Last Will and Testament

by Dahlia Adler

  An unexpected flame of white-hot rage flickers inside my chest at the thought of his father abandoning their entire family like that. What a complete fucking asshole.

  “Pretty much,” says Connor with a sigh, and I realize I’ve said the last few words out loud. I glance over at Max, but he’s still blissfully lost in his video game. “And you can imagine how much my mom appreciated that I ‘ran him off.’ As if I was somehow responsible for my own conception.”

  I chew my lip. “Yeah, I see how that could get…therapy-requiring. How long’s your sister been gone?”

  “Since the second she graduated high school, pretty much. Sarah’s always been plagued by wanderlust, and there wasn’t a whole lot keeping her at home. I at least played hockey, did Model UN—enough to keep myself busy. Sarah just counted the minutes until she could get out, and then ran.”

  “So it was just you and your mom for a while?”

  He smiles wryly. “Those were the heaviest therapy years. And I didn’t get quite as far away as Sarah did afterward, either. But I moved across the border as soon as I graduated McGill, and never looked back.”

  I start to ask what his mom is like, but I’m cut off by the sound of a text message beeping from my phone. It’s Tyler. I’m here. You coming?

  “It’s Ty,” I explain apologetically, surprised to feel myself a little sorry to be cutting this conversation short. “I promised him lunch at the coffee house, and I still owe Max that doughnut.”

  At the sound of the word “doughnut,” Max perks up. “Is it time?”

  “It is,” I say. I turn back to Connor, who looks a little drained, despite the fact that he’s still sipping the coffee. After ruining his day with all this depressing talk of topics he’d clearly prefer to leave buried, I can’t just leave him sitting here, all sad in his new pants. “You wanna join us?”

  He glances at Max before returning his gaze to me. “Nah, I shouldn’t. I’ve got…stuff to do.”

  “Right,” I say, shoving down what I hope are just hunger pangs disguising themselves as disappointment. “And you’ve got your date later, so.”

  “Yeah, right. That.” He smiles faintly but I can’t begin to read it. “I’ll see you in class tomorrow.” He turns to Max. “And I’ll see you around, buddy.”

  “Max, say thank you to Connor for watching you today, and for the video games,” I prod.

  He does, and after he makes Connor promise that he’ll have him back to play some other game, we head out of Nijkamp Hall without a backward glance.

  When I walk into class the next day, it’s staring me in the face that on top of everything else, my TA has a really nice ass. He’s wearing flat-front pants—again—as he walks up the aisle, handing out what I really hope isn’t a pop quiz. I try to deduce from his step, his posture, his…anything whether he had a good date last night, and whether it was still happening this morning. Then I realize I’m pathetic, and I trudge up the aisle just as Connor turns.

  “Elizabeth.”

  He sounds surprised to see me, which irks me. As if I haven’t been making perfect attendance, minus the family emergencies. He just saw me yesterday; he knew I’d be here. “Lizzie,” I say coolly, holding out a hand for what’s actually just a new map—Constantinople in 1205, the year after it was sacked the first time.

  “Of course,” he says wryly before continuing down to his front-row seat, leaving me standing there with the flimsy map dangling from my fingers like a white flag. I take the closest seat and stare at the sheet in front of me.

  Pathetic, really, how thoroughly the Byzantines had their asses kicked. But then, they did manage to rise again.

  And it only took them fifty-some-odd years.

  The sound of someone else’s ringing cell phone reminds me to turn off mine, but when I pull it out of my bag, I see I have an e-mail from Max’s school. I take a quick glance, and groan. It’s a reminder for parent-teacher conferences this Friday. Possibly the last thing in the world I want to do, plus sessions are in alphabetical order, which means mine will overlap with my Byzantine tutoring.

  When class ends, I make my way up to the front of the room, to where Connor is gathering up his things. It takes him a moment to see me, and when he does, he greets me with a brief, tight smile I’m not sure how to take.

  I take a deep breath. “Hey, so, I’m really sorry, but I can’t make it to your office on Friday. I have to go to a parent-teacher conference at Max’s school. Is there any chance we can reschedule?”

