by K. A. Tucker
I regret it.
He regrets me. The man whore regrets messing around with me. Enough to track me down and ask that I not tell anyone. He even felt bad when he let that fact slip. That’s what that cringe was.
It was one thing when I was regretting him. I mean, I did something stupid and completely out of character. I gave away a whole pile of firsts to a guy I don’t even know. Who’s probably had a hundred drunken one-night flings that went farther than the one the other night did with me.
Who regrets me.
I take a seat on the steps and stare vacantly down at my hands. Every rational bone in my body is telling me to stop thinking about it, but I can’t. I swallow several times, but the dryness in my throat won’t abate as I run through all the reasons why Ashton might regret me. Does he find me that unattractive? Was waking up on Sunday one of those “coyote ugly” mornings Kacey always talks about? I know I must have looked terrible, with my hair a wild rat’s nest and my eyes bloodshot and my breath harsh enough to wilt daisies.
Maybe it was my “skill level”? I sure as hell know I’m not experienced, but . . . was I that bad?
I’m so wrapped up in trying to comfort my ego that when I hear a guy say “excuse me” nearby, I keep my focus on the ground, dismissing him entirely, hoping he’s talking to someone else. His next words, though—not so much the words but how he says them—make my head snap up, searching for the owner.
“Are you okay?”
I know my mouth is hanging open as I watch him take a seat next to me on the step, but I don’t care. I just nod in awe as I stare at the deep green eyes and pleasant smile.
“Are you sure?” he asks with a soft chuckle. His chuckle is just as pleasant as his smile.
“Are you from Ireland?” I blurt out before I’m able to control it. Closing my eyes, I try to explain myself by stumbling over my words. “I mean . . . I thought . . . you have an accent . . . you sound Irish.” And you sound like a moron, Livie.
“I’m Connor,” he says. “And I am. I’m originally from—”
“Dublin,” I interrupt as a bubble of excitement grows inside me.
He nods once, beaming as if pleased. “I moved to America when I was twelve.”
My grin widens. I can’t stop. I must look like an idiot.
“And do you have a name, miss? Or should I just call you Smiley?”
“Oh, yes, right.” I purse my lips to get my face under control and I thrust out my hand. “Livie Cleary.”
His eyebrow shoots up as he accepts my hand. His is warm and strong and . . .comfortable.
“My dad grew up in Dublin. Your accent . . . you sound like him.” My dad had moved to America when he was thirteen, so he’d lost the thickness of the brogue, but it was still there, slipping in and out of his words gracefully. Just like Connor’s.
“You mean your dad is charming and smart as well?”
I giggle as I drop my gaze momentarily, biting my tongue before I accidentally correct him with the past tense. Was charming and smart. Two minutes into a conversation isn’t exactly the time to be bringing up my dead parents.
There’s an easy silence between us and then Connor asks, “And why are you sitting here, all by yourself, Miss Cleary?”
I wave a dismissive hand in the air. “Oh, I was supposed to take the historical tour but I missed it. I got delayed with . . .” My thoughts drift back to my previous conversation, taking a part of my comfort with it. “An asshole,” I mutter absently.
Connor does a quick scan around us and asks with a smile. “Is the asshole still around?”
I feel my face turning red. “You weren’t supposed to hear that.” Ever since that week when Stayner made me inject a variety of swear words—of my sister’s choosing—in every sentence that came out of my mouth, I’ve found my vocabulary unintentionally more colorful. Especially when I’m upset or nervous, though I find that I’m suddenly neither, right now. “And, no. I hope he’s far away.” Deep in a well, with a slew of girls he doesn’t regret to keep him occupied.
“Well”—Connor stands and holds out a hand—“I doubt my tour will be nearly as educational but I’ve been here for three years, if you’re interested.” I don’t even hesitate, accepting his hand. Right now, there isn’t a thing I’d rather do than walk around the Princeton campus with Connor from Dublin.
