“Hmm. Well, that doesn’t sound like much fun. But neither is jogging.”
“No, it’s pretty much the opposite of fun.” Between ice packs and classes and a few awkward shower moments with Reagan, the last week and a half has been a nightmare. I missed my volunteer hours last Saturday because I was in too much pain. I would be missing this week as well if Connor hadn’t offered to drive me.
“How is everything else?”
“Confusing.”
“Which boy is confusing you?”
“Which one do you think?” I mutter as I watch for Connor’s white Audi. I told him I’d wait for him on this park bench so he could just pull up to the curb and let me hop in. I’m still so thankful that he’s taking an entire Saturday away from his schoolwork for me. I know he has a giant paper due next week.
And I don’t deserve him after what I let happen with Ashton. His best friend.
I’ve chalked it up to temporary insanity. A momentary lapse in judgment brought on by a simultaneous full-scale Ashton assault on both my heart and my libido.
Once I escaped the situation, Grant drove Reagan and me back to the dorm, where I struggled between icing my foot, pretending to study, squirming under Reagan’s penetrating stare, and setting my memories of the afternoon on repeat.
And I’ve continued doing basically that—missing some classes in the process—for the past eight days. I’ve steered clear of Ashton. He hasn’t come looking for me, which is good, because I can’t handle seeing him while I’m dealing with the overwhelming shame I feel around Connor. Connor swings by to check up on me every day, bringing me flowers and cupcakes and a “get well” bear. It’s as if he has a “how to make Livie explode with guilt after secretly making out with my best friend” list and he’s checking the boxes off one by one. Guilt that makes my teeth grit to keep from blurting out my string of indiscretions, guilt that makes me pepper him with kisses—so many kisses that my lips have started to swell.
The problem is that no amount of kisses I share with Connor can match the intensity of the one I shared with Ashton. It’s the reason that I almost came clean.
But I can’t do it. I’m too scared. I’m too weak. I’m afraid that I could be throwing away a great thing—the thing—for one heat-of-the-moment kiss that will never happen again anyway. Connor did say “slow and easy,” after all. That could easily be interpreted as “open.” If I say it enough times in my head, I might start to believe it.
Or I could pretend that the incident with Ashton never happened. Block it out completely.
“Care to tell me what happened?” Dr. Stayner asks casually. “No judgment here, of course.”
Sighing, I mutter, “I can’t.” I’m afraid that if I start talking, I’ll divulge Ashton’s secret. I promised him that I wouldn’t tell anyone.
“Okay . . . well, how can I help?”
“You can’t. I just need to stay away from him. I think he’s broken. Like Kacey broken.”
“I see. And you, being the person that you are, have gotten emotionally involved before you realized it.”
“I think that’s what this is . . .” When my heart aches every time I think of him, when I play out a dozen scenarios for how Ashton became the way he is, when I want to hunt his father down and scream at him? Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s what it means.
“That, coupled with your attraction to him, helps things get out of control quickly, especially if you’re carrying on this relationship with his best friend.”
I dip my head in embarrassment because, once again, my mind-reading shrink has in two sentences summed up a week of inner turmoil. “I can’t let myself get sidetracked by a hot guy and his issues. It’s too distracting. I need to just avoid him for the next . . . year.”
“That will be difficult, given that he lives with Connor.”
“Better than the alternative,” I mutter under my breath, rubbing my forehead.
“Hmm . . .” There’s a long pause, and then I hear Dr. Stayner clap his hands. He must have me on speakerphone. “That’s it! I know what your task is for this week.”
“What? No task, Dr. Stayner. You said no more. You said—”
“I lied. You will find five of Ashton’s redeeming qualities.”
“Have you not been listening to me?”
In true Dr. Stayner fashion, he ignores my question. “As part of your task, you will say what you’re thinking at all times. The truth. Don’t overanalyze, don’t choose your words. Just spit it out. And if he asks you a question, you have to answer it honestly.”
“What? No. Why?”
“Let’s call it an experiment.”
“But . . . No!” I sputter out.
“Why not?”
Because what I’m thinking about around Ashton usually involves his body parts! “Because . . . no!”
“I expect a full report in a month’s time.”
“No. I’ll barely even see him this month. I have exams. I’m busy.”
“I’m sure you will.”
“No.”