by Dahlia Adler
“That is a big deal, Connor,” I shoot back. And yes, maybe it’s because I’ve been tearing my hair out at the mental picture of them together for nothing, but it still makes me angry, however irrational and unfair that may be. “That girl likes you, and you just…bailed. And you’re not a guy who bails. At least not when it comes to poor loser students who can’t get through life without having their hands held.”
“You’re not a ‘poor loser student,’ Elizabeth, and I’m happy to help you when I can.”
“God, even when you’re saying I’m not pathetic, I feel pathetic,” I mutter.
“Somehow, I don’t think that’s my fault.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
He narrows his eyes. “You’re seriously angry because I blew off a date with a girl? How is that even any of your business?” he demands, rising slowly out of his chair.
It’s not. It’s so, so not. “I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s not. Just forget it.”
“I don’t want to forget it. I want to know what your problem is.”
“You!” I snap, jumping up to face him before I can stop myself. “You making me your charity case. You being there every single time I need you. I know it’s my fault for constantly fucking up, but I turned to you too damn much and you let me, and now it’s fucking with my head.”
“So let me get this straight,” he says slowly. “You’re angry because I’ve been too reliable when you needed help.”
“Well, when you put it that way, it sounds stupid.”
“And how should I put it?”
I open my mouth to answer, and shut it. I can’t answer that. Because the problem isn’t that he’s been too nice. It’s that his being nice has made me like him. A lot. And I’m not stupid enough to believe that a guy who blows off dates with girls like Jess for work, who knows the entire campus thinks I’m a crazy slut, who takes being a TA way too seriously, is ever going to reciprocate that.
So I don’t say a word.
Connor exhales an exasperated breath. “Only you could make someone feel like shit for helping you.”
I wince at the fact that he’s being both cruel and correct. “I don’t mean to do that. I just…you don’t need to. I’m fine. I’m sorry I took advantage of the fact that you expressed a willingness to help, and of your guilt over not believing me at first, but you don’t owe me anything for it.”
“Has it ever occurred to you that I don’t do these things out of pity, or because I’m just a sucker?” he asks, shaking his head. “Like maybe I actually like spending time with you? Maybe I even like seeing you outside of class?”
My stomach tightens into a ball of lead and the autumn air suddenly grows far too cold. I know he’s not saying what I think he’s saying. Which just means I’ve gone way too far past the point of delusion. Christ, maybe Sophie was right after all.
“No,” I say honestly, my voice thin and weak. I so badly want that to be true, but I haven’t exactly been given a lot of reason in the past year to believe a guy like Connor could genuinely want anything to do with a girl like me.
And yet his words are turning around in my brain and no matter how many different ways I try to explain them away, I can’t.
He steps toward me, and though he’s only about half a foot taller than my five-six, it feels like he’s towering over me. “For fuck’s sake, Elizabeth. Ask me the real reason I didn’t go on that stupid date.”
But I don’t have to ask. I see it now. His eyes are blazing with lust and I finally fucking see it. I’m not crazy, and I’m not alone in this, and I want him to touch me so badly I feel it in every bone in my body. “Kiss me,” I whisper, and it sounds like thunder in my ears.
He crushes his mouth to mine with a breathless groan I swallow whole. It’s the first real human contact I’ve had since That Night, and I drink it—him—in as if I’ve finally been offered a canteen after weeks in Death Valley. I cannot pull him close enough, taste him deeply enough.
Both our hearts are pounding, pulses racing, and we are so fucking full of life, I could weep. Or scream. Or both. Instead I push Connor up against the brick exterior of the building and press up against him instead, settling into the cradle he makes for me of his legs.
“Sacrement, Lizzie….” He wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me so close I can feel him branding my thigh. I’m thinking the unholiest of thoughts right now, until he drops his head to suck at my throat and I cease to think at all.
“Don’t stop,” I whisper, even though he shows no signs of letting up. His hands slide up the back of my sweater, impossibly warm, keeping me balanced while he samples every visible inch of my skin. I didn’t even know how much I’d missed the feeling of another person’s warmth until just this moment, and I want it everywhere. “Don’t let me disappear.”
