by Dahlia Adler
I halt at the door, but I don’t retreat back to Connor until everyone else has filed out. When I finally do, the concern on his face makes me wish I’d just fled with everyone else. “What’s up, Mr. Lawson?” I ask impatiently.
He winces and I pretend not to see it. “I just wanted to see if you were okay,” he says quietly. “And to apologize. I should’ve done more than just disappear—”
“No, you shouldn’t have,” I say bluntly. “Message sent; message received. That was the point, wasn’t it? I told you to make a decision, and you did. Right?”
His head jerks in a nod. “I’m sorry, but—”
“Stop. I don’t need an explanation. Or rather, you’ve explained enough times. I got it. Teacher and student,” I say, gesturing between us. “Nothing more. See? I have excellent learning comprehension skills.”
He smiles sadly, and it breaks my heart in ways I wish it couldn’t. “Have a happy Thanksgiving, Lizzie. I know you’ll make it a good one for the boys.”
I want to tell him to mind his own business, that he gave up any right to care about me and the boys. I want to tell him to go fuck himself, because it’s tickling the tip of my tongue.
And I want to beg him to reconsider, every bit as much.
But if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the past few months, it’s that life isn’t about what I want, so I mumble a “Thanks, you too,” and hustle out the door.
• • •
It’s a long drive home, and for every moment of excitement I feel at the sight of a familiar landmark, there’s a stark jolt back to reality when I remember that no one’s waiting for me, Ty, and Max at the end of this drive. The house isn’t going to smell like rosemary and apples, and there won’t be any crackling fire. The ride is so quiet once Max falls asleep, I can’t help wondering if Tyler’s having the same thoughts I am.
“So, what’s the deal with Amy?” I ask him, trying to put both of our minds on a more pleasant track.
He grunts. “Nothing.”
“Obviously something, if she’s texting you.”
“So I can’t ask about you and Connor, but you can ask about me and Amy?”
Yikes. “Wow, okay, never mind.” The silence returns to the car, heavy to the point of unbearable, and I switch on the radio, keeping it low so as not to wake Max.
After a minute, Tyler deigns to speak to me again. “This song sucks.”
“So change it,” I snap. I don’t even know what song it is, what station we’re on. All I can think about is the empty house and, now that Ty’s brought him up, Connor.
“Jeez, you don’t have to be such a bitch,” Ty mutters as he reaches for the dial.
It takes all my self-control not to swerve off the road. “You’ve gotta be kidding me, Tyler. You can not talk to me like that.”
“You’re not Mom,” he shoots back icily, and I know he’s been storing that one up for a while.
“No, I’m not, and I’m not trying to be. It’s not like I have anyone teaching me what to do here, Tyler. I’m doing the best I can.”
“Well, your best sucks,” he growls, changing stations.
My knuckles are white on the steering wheel, and I force myself to keep calm. He’s just acting out from grief, I remind myself. It’s something his shrink had warned me about, especially after the fight he got into at school. It’s not personal.
Sure sounded fucking personal, but although tears prick at my eyes at his words, I refuse to give in. It’s what he wants, which is shitty, and I won’t do it. Instead, I get even shittier. “Good thing you’re turning fourteen next month. Then you can tell a judge all about how much I’m torturing you, and see how much better you like foster care.”
“I hate you.”
“Well, that sucks for both of us, doesn’t it.”
“No wonder Connor doesn’t like you.”
The words are like a punch to the gut, and not for the reason Tyler thinks. I jerk to the side of the road, and slam to a stop in the shoulder before turning to my brother. “Actually, Tyler, you’re why he doesn’t like me. This might come as a shock to you, but playing parent to two boys isn’t something every college or grad student dreams of doing. So next time you want to be an asshole, maybe choose a subject that’s not your fault. Or, better yet, realize that you’re not the only one who’s had to make sacrifices, or who’s lost Mom and Dad.”
The second the vitriol has passed my lips, I regret every word, especially when Tyler juts out his jaw in a defiant gesture aimed to stop himself from crying, and fails.
