by Dahlia Adler
“You’re incorrigible,” Connor informs me, sitting back on his heels. Judging by the size of the hard-on threatening to bust through his khakis, he’s not particularly mad.
“Use words like that and I might not return the favor,” I say with a nod toward his groin.
He rolls his eyes and untucks his shirt to cover it. “You’re not returning any ‘favors’ tonight, Elizabeth. I should go, and so should you.”
I sigh. “We’re back to ‘Elizabeth’ now?”
“I like the name Elizabeth,” Connor informs me. “Multiple queens. Elizabeth Bennet. It’s a good name.”
“I hate Jane Austen.”
“Of course you do.” He says it as if I’m utterly absurd but then kisses me, deeply enough that I can taste myself on his tongue. “We’ll talk about this later, okay?”
“You’re really going to leave now?”
“Don’t you have to get back to your brothers?”
I glance at my watch. “Holy shit.” I had no idea how much time had passed. “Yes, I definitely do.” I scramble to my feet, and Connor does the same. “And what are you in a rush for?”
He nods downward. “I’ve got business to take care of.” He kisses me one more time, briefly, then walks to his car with what looks like a limp.
It takes all my self-control not to laugh as he seats himself in the car with a grimace and then waves briefly before pulling out of the lot and heading back to his apartment.
It’s amazing, the difference an earthshattering orgasm can make.
My English paper? Done. Stats homework? Ditto. Groceries? Replenished. Laundry? Spotless and put away, both mine and the boys’. I even got a pedicure over the weekend. A little sexual satisfaction and suddenly I’m Suzie Sophomore.
By the time I see Connor again in lecture on Tuesday, I actually feel like I can handle it. Granted, I do a lot of staring at the back of his head, and I obviously redress him—no man who can give head like that should be wearing a sweater vest—but I also listen during class. I take notes. I feel dates and events imprinting themselves on my brain.
I feel good.
“Remember, your papers on a topic relating to either of the first two Crusades is due a week from Thursday. Please sign up for office hours with Mr. Lawson in order to discuss and confirm your paper topics.”
With those final words, Professor Ozgur snaps his briefcase shut and moves out, and everyone else begins the shuffling process of gathering their books together and getting on line for the sign-up sheet. I take my time getting up there, because admittedly, I like checking him out when he’s otherwise engaged, and I’ve got nowhere else to be just then.
I wait until the last guy on line files out, and then I take the signup sheet in hand. Slim pickins. I deliberately avoid conversation or even eye contact with Connor, because I’m so content right now, I don’t want to give him an opportunity to ruin it. Instead, I stare at the sheet as if it’ll tell me whether I prefer first thing on a Thursday morning or last thing next Thursday.
Connor sighs, walking up behind me and bracing a hand on the desk. “This is why it’s a mistake for TAs to fool around with students,” he says under his breath.
“I’m supposed to be here,” I remind him, taking the Thursday morning slot; Max would wake me up by then anyway.
“Not because you’re here. Because I just spent an hour-long lecture in a class I’m supposed to lead a discussion about tomorrow morning thinking about how gorgeous you look when you come.”
Holy shit. “Jesus, Connor. Warn a girl before you completely soak her panties, would you?”
“Lizzie,” he growls. It’s not an intentionally sexy growl. He actually sounds pretty pissed. I’m tempted to bend over Professor Ozgur’s desk to ask for punishment.
“Connor.”
“I shouldn’t have done that Friday night.”
The bitter regret in his voice stings like nail polish remover in an open wound. “I’m so sorry you debased yourself in that fashion, Mr. Lawson. I feel terrible about the way I shoved your head between my thighs. Oh, wait.”
“I didn’t say you forced me,” he says through gritted teeth. “I said I shouldn’t have done it.”
“Then why did you?” I demand, whirling around to face him.
“Because you needed it,” he shoots back.
“Oh, great, so it was, like, a sympathy tongue-fuck? Awesome. I feel so much better now.”