It turns out that Connor from Dublin knows surprisingly little about Princeton history. He does, however make up for it with enough embarrassing personal stories. My sides hurt from laughter by the time we reach a secluded, medieval-looking courtyard outside my residence hall, one I didn’t know existed and am glad that I’ve discovered because it looks like a perfect place to study. “ . . . and they found my roommate in nothing but black socks right here the next morning,” Connor says, pointing to a wooden bench, an easy smile on his face.
Somewhere between our meeting spot and now, I started to appreciate just how attractive Connor is. I hadn’t really noticed it immediately, but it was probably because I was still so ruffled after seeing Ashton. Connor is tall with sandy blond hair—tidy but stylish—and smooth, tanned skin. His body is lean, but I can tell by the way his pressed khaki pants fit him as he walks and how his button-down checked shirt stretches across broad shoulders that he’s fit. Basically, he’s the guy I’ve always pictured myself walking around this campus with someday.
But I think it’s Connor’s smile that makes me gravitate toward him. It’s wide and genuine. There’s nothing hidden behind it, no deception.
“How do you pass your classes? It sounds like all you do is party,” I ask as I lean against the bench, pulling one knee up on the seat.
“Not as much as my roommates would like me to.” Just hearing his easy chuckle makes me sigh. “The parties are over once classes start. Until after midterms, anyway. To each their own, but I want to go home with an excellent education, not a failed liver and an STD.”
My eyes flash toward him in surprise.
“Sorry.” His cheeks flush slightly, but he quickly recovers with a grin. “I’m still a bit annoyed with them. They threw a bloody toga party on Saturday. We’re still cleaning up the house.”
My body instantly tenses. Toga party? The same toga party where I was wasted and making out with Ashton? I swallow before I manage to ask in strained whisper, “Where did you say you lived?” I have no clue where that party was, so knowing the address makes no difference. What does make a difference is whether Connor was there to witness my spectacle.
He slows to look at me with a curious expression. “Just off campus, with a few other guys.”
Just off campus. That’s what Reagan said when we headed out that night. Maybe there was more than one toga party that night?
“Oh yeah?” I try to make my voice sound light and relaxed. Instead I sound like someone’s choking the life out of me. “I went to a toga party on Saturday.”
He grins. “Really? Must have been my house. Not many people throw toga parties anymore.” With an eye roll, he mutters, “My roommate, Grant. He’s cheesy like that. Did you have fun?”
“Uh. Yeah.” I watch him from the corner of my eye. “Did you?”
“Oh, I was in Rochester for my cousin’s wedding,” he confirms, shaking his head. “Kind of sucked that it was the same weekend, but my family’s big on . . family. My mom would have killed me if I missed it.”
I let the air release from my lungs painfully slowly, just so it’s not obvious how relieved I am that Connor wasn’t there. Although if he had been, he probably wouldn’t be talking to me right now.
“I heard it got pretty wild, though. Cops shut it down.”
“Yeah, there were some drunk people there. . . ,” I say slowly and then, wanting desperately to change the subject, I ask, “What’s your major?”
“Politics. I’m pre-law.” He watches me closely as he talks. “Hoping f
or Yale or Stanford next year, if all goes well.”
“Nice,” is all I can think to say. And then I catch myself staring at those friendly green eyes and smiling.
“And you? Any ideas what you’re going to major in?”
“Molecular biology. Hoping for med school.”
A rare frown furrows Connor’s brow. “You know you can still apply to med school with a humanities major, don’t you?”
“I know, but sciences are easy for me.”
“Huh.” Connor’s eyes appraise me curiously. “Beautiful and smart. A deadly combination.”
I duck my head as a blush creeps into my cheeks.
“Well, here we are.” He gestures toward my hall. “Gorgeous building, isn’t it?”
I tip my head back to take in the Gothic architecture. Normally, I’d agree. Now, though, I find myself disappointed because it means my tour, and my time with the smiling Connor, is over. And I’m not ready yet.
