by Dahlia Adler
“All right then,” he says, completely unruffled despite the fact that for some reason I suddenly have more words in me than my entire Byzantine textbook. “I’ll see you in class.”
“Yup.” I want to say more, but he’s already focused his attention on a paper in front of him, as if I’m already gone. Almost as if I were never even there, really. He might not think I’m a crazy slut, but I’m still just one of his lousy students coming to him for tutoring. It’s weird that for a minute, I actually sort of forgot that.
It’s a good thing I don’t care what Connor Lawson thinks, or that might actually sting.
• • •
Whether it’s the idea of Connor thinking of me as just another dumb student that spurs me to have an insanely productive afternoon, I’m not sure, but by the time I go to sleep at almost 3:00 a.m., I’m completely caught up. I actually blinked a few times at my computer screen as I typed the conclusion on my English paper.
The best part is, I can sleep in. I’d spoken to Connor’s friend Lauren as soon as I got back to my apartment from study group, and she offered to drive Max. I’d taken Tyler to get a bike as soon as I got the loaner car back with its expensive new paint job—and made a mental note to stick the bill to Trevor’s door with a fucking dagger—and he’d be taking himself to school, at least until it got too cold. That means seven blissful hours until my first class, and I intend to enjoy all of them.
It all sounds like a lovely, perfect plan, which comes to a screeching halt—literally—at 4:18 a.m.
I don’t even recognize the sound as human at first, and my instinct is to bury myself under my covers. But then I realize the sound is all too man-made, or rather boy-made.
It’s the sound of a seven-year-old having a horrible nightmare.
I race out of my room and nearly smack into Tyler coming to get me. We both dash back to Max, who’s screaming “Mommy!” over and over at the top of his lungs. Shushing him doesn’t quiet him in the slightest, and when I drop onto the bed next to him and wrap my arms around his shoulders, the only change is the feeling of dampness on my legs and seeping into my sleep shorts.
He’s peed the bed.
“Shit,” I mutter, jumping up. I don’t know how I missed the smell, but I can tell from the way Tyler’s wrinkling his nose that he didn’t. He doesn’t say anything, though. Just rocks back and forth on his feet, chewing the hell out of his thumbnail, looking every bit as at a loss for words as I am. I’m desperate to jump in the shower, but I know the neighbors are going to come knocking on the door any second if I can’t get Max to stop screaming. “Max, please, you have to calm down. Please, talk to me and tell me what happened.”
He doesn’t calm down, and the knocking happens right on cue. I have to beg Ty to get the door while I continue to try soothing Max; I can only imagine what a neighbor’s reaction would be to seeing—and smelling—me soaked in pee. Tyler goes reluctantly, and even from the bedroom and with Max continuing to scream, I can hear that our neighbor—probably one of the pre-meds who heavily populate the complex and have to be up in less than an hour—is at least sympathetic.
It takes another ten minutes until Max is too hoarse to go on, and another fifteen before I can force his whimpering form out of bed and into the bathroom. He won’t let me bathe him, though—that task falls to Tyler, who looks so exhausted and terrified that it breaks my heart to leave the two of them alone. I have no choice but to keep moving, though. The sheets need to come off the bed, and I have no idea how to even begin dealing with the mattress.
I want to call my mother so badly it hurts. If I had the luxury of being able to cry right now, I would’ve fallen apart at the seams. But I don’t, so I call Nancy.
She answers sleepily on the third ring, and I apologize profusely for waking her up, but she’s every bit as nice about it as I knew she would be. She talks me through the cleanup and promises we’ll speak more tomorrow…including about setting both boys up with therapists. I know she wants to suggest that I see one too, but we both know that I won’t, and she doesn’t push it.
Instead, I trudge to the laundry room with the sheets, text Lauren that the boys are sick and won’t be needing a ride after all, and try to remember the feeling of that one hour and eighteen minutes when I had everything under control.