He winces, whether because of my crude word choice or spot-on accuracy, I don’t know. Either way, I hope he feels half as shitty as I do right now. “Elizabeth—”
“Once again, Connor, fuck you.” I hoist my messenger bag onto my shoulder. “I’ll see you Thursday morning, bright and early. And if I show up looking like I just rolled out of somebody else’s bed, I probably did.”
I storm out of the classroom.
He doesn’t call after me.
• • •
Of course, out of nowhere, the first thing Tyler asks me at dinner that night is, “So why’d Connor come by last week?”
“He wanted to drop off a paper.” It’s the truth. Sort of.
“Doesn’t he hand those back in class?”
Ugh, when did my little brother stop being an idiot? “He was also…checking on the apartment,” I improvise. “For Alan.”
Tyler grins; there’s pizza sauce on his teeth. “You are such a shitty liar.”
“Ty!”
“Tyler said ‘shitty,’” Max singsongs.
“Maxwell Christopher Brandt, don’t even think about introducing that word into your vocabulary.”
“He totally likes you,” Ty continues, either unaware he’s walking a thin line or spurred on by that knowledge. “Has he nailed you yet?”
“Ty!”
“Lizzie, what does ‘nailed’ mean?” Max’s eyebrows scrunch up.
“Tyler, what the fuck is wrong with you?”
Max gasps. “You said ‘fuck’!” he declares in a reverential whisper.
I stand up, bracing myself on the table, eyes narrowed. “Tyler, go to your room. Now. Seriously.”
“You’re the one who said ‘fuck’ in front of Max!”
“Go to your room right now or I’ll call—”
I freeze. We all do. There isn’t anyone to call. There isn’t anyone on the other end of my parents’ old phone numbers. I’m the highest authority right now, and I have no idea what I’m doing. I sink into my chair and drop my head in my hands. Whatever steam I had, I’ve lost it.
If a seven-year-old says “fuck” and he has no parents alive to hear it, does it really even matter?
We resume eating in silence, but nobody seems particularly hungry anymore. Finally, the boys trudge off to their room, leaving me to clean up the mess.
• • •
I’m not feeling any better about anything by the time I knock on Connor’s office door first thing Thursday morning. On the bright side, I’m actually pretty well prepared for this paper, assuming my topic gets approved, but whatever calming effect that had disappears as soon as Connor’s voice calls, “Come in.”
I drop noisily into one of the chairs across from his desk and say, “I want to write about Byzantine influences on Russia. Can I go now?”
He flinches backward as if I’ve spat the words in his face. Maybe I did. I’m not really paying attention. I just want to get out of this tiny room, scene of my failed seduction. I can tell his recovery isn’t as quick as he’d like, but he’s quiet as he writes down my topic. “Do you need help figuring out where to begin with research?”
“This isn’t my first paper,” I bite out. “If you’ll recall, I got an A on my last one. I think I’ll be fine.”
“You can stop hating me anytime now, Lizzie.”
For some reason, this one time, I wish he’d called me Elizabeth. “Whatever, Connor. I had a really shitty past couple of days and I want to go back to bed.”
His expression softens. “I really hope you understand I’m not trying
to hurt you.”
The stupid attempt at tenderness makes me snap, and I jump up from the chair. “This isn’t about you! Not every fucking thing is about you! My parents are dead. It’s possible I might give a little more of a shit about that than whether some game-playing asshole in an argyle sweater wants to fuck me that day.”
I can physically see my rant knock all the wind out of him, wipe all the color from his face. Just like that, all my self-righteousness gives way to self-loathing, and I collapse back in the chair. “I’m sorry,” I manage quietly. “That was an awful thing to say.”
“Yeah, it really was.”
We sit in silence, the last vestiges of my rage radiating off me in waves. Finally, he asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No. I mean, yes, but not with you. I’m having coffee with Cait and Frankie later.”
He nods, and the room goes quiet again. I can’t stand it, so I force myself to give a little. “Just having a little trouble keeping my family under control.”
“Do you need help?”