And especially when Max’s sad voice comes from the backseat, sleepy and sniffly. “Connor doesn’t like me?”
Fuck. Fuck. I don’t think I’ve ever hated myself so much in my entire life. “Of course he does, Max,” I say quickly, stumbling over the thickness in my throat.
“No, he doesn’t,” Tyler says meanly, swiping his hand under his nose. “Connor doesn’t, and neither does Lizzie.”
“Of course I do,” I say with far more fire than I intend. “I love you both, and I’m sorry. I should never have said any of that. This is hard for me too, and I’m not handling it well.” Understatement of the century. “Connor…he likes you both, very much. He wouldn’t have come for dinner if he didn’t.” That part, I realize, is actually true. “But you’re probably not going to see him again. And it’s not because of anything you did,” I add hastily. “He just…has a lot going on.”
Both boys are quiet, and I think I can actually hear my gut churning in the silence.
Finally, Ty says, “He’s a dick.”
I know I shouldn’t encourage it, but I can’t help laughing, which makes Max giggle too. “He’s not,” I insist, but then I laugh again, and eventually, even Ty does too. “Okay, a little bit,” I concede, remembering waking up alone in bed that Sunday morning. “But he’s a good guy. And he really does like you guys, a lot. And he’s been a huge help to all of us. But we’re all learning how to handle things now, and the three of us have to be in it together. That’s what matters. Okay?”
The boys mumble their assent, and after we’ve found a song on the radio we can all agree on, I get back on the road for the last three hours of the drive home.
• • •
Even though I’ve been thinking about it non-stop, arriving at the house, only to see it dark, empty, and cold, is still a shock. The answering machine is full of messages from telemarketers unaware just how disinterested Edward and Manuella Brandt are in considering new car insurance options or cable plans. Just one more reminder of how many house-related things I have to take care of before we go back on Sunday.
It’s well after Max’s bedtime when we get there, and I put him straight into his old bed, which is still unmade from his last day here, after the funeral. Ty goes right to his room, too, presumably to get online and tell all his friends he’s home. I debate going over to Nancy’s, but it’s late, and I know I’ll see her first thing in the morning; no reason to bother her now.
Nothing to do but wallow and wait.
I didn’t finish the scotch the day of the funeral, so I help myself to a couple more inches of it now and curl up on the couch in front of the TV.
One drink, a goodnight to Tyler, and a House Hunters mini-marathon later, I’m wide awake. And lonely as hell. My family was always perfectly comfortable—truly putting the middle in middle-class—but my house has never felt so huge. It doesn’t help that I have no idea how to work the heater; Nancy will have to show me in the morning.
It’s impossible not to think of Connor now, of that last night together, sleeping with him curled around me. How much warmer I would be now if he were here, his arm wrapped around my waist, his breath on my neck. It’s a terribly dangerous road to travel down, but I’m cold and sad and just drunk enough to get myself off to visions of navy-blue eyes burning into mine while doing things I almost wish I didn’t remember.
I drift off almost immediately after. When I wake up a few hours later, I’m nauseated as
all hell, freezing despite the furry blanket—my mom’s favorite—and the throw pillow is wet under my cheek, moisture I assume is drool until I rub my eyes. Crying in my sleep—a whole new low.
Wrapping the blanket around myself, I gather the empty highball and my cell phone and make my way upstairs. It’s too cold to shower, but I chug a few glasses of water so I won’t be a total waste of space when I see Nancy tomorrow. Then I take a deep breath and let myself into my parents’ old room.
In here, the bed is made—just as they left it before going to visit my grandmother in her nursing home—and it’s clear nothing has been touched. Nancy had gently suggested I go through it eventually, but there was too much to do then, and I can’t stomach it now. All I want is a pair of my dad’s warm sweats, and I find them easily. I hope that they’ll smell like him, like his cologne or even his deodorant, but they just smell like a combination of detergent and stale drawer.