• • •
Eventually, both boys fall back asleep—Ty in his own bed, and a newly bathed and re-pajama-ed Max in mine. Meanwhile, I lug my laptop into the living room and try to figure out the mental health coverage situation on my brothers’ insurance plan, and how soon I can get Max to see someone.
The health center opens at nine, and I do laundry, clean the rest of the living space, and read my Byzantine course packet until then. Then I call to get Max an appointment, wake him up, get him dressed, and leave Ty some cash and a note instructing him to go to the coffee shop on campus for breakfast and text me when he gets there.
Like getting Ty a bike, I know signing the boys up for therapy is something I should’ve done the second I brought them back here, and for the millionth time since That Night, I can’t help wondering if I really am the best choice to be their guardian. It’s clear I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing. Even the fact that Max looks like a perfectly happy kid walking next to me right now is due only to the fact that I bribed him with the promise of a doughnut to get him to campus.
“Is the lady gonna be nice?” he asks as we hit the edge of the main campus.
“I don’t know if it’s gonna be a lady,” I tell him, “but I’m sure he or she will be very nice, yes.”
“The man who drove us to school Monday was nice,” he says matter-of-factly.
I wince at the mention of Connor, glad Max is too distracted by his surroundings to notice. He certainly had been nice, and I’m not sure I would’ve gotten through the past month without him. But I’m not his responsibility, and I’m not his friend, and I’m not sure how or when I forgot those things, but I need to start remembering them, stat. He’s my TA—not my chauffeur, not my broker, and not my confidant. I still can’t believe I told him about the Slutmobile.
“Yeah,” I mumble when I realize I still haven’t answered Max. Thankfully, it’s a short-lived subject, and for the rest of the walk, Max peppers me with questions that are easy enough to answer—what this building is and that, what various signs say, and why so many boys and girls walk around wearing funny-looking pictures (i.e. Greek letters) on their chests.
Then there are the slightly harder ones, like, “Why is that boy’s hand in her skirt?” Asked extremely loudly, of course, about a couple fondling each other on a bench bordering the quad.
A twinge of loneliness both unfamiliar and unwelcome worms its way into my system at the sight of the happy, snuggling couple. I yank him in the other direction, for both our sakes. “He’s keeping his hands warm,” I say hastily as we take a slightly alternate route to the health center.
I’m so busy keeping an eye out for other situations I don’t want to explain that only Max’s tugging hand keeps me from bumping into a couple standing just outside Nijkamp Hall, the biggest of the grad student dorms. “Crap, sorry.” Apparently it’s my destiny to have couples shoved in my face today. I step around them, squeezing Max’s hand tighter, but then the guy speaks.
“Lizzie? Max?”
Against my better judgment, and because there’s a witness, I turn at the sound of the familiar voice. It’s Connor, of course.
And he’s wearing flat-front pants.
I want to both laugh and cry at the sight. He looks really, really fucking good, and I look like a teen mom on one hour of sleep who doesn’t own a single article of unwrinkled clothing and couldn’t be bothered with so much as a hairbrush this morning, let alone lip gloss.
Meanwhile, the blonde he’s with looks like she got dressed by cartoon birds.
“Good morning,” I say, pasting on a smile. “Max, say hi to Mr. Lawson.”
“Mr. Lawson, huh?” the blonde teases. “And
here I’ve been letting the kids call me Jessica. Clearly I need to take a more authoritative approach.”
The kids. Fuck you, Jessica. I do not like you.
“The bigger kids get to call me Connor,” he says with a smile and a wink in my direction that makes me want to hate him but instead does a weird flip thing to my stomach I’d prefer to pretend isn’t happening. “Jess, this is Lizzie, and this is her little brother, Max.”
“Jess” crouches down and holds out a hand for Max to shake. “It’s nice to meet you, Max.” He shakes her hand with a toothy smile and I decide that maybe she’s not a megabitch. Maybe. At least until she straightens up and says, “I have to run to class, but I’ll see you tonight,” to Connor before squeezing his forearm.
We exchange “Nice to meet you”s before she walks off, but my brain’s still working to process the past few minutes. Connor has taken my fashion advice. Connor has also, apparently, taken a lover. Or already had one.