I laugh shortly. “You need to stop that, Connor. You can’t be in my life just for the white knight moments.”
“So I’m just supposed to let you drown in all this?”
“Yes, if the alternative is stepping in and giving mixed messages to everyone in sight,” I say firmly. “You know what Ty and I fought about the other night? You.”
“Me?”
“He asked if you were nailing me yet.”
He massages his temples. “Crisse. Did I talk like that when I was thirteen?”
“You probably had no idea what sex was when you were thirteen, history nerd.”
He drops his hands back into his lap and his lips curve up at the corners. I can’t help mirroring his tiny smile. “I think you underestimate how closely I studied the life of Anne Boleyn. Don’t be fooled by my Byzantine-loving exterior.”
“You mean, you weren’t always the diehard Alexios Komnenos devotee you are now?”
“Shocking but true. Byzantine history was a passion I mostly developed in college, in fact.”
“So you’re saying I could be you in five years?”
“If you’re lucky.”
We both smile again, and I know it’s time to go; get a move on while things are calm and pleasant without being sexually fraught. I stand up. “So my topic’s okay?”
“Your topic is fine.”
“Great.” I smile briefly. “Then I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”
I watch him hesitate, but then he nods. “Yes, Elizabeth. I’ll see you then.”
• • •
I’m early to meet Cait and Frankie, but I have reading to do anyway, so I get my caramel macchiato and grab a table in the corner. Not that I can focus on a single thing I’m reading. My eyes keep blurring the words. What happens when Connor goes home at night? Why are we kissing one night, then fighting the next day? Practically screwing one night and more fighting the next day? Where does all that progress go?
I’m still contemplating this when Frankie and Cait come bounding through the door, Frankie in the brightest peacock-esque scarf-and-jacket combo humanly possible, and Cait in her typical all-black. They look made to contrast, to be seen together at all times. Meanwhile, I’m still wearing the yoga pants and zip-up I’d worn to meet Connor. Next to them, I feel like a troll.
Never one to ignore such things, Cait immediately asks, “Did you go to the gym today?”
“Early meeting with my TA,” I grumble, wrapping my hands around the cooling mug of macchiato. “Who the hell has office hours at 8:00 a.m.?”
“Hot TA?” asks Frankie, shedding her coat.
I wonder if Frankie would get mad if I punched her in the face.
“How’s tutoring going, anyway?” Cait asks as she unwraps her scarf and sets it aside. “Is it helping?”
“Doesn’t compare to your assistance with Stats,” I reply, knowing it’ll successfully change the subject.
Cait does not disappoint. “Well, obviously. No one compares to me. Did I tell you guys I’m starting next game? You better be in the front row, bitches.”
“Ooh, will Nora be there? I’m totally in if she is.”
“Frankie. No. I already told you my teammates are off limits.”
“Come on! Isn’t she, like, second string? What difference does it make?”
As they go back and forth about lacrosse and Frankie’s next target, my mind drifts back to Connor. He’d said he wasn’t trying to hurt me, and I knew in my heart that was true, but it didn’t stop it from happening, over and over again. But maybe he wasn’t the problem. Maybe I was. After all, Connor had almost been entirely been responding to my sadness, my neediness—I was the one constantly asking him favors, letting him see me cry, generally falling to pieces in front of him. Maybe what I thought was a mutual attraction actually was a series of sympathy gestures.
Holy shit, it was. How had I not seen that before? Was I so clouded by grief and lust that I didn’t realize I was throwing myself at someone who only spent time with me out of some misguided sense of responsibility?
“Hey. Brandt. Where the hell are you?”
I blink. And wonder how long Cait’s been snapping in my face. “Sorry,” I murmur, grabbing a menu to hide my face. “Just…spacing. I need my coffee.”
“No kidding,” says Frankie with a snort. “Jesus, I thought you were in a fucking k-hole or something.”
“Please, I’ve barely even had a drink since my brothers moved in with me,” I remind her.
“Well that’s just unacceptable. Caitlin, I think it’s time we take this young lady to a party.”