  “Sure,” he says with a shrug. “When did you have in mind?”

  “Whenever. Not like I have loads of plans lately. Unless you count making mac ’n cheese with bacon bits for dinner tonight. According to my brothers, those are pretty much the most important plans in the universe.”

  “Totally understandable. That was always one of my favorites too.” His fond grin makes his eyes crinkle in the corners, and I really, really hate that I ever noticed what a beautiful blue they were, because now I can’t stop seeing it. “Man, it’s been a while.”

  “Do you wanna come?” I offer, a second before I realize how weird that invitation is. Ugh, hanging around Connor has made me fucking awkward. Of course he doesn’t want to come to dinner with me and my little brothers. Even Cait wouldn’t want to come to dinner with me and my little brothers.

  “You sure your brothers wouldn’t mind sharing?”

  “Huh?” It takes me a few seconds to process that he actually said yes, and then another couple to realize I’m way too excited about that fact. “I mean, no, of course not. I make a ton, and I owe you something for all your efforts.” This all, at least, is true.

  He smiles again, and I do not appreciate the way my body reacts to it at all. Clearly, the sexual deprivation of the past few weeks is getting to me. “You don’t,” he says with an un-Connor-like dose of warmth, “but I’ll take you up on it anyway, if it’s a real invitation. Haven’t had home-cooked food in a while.”

  That makes me strangely sad, even though I rarely did either, before my brothers moved in with me. I mean, I had it at home, when my mom was making it, but obviously, those days are over. “It’s a real invitation,” I assure him, hoping my face doesn’t look as hot as it feels. Because it sorta feels like I just asked my very proper TA on a date. With my brothers. Because I am insane. And now I need to make an awkward joke, because it’s all that will keep me from sinking into the floor. “Wear a suit. My brothers and I are very formal.”

  “Then I can’t wait to see what you’ll be wearing,” he jokes back, which only makes my face burn hotter. At least this time, his flames too. “I…did not mean that the way it sounded.”

  I can’t help laughing. At least I’m not the only ragingly awkward one. “I should hope not. That’s a pretty terrible pick-up line.” Only, maybe it isn’t, because suddenly what I’ll be wearing is all I can think about. Which is crazy, because this is not a date. And this is Connor Lawson. He’s probably saving his virginity for the third rise of Constantinople.

  Not that I’m thinking about sleeping with him, obviously. That would be certifiable.

  Am I certifiable?

  “Lizzie, are you okay?”

  Crap. “Sorry,” I mumble. “Just got a little distracted thinking about salad. You know, want to make sure everyone’s getting their vegetables.”

  You, Lizzie Brandt, are a fucking idiot.

  “How very responsible,” says Connor, and he actually sounds impressed. “How about I take care of the salad? You can just worry about slipping in some extra bacon bits.”

  He’s bringing a salad. It’s official: I want to fuck Connor Lawson.

  Fuck.

  “Deal,” I reply in a voice that sounds remarkably helium-filled. “Six o’clock. It’s—well, you know where I live. Hell, you can let yourself in.”

  He laughs. “I promise to knock. I’ll see you at six.”

  I make what I hope is a noise of agreement but probably sounds more like the mating call of the Africa
n buffalo, and flee from the room.

  • • •

  I’m actually nervous when the clock hits six that night. Like, palms sweating, can’t-focus-on-what-I’m-doing nervous. Which is so stupid. It’s just dinner, after which he’s going to tutor me. Because he’s my TA. This isn’t a date. I don’t even want it to be a date. Why would I? He’s not even single! Hell, after his date last night, he’s probably marrying Jess. What’s there even to think about?

  A knock sounds at the door, and I glance at the clock on the microwave. Still six o’clock on the dot. It’d be easier not to be into him if he weren’t so fucking dependable. Not that I ever gave a crap about “dependable” before, but I sure as shit do now. When you’re on your own with two kids, dependable is everything.

  I glance down at my outfit as I walk to the door. I spent more time choosing it than I wanna think about. Which of course means that after deciding everything looked like I was trying too hard, I ended up in jeans and a blouse-y thing that I’d klepto’d from Frankie a billion years ago.