And I care, apparently.
Which means I need to get laid.
“So, took my fashion tips, huh?” I can’t help teasing when Jessica’s out of earshot. “Guess the girlfriend approves?”
He smiles. It’s not something he does much, and if he did—if I’d ever noticed that dimple before, or how perfect his teeth are minus the tiniest of chips in front—I’d probably have paid a lot closer attention in class. “You tried my study materials; the least I could do was take your advice in return. And she’s not my girlfriend, but she did ask me out in the hallway this morning,” he says with a wave in the direction of Nijkamp Hall, “which I’m guessing means she approves.”
Connor Lawson is going to get laid tonight. I officially live in a world where Connor Lawson has more sex than I do. I don’t even know what to do with that information. I didn’t even know he was capable of a flirty interaction with a woman until just now.
“Well, if that doesn’t get me an A, I suppose nothing will.”
He opens his mouth to respond, then glances at Max and shuts it. “So where are you two off to this morning? No school today?”
I rack my brain to think of a lie, but Max renders it unnecessary. “I’m going to speak to a lady about my mommy and daddy,” he declares. “Or maybe a man. And then I get a doughnut.”
“That’s great, Max,” Connor says softly, but I can feel his eyes on me even though I won’t meet his gaze. I know they’re filled with a desire to help somehow, and I need to stick to my resolve to stop taking advantage of the fact that Connor’s a sucker for a student in distress.
“Yeah, so, we should go. I’m hoping to get him an emergency session that aligns with my ten o’clock Stats class.”
“Isn’t your class over an hour?” Connor asks.
“Yeah, why?”
“Appointments at the mental health center are only forty-five minutes.”
“Oh, sh—darn,” I mutter softly. “I should’ve thought of that. They better let Tyler come pick him up. I have a quiz.”
“I don’t think they’re going to release him to a minor,” Connor says. “Look, I’m just running to the library to photocopy a few things and then I don’t have a class until noon. You can authorize me to pick him up, and he can play video games in my apartment or something until you get him after your quiz.”
“Connor, that’s ridiculous. It’s fine—I’ll figure it out. You don’t have to babysit.”
“You have video games?” Max asks with wide eyes. I have to admit, I’m just as surprised.
“That I do,” Connor says with a grin. Then he glances back at me. “It’s no big deal, Lizzie. Seriously. It’s just a half hour.”
It is a big deal, and he must know that, but it’s also a pretty perfect solution for me, and one I know Max will be happy with. Once again, selfishness wins out over sanity. “That would be awesome, Connor. Thank you. I promise, I’ll come straight from class.”
“I’m just in room 326 in Nijkamp,” he says, adjusting the strap of the messenger bag slung across his conspicuously non-striped shirt. “We’ll be there when you’re done with your quiz.”
I nod. I’m pretty sure I’ve used up all words of gratitude on Connor already. “I’ll see you then,” I say, turning toward the health center with Max. Then I turn back around, despite everything in the rational part of my brain telling me not to. “And hey, Connor?”
“Yes?”
“Nice job on the outfit. You look good.”
He smiles sheepishly, raises a hand in a wave, and takes off for the library, while I force myself not to watch him go.
• • •
I finish the quiz as quickly as possible to minimize the amount of time Connor’s stuck babysitting, but when I get outside and turn my phone back on, I see a text from him. Take your time. You looked like you could use a cup of coffee.
Well, that’s a semi-polite way of telling me I looked shitty this morning, as if I didn’t know. But he’s not wrong. I allow myself a stop at the coffee cart on the quad before heading to Nijkamp Hall. I grab one for Connor too—literally the least I could do—though I have no idea how he takes it and can only guess he likes it bland and boring.
I’ve never been in the grad dorms before, but they look pretty ordinary. Still, it’s weird to be there, and I feel like I need to be extra quiet in the beige hallways for some reason. I have no free hands to knock on his door, so I nudge it with my sneaker a few times, but no one hears me over the sound of the video game. I kick harder, and wince when it leaves a light scuff. Goddammit.