I watch as he backs away, sliding his hands into his pockets. “It was nice to meet you, Livie from Miami.”
“You too, Connor from Dublin.”
He kicks a loose stone around with his shoe for a few awkward seconds as I stand and watch. Then he asks, almost hesitantly, “We’re having little party over at our house this Saturday, if you’re interested. Bring that wild roommate you talked about, if you want.”
With my head tilted and my lips pursed, I say, “But I thought you said the parties were over once classes started.”
His eyes search my face, a thoughtful gleam in them. “Unless it’s an excuse to invite a beautiful girl over.” Then his cheeks redden and his gaze drops to the ground.
And I realize that, on top of being good-looking, Connor is about as charming as they come. Not sure how to answer, I simply say, “See you Saturday.”
“Perfect. Say, eight o’clock?” He rhymes off a street name and house number and, with one last, wide grin, he takes off at a slight jog as if late for something. I lean against the bench and watch him go, wondering if he was just being nice. And then, as he’s about to slip behind a building, he slows and turns to look back in my direction. Seeing that I’m still watching, he blows a kiss my way and disappears.
And I have to press my lips together to keep from grinning like an idiot.
This day is definitely looking up.
CHAPTER FIVE
Diagnosis
While I’ve attempted to experience as many of Princeton’s campus-coordinated events as possible as a way of immersing myself in the spirit and culture, Reagan has decided to immerse herself in as many beer-and-vodka-coordinated events as exist. And she’s decided that I need immersing along with her. It’s because I want to please my lively roommate that I ended up at dorm parties every night this week and in bed each morning with heavy eyelids. That, and I also hoped I’d run into Connor again. In the back of my mind, there was a fear of running into Ashton, too. In the end, hope won out over fear.
Unfortunately, I never saw Connor. But I also didn’t see Ashton. I did meet a few more freshmen, though, including a Korean girl named Sun who’s as new to the whole partying scene as I am and sort of attached herself to me on Thursday night.
I honestly don’t know how Reagan is going to survive the heavy workload of classes here. Her books sit in a pile on her desk, unopened. Not even a flip-through. I’m starting to believe that she’s not a student, that Kacey and Dr. Stayner have somehow planted her here. I can almost picture them cackling while they hatched this plan. Student or not, though, I’m happy to have Reagan as a roommate. Except when she puppy-dog-eyes me into drinking with her.
Ceaseless knocking on our door wakes me up.
“Kill me now,” Reagan moans.
“I will, but can you get that first?” I mumble, burying my head under my pillow, pushing a textbook with exceptionally sharp corners out from beneath me. I had managed to sneak out of the dorm party two floors up and come back to get some reading done late last night. The clock read three a.m. the last time I had checked. Now it reads seven. “It has to be for you, Reagan. I don’t know anyone on campus,” I rationalize, curling my body up tighter.
“Shhh . . . they’ll go away,” she whispers. But they don’t. The knocking increases in strength and urgency, and I’m starting to get concerned it will wake up half the floor. As I lift myself to my elbows, ready to crawl out of my top bunk and answer it, I hear Reagan’s defeated groan and rustling sheets. She makes a point of stomping to the door. She throws it open with a quiet curse and something about Satan.
“Wake up, sleepyheads!”
I bolt upright so fast that the room starts to spin. “What are you doing here?” I ask in a high-pitched voice as I turn to see the distinguished-looking man in a well-tailored suit step into the room. I haven’t seen Dr. Stayner in person in two and a half years. He looks basically the same, if not for a bit more gray in his hair, which he has a bit less of, in general.
He shrugs. “It’s Saturday. I told you that we’d talk today.”
“Yeah, but you’re here. And it’s seven a.m.!”
He glances at his watch with a frown. “Is it really that early?” And then he shrugs and throws his arms up in the air, his eyes lighting up with genuine excitement. “What a beautiful day!” As quickly as they lifted, his arms drop and his calm tone returns. “Get dressed. I have a conference in the city that I have to get back to by noon. I’ll meet you in the lobby in thirty minutes.”