His fingers had been inching up toward my breasts, but now they freeze on my rib cage and he pulls back, leaving both of us panting for breath. Why did I say that? I hadn’t even known I’d been thinking it. “I’m sorry,” I mumble, stepping back and yanking my sweater down. “I’m fucked-up.”
But he just shakes his head. “No, you’re not. That was…” He exhales sharply, rakes a hand through his air. “I should go.”
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. The thought of Connor walking out right now brings tears to my eyes, which means he’s definitely right. I am fucked-up, but I can’t lose him. “Connor, please, don’t. We don’t have to—I mean, we can just pretend that never happened. Or something.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “You can pretend that kiss never happened?”
No, I definitely can’t. My entire body is still thrumming with it. I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak.
“We’re in trouble,” he murmurs.
At that, I can’t help smiling a little. Being in trouble’s a concept I’m familiar with. For once, Connor’s the untrained newbie. Just the thought is enough to make me rise onto my toes and kiss him again, but just as he relaxes back into it, the sound of Max calling my name makes us jump apart again.
“Okay, now I really need to go,” says Connor. He straightens out his shirt, then glances down at his bulging fly. “In a minute,” he adds sheepishly.
I bite my lip, knowing he’s right to walk out of here, but wishing he didn’t want to. But I can’t stop him, and I can’t beg, so I just nod. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say quietly. “Just…are we okay?”
He laughs ruefully. “With each other? Yeah. In the grand scheme of Radleigh? No, definitely not.”
“This may shock you,” I say, “but I care a lot more about the first one.” I rise up on my toes and give him one last peck, and then I disappear inside to help Max.
The next morning, I wake up burning with the need for some estrogen. As soon as I drop off Lauren’s kids and Max, I text Cait and Frankie and tell them their presence is required at lunch.
Understandably, Cait’s a little hesitant to return to our usual coffee shop, so instead we meet for pizza at a hole-in-the-wall place Sophie Springer wouldn’t be caught dead entering. I’m all of two bites in to my barbecue chicken slice when I crack. “So, I sort of made out with someone last night. A little.”
Cait drops her slice onto her greasy paper plate. “For the love of all that is holy, please tell me it was not Trevor.”
“Cait! Are you kidding me? No, of course it wasn’t. I haven’t even seen him since…everything.”
“It wasn’t that hot black guy in your Russian group, was it?” asks Frankie. “The one I talked to for a minute when I came to return that book last week?”
“That is so random, Frank, and no, not him either.”
“Good. I think I’m gonna hook up with him.”
“I’m pretty sure he’s gay.”
She shrugs and pops a slice of pepperoni into her mouth. “So? Didn’t stop that guy from the art gallery.”
Cait and I roll our eyes at each other. Frankie’s convinced everyone on earth is pansexual and just doesn’t realize it y
et.
“It’s no one you know,” I say, which is sort of true. “Just a guy from one of my classes.” Even more true! Not that I want to lie to my friends; if I thought I could’ve trusted them to keep it quiet, I would have.
“And how was it?” Cait asks.
I swallow, hard, remembering the feeling of Connor’s lips on mine, the warmth of his body and firmness of his grip. “Good. Really, really good.” I take a swig from my water bottle, wishing it were something harder. “Top Five, I think.”
“Oooh,” they both gush, which is justified, since the Top Five has always been sacred among us. “Who does mystery man knock off?” asks Frankie.
I contemplate the answer as I chew thoughtfully on my crust. Danny Perotta in the church parking lot had been holding steady at number five for some time, but there was no question kissing Connor last night had blown that out of the water. For that matter, it’d beaten number four—Casey Farhadi, my partner in last year’s New Year’s Eve singledom—by a mile.
No chance I was thinking beyond that.
Cait whistles. “Wow, this sounds big! Where did this guy come from? I had no idea you were even flirting with anyone.”
