One Tiny Lie

I sigh. “I’m doing . . . better.”

“Good.”

I pause to take a deep breath. And then I just blurt it out. “I think I’m going to end things with Co

“Oh yeah? Maybe you should wait until after the weekend.” There’s another shift and the sound of tugging sheets, as if Reagan can’t get comfortable.

I find it strange that she doesn’t ask why, that she doesn’t sound at all shocked by my statement. Why not? I’m shocked. If I had written down on a piece of paper everything that I thought should comprise the ideal man for me, and then drew a caricature, I’d have a page with Co

“So meet his parents and then break it off. You’re not promising marriage. Otherwise you’ll make things really awkward for Co

“Why?”

“Because Dana will be there.”

That name . . . it’s like a punch to my sternum. “So what if she’s there. There’s nothing going on between Ashton and me.” Liar! Liar! Liar!

There’s a pause. “Well, that’s good, because Ashton’s going to be dead by tomorrow anyway.”

“What?” Panic bursts.

“He skipped practice tonight. My dad tracked him down. He’s probably still out ru

I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel about that. Guilty, definitely, because he’s being punished for being with me. But . . . my hands press flat against my belly as my heart ruptures with emotion. He knew it would happen and he did it anyway.

Reagan is still talking. “And don’t forget there’s the Halloween party that night. You don’t want to make that super awkward. It’s not like you and Co

“Right . . . Is Dana going to be there?”

“No, I overheard Ashton saying that she’ll be visiting her family in Queens.”

I breathe a sigh of relief.

“Anyway, that’s my vote. Wait until next week before you dump your pretty boy.”

I sigh. “Yeah, I guess.” What’s another few days of 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 Co

“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 Co

“Oh . . .” Co

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 October 31 is the day that shattered the design.

“I am getting so drunk tonight!” Reagan a

“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, right?”

Apparently the theme for all female costumes must begin with “the naughty”—Grant and Ty’s idea. The unfortunate thing is that I’m sure I’ll be the oddball if I don’t comply. “A schoolgirl, I can manage. Not the naughty part.” Reagan saw my pleated skirt—the one I wore the day Ashton drove me to the hospital—and decided to complete the costume for me, coming home with garters, thigh-highs, and red stilettos. I sigh. Truth be told, I don’t think I want to go. The sooner this weekend is over with, the sooner I can rid myself of this guilt choking the air out of my lungs. But Reagan doesn’t want to hear any of that.

She turns to give me puppy-dog eyes normally reserved for Grant. “Don’t you dare bail on me, Livie. It’s Halloween!”

“I . . . I don’t know. I have this thing and then my volunteering . . .” Not to mention I’ve barely slept the past four nights, my mind unwilling to shut down, my stomach unable to stop rolling. Dread—that’s what is ripping me apart. Dread over meeting Co