“What the—” Connor swings the door open, still dressed in business casual despite the fact that he’s sitting around in his apartment with a seven-year-old. I can’t even imagine what he wears to football games. “Lizzie!”
“No free hands,” I say apologetically, handing him the plain black coffee. “Sorry.” I don’t mention the scuff. Hopefully, he won’t notice. More realistically, he will, and he’ll paint over the entire door as soon as I leave. “It was for a good cause.”
“Much appreciated, thank you.” He smiles and takes it. “How’d you know I take it black?”
I stifle a snort. “Lucky guess.”
Like the coffee, his apartment’s pretty bland and flavorless. Shelves overflowing with books, old maps on the wall, a navy-blue futon doubling as a couch…the closest thing to personal style he possesses is a bizarre throw pillow with “Istanbul (not Constantinople)” stitched on it.
I try not to imagine “Jess” lying on said throw pillow later tonight, but apparently my brain is trying to drive me to drink this morning.
“Not terribly impressive digs, I know,” he says, and I realize he’s been watching me scope out the place. He takes a sip of coffee. “I spend most of my time in either the library or my office, so, didn’t seem like much point in putting a lot into it.”
“It’s lovely,” I lie badly, and he laughs. “Hey, Max, are you gonna say hi to me or what?”
“I’m about to beat the guy!” Max whines, and I just roll my eyes and follow Connor to sit on the futon with our coffees.
“How’d it go?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
He shrugs. “Great. Max seemed to like her. He wanted to know when he was getting his doughnut.” I can tell he wants to say more, but he hesitates.
“What?”
“It’s just—not to question your, uh, guardian-ing or anything, but why was this an emergency appointment?”
I glance back at Max; he’s fully involved in the video game and definitely not paying attention to the old people on the couch behind him. “He had a really, really bad nightmare, and I freaked out,” I admit in a whisper. “I thought if he talked to someone today, it’d lessen the chance of him having another one.”
“How bad is really bad?”
“Let’s just say the fact that I don’t smell like pee right now is a miracle of modern hygiene.”
“Yikes.”
“Yeah.” I take a sip from my cup. “I suck. I should’ve taken him sooner. Bot
h of them. I know that now.”
“And you? Have you been going?”
Did he seriously just ask if I go to therapy? “Nice as it is to know you think I’m fucking nuts, no, Connor, I do not see a shrink.”
He rolls his eyes. “Must you always put words in my mouth? I don’t think you’re nuts any more than I think you’re a crazy slut. I think you’re an eighteen-year-old girl in an extremely sad and difficult situation and talking to somebody would be a good thing for you.”
For some reason, it’s the “eighteen-year-old girl” part that stings. I can handle him thinking I’m a slut, maybe—he wouldn’t be alone—but not that I’m a little kid. “I’m fine,” I bite out, “but thanks for your concern.”
“So it’s something you obviously should’ve done for your brothers, but not for yourself?”
My mouth drops open. “Where do you get off—”
“It helps, okay?” he snaps. “That’s all I’m saying. And you obviously know that or you wouldn’t have taken Max today. It’s okay to look out for yourself too, you know.”
I turn his words over in my head, and realize the fact that he knew Max’s appointment would be only forty-five minutes was a dead giveaway. “You’ve gone,” I say slowly.
“I have. I don’t anymore, but I did for years, and yeah, it helped.”
“Why’d you go?”
“Why do you think?”
In a flash, our conversation from his office comes back into my head. “Daddy issues.”
“Daddy issues,” he confirms.
I look down into my coffee; it’s cold by now, but I take a little sip anyway. “What’s the story there, anyway?”
Connor shrugs. “He just didn’t want kids. He stuck it out for Sarah for a few years, but either he really didn’t want a boy, or he just didn’t want two, or…who knows. Maybe he saw the sign of Satan on my forehead at birth or something.” He takes a swig of his own undoubtedly cold coffee. “He took off before my mom even got home from the hospital.”