Still, they’re warm, and wrapping myself in them is a comfort. I check on the boys, both of whom are sleeping soundly, and then I brush my teeth, slip into my room, and close the door. Once I’m back in bed, though, I find I’m wide awake again. Of course.
I take my cell phone from my nightstand and light it up to check the time. Only then do I see I have three texts.
From Connor.
Just wanted to make sure you guys made it home okay, reads the first one.
The second one says, Sorry, I know I have no right to ask.
And then, of course, the third: But did you?
I snort as I read through the messages. He has twisted ideas of what keeping his distance means, not that that’s news to either one of us. But now my conversation with the boys in the car rears up slowly in my head. Connor does like them; I know he does. Hell, he volunteered to spend extra time with Max, and he certainly didn’t need to. And coming to dinner? He knew he was in for more quality time with them. So why was he pretending he couldn’t handle them being around?
The light fades out as I’m contemplating, and I realize I still haven’t caught the time. I hit the button again. It’s after three. It’s late to text back, and I probably shouldn’t either way. But then I think about how I would feel if he’d driven back to Montreal tonight and the texting situation was reversed, and I send a quick Safe and sound.
To my surprise, before I can even return the phone to my nightstand, I can see that he’s typing back. Then he stops. Starts again. Stops. I keep watching my phone, but it goes dark, and stays that way.
For the best, I think, and slide back under the covers. My resolve lasts all of thirty seconds before I snatch my phone back.
I could see you responding, you know, I type. Were you waiting up for me?
There’s a twinge in my stomach as I wait for his response. Just as I’m sure there’s none forthcoming, my phone beeps. Don’t ask me that.
Just like that, a flood of emotion sweeps through me, and I grasp the phone in a white-knuckled grip. I know it’s just who Connor is, a guy who can’t stop caring no matter how hard he wants to, but so help me God, it feels like more. It feels personal. It feels like….
I’m sorry, he texts. Go to sleep.
I can’t. And then, because I can’t stop myself any more than I can pretend I’m over whatever’s happening between us, I call.
He picks up immediately, as if he was anticipating it, and I wonder if it was with hope or dread. It’s not clear from the way his gruff voice says, “Go to sleep.”
“Tell me a bedtime story,” I reply, relaxing back onto my pillow. “Bonus points if said story is on the final.”
“Counting on Byzantine History to put you to sleep, huh?”
“It always does,” I say, though I can already feel myself growing sleepier, soothed by his voice.
He laughs, low and sexy, and it feels like the hug I’ve been needing all day. “Is that why you’re skipping all your classes tomorrow?”
Only then does it hit me that I never told him I was driving home today. “Wait, how’d you—”
“I kinda figured you’d need some extra time to adjust to being back home,” he says.
I sigh. “You live way too far inside my head, you know that?”
“I think we’ve established the reverse is true too,” he says wryly.
From the way he utters the words, you’d think we were discussing some sort of misery, and I can’t help a tiny laugh at the absurdity of it. “You really do know how to make the fact that we like each other sound like a fate worse than death, you know.”
There’s a long pause, and I wonder if I’ve somehow gone too far, though I don’t see how. Finally, I swallow hard and change the subject, before I lose him for good and the night becomes quiet and cold again. “So when do you head home?”
“I don’t,” he says, and I’m relieved to hear his voice; I was almost afraid he’d hung up. “Canadian Thanksgiving was a month ago. I’m just taking advantage of some quiet on campus.”
“That sounds….” Boring. Lonely. “Nice.”
“Yeah. Should be. I’m counting on getting a nice amount of my dissertation done.”
“Oh, come on. You’re just gonna end up sitting around in your underwear and playing video games, aren’t you?”
He laughs. “I cannot confirm or deny.”
“Well, I’m sorry you’re going to miss my first attempt at cooking an entire bird, because let me tell you, it’s gonna be something special.”
“Please tell me you’re going to have ample amounts of supervision, and/or your version of cooking involves opening takeout boxes.”