Cait rolls her eyes. “I don’t think Lizzie’s really up for partying these days, Frank.”
“Ouch.” Not that I’ve really had any time for parties lately, and attending them definitely goes against the whole plan to clean up my act for my brothers, but somehow, the comment stings. “You don’t think I’m fun anymore?”
“I didn’t say you’re not fun,” Cait says carefully. “I just…didn’t think you had any interest in going to parties anymore.”
I don’t, I know I should say, but the thing is, right now, I do. I’d kill for a night of drinking with my friends again, though my friends are definitely fewer in number these days. The idea of a casual, no-strings-attached hook-up with a guy who has nothing but sex on his mind and absolutely no requirements under the Radleigh University moral code to abstain from me suddenly sounds glorious.
Why had I ever gotten involved with Connor in the first place? It wasn’t as if my life needed more complications. He was just a guy who was nice to me, who’d helped me, and now I had an apartment, and my car, and my brothers were in school and in therapy, and I was caught up on my classes. He’d served his purpose, and he’d made pretty clear he wasn’t interested in serving any others.
Frankly, a party sounded like the perfect way to celebrate all the things that were finally going right and forget the one thing that had gone temporarily off course.
“Actually, I think a party sounds great,” I say confidently. “Ty can babysit. What’s happening this weekend?”
Cait and Frankie exchange a glance, and I know what Frankie’s going to say an instant before the words come out of her mouth. “There’s a Sigma Psi party on Friday, but—”
“Perfect,” I say, because it has to be. Because I need to get a little of the old me back. Because Trevor and I are even, and in the massive sea of people that always floods their house at parties, what are the odds he’d even notice me? “I’ll meet you guys at the suite and we can all go together.”
I know they want to make an excuse to get out of being seen with me there, but they’re good friends, so they don’t. And I’m a lousy friend, so I don’t offer an out.
I’m going to this party, and I’m coming back the Lizzie Brandt I used to be before my life fell apart.
It’s been so long since I’ve been to the Sigma Psi house—or a party—that the first st
ep inside is a physically painful assault on my senses. The music, which is always a mix of hip hop, electronica, and whatever the guys think will get them laid the fastest, used to fade into the background for me almost immediately. Now it makes my ears hurt and my heart pound uncomfortably in time with the bass.
“I need a drink,” I announce, clutching Cait’s forearm. A drink or three should take me back to normal. Nobody’s noticed me yet, but eventually, someone will, and it probably won’t be pretty. I can’t be this off my game when it happens.
“Ditto,” Cait mutters, and I follow her eyeline to a vaguely familiar looking guy. I don’t remember ever seeing him with Cait, but in a flash I realize he’s probably the guy she kicked out of the suite for calling me a bitch. I squeeze her arm.
Thankfully, Frankie springs into action, twirling over to Doug Leach, the Sigma Psi Recruitment Chair she makes out with occasionally. He’s sort of obsessed with her, but isn’t stupid enough to think she has any interest beyond keeping him in her makeout harem. Still, we all know he’ll do anything she asks, and sure enough, one hand on his arm and glimpse down her shirt and he’s off toward the keg.
“You are terrible to that boy,” Cait says when Frankie triumphantly returns to us with three red Solo cups of beer in hand.
“Oh, I am not. I let him touch my boobs when we make out now. Trust me, he’s a happy camper.” She flips her long chestnut curls over her shoulder, the blue and purple stripes of her hair chalk catching the light. “So, do you want—”
“Lizzie Brandt. No shit.”
The three of us whirl around to see Jason Pollard, Trevor’s vice president, grinning like a fox. Trevor hates him—something I know from those stupid confidences you share in the afterglow of sex, whether you like your partner or not—and I wonder now if it’s mutual, because Jason seems awfully happy to see me.
Or maybe it’s malicious glee curling his lips. It all looks the same to me, really. Tough call. “In the flesh,” I say breezily.
“You look good.” His eyes rake me up and down, and you’d think I was wearing Saran wrap rather than jeans and a tank top. “Really good.”