  The first thing I notice when I open the door is that Connor looks every bit as unsettled as I do. Okay, no, the first thing I notice is that it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him in jeans, and they look really, really good. But the second thing I notice is that his hands are jammed into his pockets, his lips are pressed together, and he’s radiating “I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

  Good start.

  “Hey, come on in,” I say as cheerfully as possible, pretending I don’t see what I know I do. I step aside to let him in, and bite my lip when I realize the jeans look even better from behind. “Not too different from the last time you were here, probably. I’m a shitty decorator.”

  “I like that you kept the Christmas lights,” he says with a smile, gesturing at the twinkling dots of color wrapped around the curtain rod over the patio doors.

  “I thought it added a touch of class. I kept the shower curtain too.”

  “Seriously?”

  “No. I’m not a fucking idiot.”

  He laughs.

  “So, I’d offer you a beer, but….” I gesture toward the boys’ room, where I’ve all but locked them inside to do homework on the threat of withholding bacon from the mac ’n cheese, a parenting tactic my dad would have approved of for sure.

  Connor raises an eyebrow. “Water’s fine, thank you, and I’m pretty sure I’d have to say no to a beer offered to me by an eighteen-year-old.”

  “Touché.” I lead him into the kitchen, where I pour him a glass. He leans against the counter to take a sip, and I busy myself with checking on dinner so I don’t watch him.

  “Câlique, that smells good,” he says, inhaling deeply as I open the oven.

  I immediately close the door and whirl around. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

  He furrows a brow. “I said it smells good. The mac ’n cheese. And the bacon. Mmm.” The “mmm” sends a very unwelcome bolt of lust-lightning southward as I contemplate just how much I would like to get him to make that sound again. “Oh!” He holds up the bag at his side. “I brought salad. Well, I brought vegetables; I got held up at the library, and figured I’d just make it here. Can I borrow a cutting board?”

  I pluck the wooden board from a cabinet and gesture to the knife block I keep on the counter, out of Max’s reach. “All yours, if you explain your little burst into French right there.”

  To my genuine shock, Connor blushes. “Sorry about that. I have sort of a dirty French-Canadian tongue.”

  Aaaand that one’s going right into the spank bank. “Sorry?”

  “High school habit I’ve never been able to break, despite being in the states for seven years.” I’m oddly drawn to his Adam’s apple as he takes another sip, and then he puts the glass down and starts pulling vegetables out of the bag. “I’m no you, but I do swear occasionally. We have different profanity in Quebec, though. Catholic holdover. They’re all holy words.”

  “That’s…bizarre. So what’d you say?”

  “Câlique. It’s like a…milder version of Câlice, which literally means chalice.”

  “And figuratively?”

  “Closer to ‘fuck.’” He presses his lips together as soon as it comes out of his mouth, then focuses extra hard on the head of romaine lettuce in his hand. “Okay, this is definitely not the right kind of tutoring.”

  Probably not, but I really want to hear you say it again. In French, in English—whatever. Preferably with you on top—I shake my head to get the image out of my brain. I am so twisted. “It’s interesting. Kinda cool, in a weird, puritanical way.”

  “That’s me,” Connor deadpans. “Puritanical to a fault.”

  Are you? I’m dying to know, but then the door to the boys’ room pops open, and Tyler whines, “Is dinner ready yet?”

  I open my mouth to snap at him to be patient, but Connor cuts me off. “Hey, Tyler. Two minutes, okay? Almost done with the salad.”

  Max’s dark head pops out. “Hi, Mr. Lawson! What are you doing here?”

  Connor grins. “Hey, Max. I’m gonna eat with you guys and then help Lizzie with her homework. Is that okay?”

  Max scrunches up his nose. “Mrs. Yang never came over for dinner. You’re a weird teacher.”

  I know locking kids in the bathroom is probably illegal, but I would kill to do it to Max at that moment, especially when I see Connor’s jaw twitch and I wonder just how much he’s regretting walking into my apartment tonight.