“Oh, no takeout boxes here. We Brandts are very serious about our turkey.” I pause. “Or maybe we’re not. I’m actually not that crazy about turkey. But my dad’s stuffing recipe is amazing.” I explain to him about Nancy, and our joint cooking plans, and our traditions, and he tells me all about Canadian Thanksgiving and what campus is like when it’s completely deserted.
I have no idea at what point I drift off to sleep, but I could swear at some point I heard a soft laugh, followed by a “Goodnight, Lizzie,” and there wasn’t even a hint of chill in the November air.
Nancy shows up bright and early the next morning, bearing bagels, cream cheese, and bags of ingredients for making pie crust and stuffing. “Hi, sweetheart,” she greets me after dropping everything on the table. She kisses me warmly on both cheeks. “Make yourself a bagel and let’s get to work.”
I can’t help laughing—Nancy’s the queen of getting down to business. She’s pretty much the only reason we haven’t fallen apart completely. Of course, at some point, I have to take over dealing with the finances and other crap that’s become her problem by default, but for now, her German efficiency is a lifesaver.
Making us all bagels while Nancy puts up a pot of coffee, I call the boys downstairs for breakfast and to help unload the bags. Predictably, Max asks to see Nancy’s dog before he can even swallow his first bite, and Tyler just shoves half the bagel into his mouth before asking if he can go see his friends.
“Aren’t they at school?” I ask as I pour both me and Nancy mugs of coffee.
“Oh yeah,” Ty mutters. “Just ’til noon today, though.”
“How about you do your homework until then, so you can be free for the rest of vacation?” I suggest.
“That sounds like an excellent idea,” says Nancy before Ty can object. “And maybe at some point today you three can go through some things.”
Ty and I exchange a glance, but I nod, even though the thought of picking apart the stuff my parents left behind sort of makes me want to vomit. “Sure,” I answer for all of us, because there’s not much of a point putting it off any longer.
“How was the ride down?” Nancy asks, obviously trying to change topics to a more pleasant one than delving into my dead parents’ things, not realizing she hit on a topic almost as bad.
“Fine,” Ty says flatly, and Nancy glances at me.
“How are things here?” I ask, forcing a bright smi
le on my face.
She glances around the kitchen before responding with a “Fine” almost as a terse as Ty’s, and it makes my chest ache. Much as I love and miss my parents, at least I’m up at Radleigh, where I’m used to going long stretches without seeing them, and days without speaking to them. For Nancy, it’s a daily confrontation; she’s been friends with my parents since she and my dad were in law school together.
After a minute of silence, I blurt out what we’re all thinking. “This blows, huh?”
Nancy smiles faintly. “Totally.”
Max pops his head up. “What does—”
“Hey, Max, wanna go see Pete?” asks Ty, glancing at Nancy for approval.
“Yes!” He downs the rest of his juice under my watchful eye and they head next door. I can hear Pete’s playful yapping as soon as he spots them, and Nancy and I exchange a smile, but I can tell there’s Real Talk coming.
Nancy doesn’t disappoint. “How are you, sweetie?”
I shrug, my bagel rapidly losing its appeal under her watchful eye. “Fine. Sad. Which I think is pretty normal.”
“Of course it’s normal to be sad,” she says, stroking my hair before picking up her mug to take another sip. “But are you sure you don’t want to talk to someone professionally?”
I think about when Connor made the same suggestion, and how I snapped at him. I wonder if Nancy sees someone, if she had to after she lost her leg, or her husband left her. If she talks about my parents with some stranger. “I’m sure,” I murmur, taking a sip from my own mug, even though I’m really not that sure anymore.
“Are your friends being supportive?”
Again, I think of Connor, but instead I just say, “Yeah. They make sure I get out of the house.” And stick up for me against Trevor’s asshole buddies, but there’s no good way to bring that up. “Cait came with me to look at the apartment and stuff.”
“Good,” says Nancy with a smile. “I was a little worried when no one came down with you for the funeral.”