt they care who I am.
    “I knew this look would work for you.” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively, her finger jabbing me directly in my left boob. Probably unintentionally. Maybe not.
    “How much has she had?” I ask Grant. Enough not to see that my eyes are still puffy and red from an hour of crying, thankfully .
    “Enough to tell me that if she ever jumped the fence, you’d be good to experiment on,” Grant says, handing me another shot. I pound it back immediately, despite knowing I’m going to hate it. I hate this guilty rot inside me more.
    “That’s right. I did say that! I know what you like . . .” She gives an overexaggerated