“I wasn’t. Or maybe I was. I don’t know,” I mutter. “Anyway, I don’t think anything’s gonna happen with it. It was just a good night.”
“Oh, come on,” says Frankie. “Look at you. You’re practically dripping on the seat just thinking about it. I haven’t seen you like this in forfuckingever.”
“Gross, Frank.” Cait flicks a mushroom at her.
“Whatever, I make no apologies. And you are not giving up on this boy.”
Man, actually.
“I’m with Frankie,” says Cait, picking at the cheese on her second slice. “If this guy’s really Top Five, I don’t understand why you’re not all over it.”
I knew talking about this would be a mistake. “It’s just…logistics,” I say lamely.
Frankie snorts. “Like that stopped you with Trevor.”
“Not my finest hour,” I remind her sourly. “Or months. Can we just pretend that never happened?”
“Depends,” says Cait with a grin. “How’s your car?”
“Don’t make me throw food at you.” I take another swig of water. “So, okay, if it were you guys, and you hooked up with a guy you were interested in who needed a little convincing….”
“You’re kidding, right?” Frankie shakes her head. “Guys aren’t complicated, Lizzie B. You know this. Hot lingerie. Trench coat. Done.”
Cait raises an eyebrow. “Does that seriously work for you?”
“Every damn time,” Frankie says with a wolfish smile. “Seriously, I’ll lend you the trench coat. Just promise me you’ll give it a shot.”
I try to imagine Connor’s expression at the sight, and even just a couple of days ago, it would’ve been impossible to envision. But now, I feel his hands on the small of my back and his tongue stroking mine as clearly as if it were still happening, and a slow smile creeps over my lips. He’d been hard as a rock when we were kissing last night—nothing complicated about that.
I grin back at Frankie and pick up my second slice. “How soon can you get me that coat?”
• • •
I chicken out of the lingerie thing—it’s autumn in upstate New York, after all—but I’m still determined to see Connor, alone, to continue whatever we started at my apartment. It’s possible this is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, but I’m amped on adrenaline and the memory of his warm mouth on mine the night before and before I know it, I’m at his door.
Taking a deep breath, I picture him sitting inside as I knock, bent over a paper, the glasses he occasionally wears sliding down his nose. How can someone so bookish be so cute? Or kiss so well?
“Come in,” he calls, sounding tired. I bite back a smile as I turn the knob. I’m pretty sure he’s about to wake up with a vengeance.
“I’ve decided that you work way too hard,” I say slowly as I close the door behind me. He is, indeed, bent over a paper, though he’s wearing contacts today; no glasses in sight. He stands up, obviously surprised to see me, though whether or not he’s pleased remains to be seen. “Figured I’d come say hi and help you take the edge off.”
Before I can lose my nerve, I walk right up to him and press my mouth to his. But I don’t even get my arms around his neck before he’s jumping back, a wild, horrified look on his face. “Tabarnac, Elizabeth…I…no. I’m your teacher. I can’t—”
No. No. I can’t have read this wrong. I didn’t. I know I didn’t. This is such complete and total bullshit. “Seriously, Connor? Fuck you for pulling this shit after last night.” I step back, folding my arms protectively over my chest, as if I had in fact shown up in the black lace ensemble I’d considered. “You think calling me Elizabeth is fooling anyone? Is fooling me?” He winces at each word out of my mouth, and it only propels me forward, in his face, until I’m so close I could actually kiss him again. “I’m not a little kid. I mother two of those now. So don’t talk to me like I’m some high school cheerleader who just made a pass at you behind the bleachers.”
He opens his mouth to respond, then closes it on a slow exhale. It’s like I’m exhausting him just by being in his presence. I don’t know what the hell happened to the adorable, smart, sexy nerd who could barely detach himself from my lips to breathe last night, but he’s not in this office.
Apparently, he doesn’t exist at all.
“I should’ve known,” I mutter, buttoning my coat with fingers that feel three sizes too big to function. “Of course it would be too good to be true. Idiot Lizzie.”