Before turning to leave, he spots a disheveled but curious-looking Reagan in a rumpled tank top and pink pajama bottoms. He holds out his hand. “Hi, I’m Dr. Stayner.”
She accepts it with a weary frown. “Hi, I’m Reagan.”
“Ah, yes. The roommate. I’ve heard so much.”
From whom? I haven’t talked to him since . . .
I sigh. My freaking sister. Of course.
“Make sure Livie socializes, will you? She has a tendency to focus too much on school. Just keep her away from those Jell-O shooters.” Not waiting for a reaction, he walks out as briskly as he walked in, leaving my new roommate staring at me.
“Who is that?”
Where do I begin with that answer? Shaking my head as I swing my legs out of bed, I mumble, “I don’t have time to explain right now.”
“Okay but . . . He’s a doctor? I mean, is he . . .” She hesitates. “Your doctor?”
“For better or worse, it would seem.” I want nothing more than to pull the covers over my head for a few more hours, but I know that if I’m not down there in thirty minutes, he’s liable to march down the hall shouting my name at the top of his lungs.
“What kind of doctor is he? I mean . . .” She’s twirling a strand of her long hair around her fingers. Nervous Reagan is a rare sight.
I open my mouth to answer but stop, an impish idea coming to me. I still owe Reagan for the vodka shot she practically forced down my throat last night. . . Pressing my lips together to hide my smile as I rifle through my dresser for a pair of jeans and a shirt, I say calmly, “Oh, his focus is primarily schizophrenia.”
There’s a pause. I don’t look, but I’m sure her mouth is hanging open. “Oh . . . well, is there anything I need to worry about?”
Grabbing my toiletry bag, I walk over to the door but make a point of pausing as my hand closes over the knob, looking up as if deep in thought. “I don’t think so. Well, unless I start to . . .” I wave my hand dismissively. “Oh, never mind. That probably won’t happen again.” With that, I quietly slip out the door. I make it about four feet before I burst into giggles, loud enough that someone moans, “Shut up!” from a nearby room.
“I’ll get you for that, Livie!” Reagan shrieks through the closed door, followed by her howls of laughter.
Sometimes humor does make it better.
“I knew the text was from Kacey,” Stayner says as he tips h
is head back to drain the last of his coffee—the largest cup of it that I’ve ever seen. I on the other hand have let mine grow cold, barely touching it as Dr. Stayner coaxed out every last embarrassing detail from my first week on campus.
He’s big on talking things out. I remember Kacey cursing him for it in the beginning. My sister was broken back then. She refused to discuss anything—the accident, the loss, her shattered heart. But, by the end of that intense inpatient program, Dr. Stayner had dragged out every last detail there was to know about Kacey, helping her heal in the process.
She warned me about him too, back when the calls started. Livie, just tell him what he wants to know. He will find out one way or another, so make it easier on yourself and just tell him. He probably already knows anyway. I think he uses Jedi mind tricks.
In the three months of our nontherapy sessions, I’ve never had a truly difficult conversation with Dr. Stayner, nothing that I found too painful, too tragic, too hard to bring up. True, he’s asked me to do things that still give me heart palpitations, like bungee jumping and watching a back-to-back marathon of the Saw movies, which gave me nightmares for weeks after. But our actual conversations—about Mom and Dad, about what I remember of my childhood, even about my uncle Raymond and why we left Michigan—were never difficult or uncomfortable. Most of them were pleasant.
Still, two hours talking about my drunken make-out session and everything that has ensued since has left me drained and my face smoldering. I knew I’d likely be questioned about last Saturday night. I planned on glazing over the more embarrassing moments, but Dr. Stayner has a way of drawing out every last detail.
“You’ve come far in our few months together, Livie.”
“Not really,” I counter.
“You’re going on a date with a guy tonight, for Pete’s sake!”