  Thankfully, for once, Tyler saves the day. “Connor’s cool,” he assures Max. “Mrs. Yang was not cool.”

  Connor’s shoulders relax. “Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever been called cool before. Thanks, Tyler. Max, wanna help?”

  “Okay!” Max bounces over and sets him up with a carrot and a peeler.

  “You know how to use one of these?” he asks as he holds out the latter.

  “Mmhmm. I used to help my mom when she was alive,” Max says proudly. He sets to work on the carrot, and Connor glances at me.

  I wave a dismissive hand and busy myself with fussing over the table I already set an hour ago. Connor doesn’t need to know that every mention of my mom or dad from one of the boys still feels like someone tweezing out every one of my body hairs. Nothing like refolding the napkins to distract myself, ensuring the tears pricking my eyes will dry up rather than spill over. Then, behind me, I hear, “Maybe let’s do this over the garbage, buddy. The floor isn’t the best place for carrot peels.”

  And somehow, that little bit of instruction combined with gentle discipline, perfectly stated and coming from someone Max has met exactly twice before, makes me want to cry hardest of all.

  I mumble about needing to grab something from my room, and close the door behind me. I am fucked up. Why else would I invite someone so deep into my life who in no way sees me as anything other than a lost cause of a student to be rescued? And why the hell would I let myself…feel things for said person, apparently?

  Ugh, Connor. Connor. How the fuck did I end up liking Connor?

  I never should’ve told him about flat-front pants.

  • • •

  At least I was the only one who sat through dinner utterly miserable; no one else even noticed. Tyler and Max were too busy hanging on every word of Connor’s stories of traveling to hockey games across Canada, and then Max ran off to play with his toys while Connor filled Tyler in on good bike routes near Radleigh. Except for a couple of emphatic compliments on the food, I was essentially invisible. Finally, I excuse myself onto the patio, grabbing a lollipop from the candy bowl as I go.

  Connor joins me a couple of minutes later. “Tyler’s doing his homework.” Then he notices the lollipop stick. “That’s not a cigarette, is it?” he asks as he slides the door closed behind him.

  “What if it was?” I ask, though I have to pull it out of my mouth to do it, which kinda ruins any sort of defiance in the gesture.

  “Then I’d say you should quit smoking.”

  “And I’d p
robably say it isn’t any of your business. Good thing this entire conversation is irrelevant.” I pop it back into my mouth.

  I expect some sort of admonishment, but all he says is, “Can’t really argue with that, I guess.”

  We’re both quiet for a moment, looking out at nothing, and then he says, “So do you want to study?”

  “Not really,” I admit. “Do you?”

  He laughs. “Not really.” But he doesn’t move to go, so I gesture to one of the cheap lounge chairs I picked up at Target and take a seat in the other one. “I do have to admit, a beer would be pretty perfect right now. But that mac ’n cheese was pretty damn good. Thanks for having me.”

  I pluck the candy back out of my mouth. “Thanks for the salad, and turning into my brothers’ new hero,” I say with a hint of sourness I wish wasn’t there and know he won’t miss.

  He turns to me. “They love you, you know. Like crazy.”

  I shrug. “They don’t really have a choice. They’re stuck with me, no matter how much I suck at this whole parenting thing.”

  “They’re happy,” he argues. “You make this place home for them. You take great care of them. Please tell me you see that.”

  “I see them surviving,” I say. “All of us—it’s all we’re doing. Tyler hasn’t found a new best friend or girlfriend or band. Max doesn’t have play dates. I’m…” Pining after you. “Whatever.”

  Connor braces his elbows on his knees and peers up at me. “Whatever?”

  “I don’t want to talk about me anymore,” I say, swirling my tongue around the grape-flavored candy. I don’t even mean anything sexual by it, but a quick glance at Connor reveals he’s watching me do it. Which makes me do it again. “How was your date last night?”

  “What?” He blinks, looks away from my mouth. “Oh, with Jess? Yeah, it wasn’t. I had work to do.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Work? You bailed on a date for work?”

  “It’s not a big deal,” he says defensively.