“Eliz—”
“Stop fucking calling me Elizabeth!” I shout so loudly they can probably hear me down the hall. Who even cares anymore? I’m sick of just surviving, and of course when I finally think my life could be more than that, it turns out Sophie was right—I am delusional.
Still, I lower my voice to continue, edging it in steel instead of volume. “I was there too last night, Connor. I didn’t force your tongue down my throat. I didn’t suck my own neck. And it’s certainly not the imprint of my rock-hard dick I was feeling against my thigh. So enough of this bullshit. You’re not interested anymore. Fine. You just got horny in the moment. Fine. Be a man about it.”
“I’m trying to be a man about it,” he whispers back fiercely. “I’m trying to do the right thing! I can’t sleep with a student. You can’t sleep with a teacher. You’re skating on thin enough ice as it is.”
“Funny, I’ve been doing just fine in your class lately.”
“I’ll find someone else to tutor you,” he promises, squeezing the bridge of his nose.
Sighing, I shake my head. “Forget it, Connor. There’s no point. I’m not staying in your class.”
“What do you mean, you’re not staying?”
If I don’t pick up my grades in all my classes, that scholarship is toast. And I’m pretty sure I’m done being able to focus with Connor sitting in the front row. I’d rather beg and plead my way into another class a month late and pay an actual tutor than flail like this. “Just that,” I say, hoisting my purse higher on my shoulder. “You can just ignore my last paper. Save yourself some grading time. I’m withdrawing.”
I let myself out, unable to even muster a goodbye, but when the door closes behind me, I’m too worked up to take another step. I can’t believe I even have any tears left, but there they are, working their way down my cheeks, just to add insult to injury.
Tipping my head to rest it against the door to his office, I take deep, cleansing breaths until the tears stop. I’m about to step away when I hear Connor’s voice through the wood, sounding utterly defeated, say, “I already graded it. You got an A.”
It’s more than I can take. I rush out of the building as if I’m on fire and jog back to my apartment to make dinner for the boys, praying it’ll be the one thing today, this month, this year, I don’t royally screw up.
• • •
Not that I’m doing much better. Fighting with Connor and my decision to drop his class have sapped both my appetite and my will to do more than nod as Max happily babbles about his day.
“How was your day, Ty? Any free baked goods for you?”
He just shrugs. He’s still pretty moody about the move—or maybe it’s about Mom and Dad—but he won’t talk to me about anything. He’s barely talked all night.
“How’s the lasagna?”
Another shrug. It makes me want to shake him, but I can’t; I hated when my parents pried. It was like even in my own head, I couldn’t get any privacy.
Sort of what hanging out with Connor’s like.
Sighing, I put down my fork and start clearing the table. It’s obvious no one’s really up for dinner.
“What’s for dessert?” Max asks, oblivious to the general air of depression.
“Sounds like you already had dessert today, Mister.” I ruffle his hair and try to smile. “Need help with your homework?”
“Nah, I got it.” He takes a long drink of his milk and runs off to his room.
“What about you, Ty?”
“Nope.”
“You sure?”
He shrugs again.
I put the dishes down in the sink and take a seat next to him. “Okay, how about this. I’d like to help you with your homework, because I had a crappy day, and I could use the distraction. Please.”
The trace of a smile is so faint on his lips that I never would’ve noticed it if I hadn’t been praying for it. “Yeah, okay. How’s your memory of sophomore English?”
“Awesome,” I lie. “Scarlet Letter?”
“Song of Solomon.”
“You’re studying the Bible?”
Ty rolls his eyes. “It’s by Toni Morrison. God, no wonder your grades suck.”
“My grades do not suck! I’ll have you know, I got an A on my latest history paper,” I declare proudly as he grabs his stuff, ignoring the twinge in my gut I feel at the memory of learning that particular piece of information. We settle onto the couch, and Ty fills me in as best he can, though admittedly I’m not the most mature in reaction to learning how Milkman, the main character, got his nickname. (I’m sorry, but the guy breastfed until he was four. That’s beyond being “old enough to ask for it” and practically into being “old enough to make your own breakfast.”)