The Test (The List series)

by Fenske, Tawna

  “Maybe it is.”

  Her eyes narrow. “What are you driving at?”

  I could stop this now. Just shut the fuck up and quit talking.

  But I don’t. I pivot to face her, angrier than I have any right to be. “Look, you’re the one who decided to change your life,” I growl. “To let go of the trappings of your pampered, elitist world and become a better person.”

  She reacts like I’ve just slapped her, and maybe I have. Never in the weeks we’ve known each other have I been so blunt in my judgment. I open my mouth to apologize, but she’s already shaking her head.

  “The Test was an experiment,” she says. “A temporary way for me to try new things and learn about myself. I never planned to become my own polar opposite for all of eternity.”

  The word temporary rings in my head, bouncing off my brain’s soundwaves with useless and hopeless and dumb until all of them blend into a shrill scream that makes my hands ball into fists.

  “Congratulations, then,” I tell her. “You’ve spent your thirty days slumming it in the ghetto. Done your charity work, rubbed shoulders with the unclean, gotten fucked in an alley, all that good stuff.”

  She flinches at that last part. I should stop, but I can’t. “You’re officially done with The Test,” I say. “There’s nothing keeping you here.”

  “Clearly,” she mutters, then winces. “I didn’t mean—”

  “No, I know what you meant.” I shake my head, knowing damn well I have no reason to respond in anger, when I’m the one who started this. But I can’t seem to stop.

  “Go on, Lisa. Go back to your perfect, polished little life.”

  “What?”

  “We’re done now, right? Thirty days. That was the agreement.”

  Tears fill her eyes. That’s the worst part. I wish she’d yell or scream or kick me. Tell me I’m being a selfish asshole. All of that would be true.

  But instead, a single tear spills down her cheek. “Why are you doing this?” she whispers. “I don’t understand where this is coming from.”

  I don’t understand, either. Or maybe I do. It’s about where I come from, which is vastly different from Lisa’s world. How did I not realize that before? What kind of idiot entertains the idea that an uneducated dumbshit from the wrong side of the tracks could ever have any place in a world like Lisa’s?

  You. You’re the dumbshit.

  “It was fun while it lasted, but I think we’re done now,” I say slowly. “Don’t you?”

  “Done,” she repeats as she stares at me. “With us, you mean.”

  I nod once, not able to say the words. It takes me a full ten seconds to force them up past the knot in my throat. “This was temporary, anyway. You said so yourself.”

  “In the beginning it was,” she says slowly, eyes still glittering with tears. “But I thought we were both starting to feel something else. Something different.”

  I shake my head and glance away, knowing I can’t say what I need to with those green eyes boring into my soul. “You thought wrong.”

  I can’t look at her. I need to end this now. This conversation, this charade, this stupid hope that I could ever have something long-term with someone as smart, beautiful, and sophisticated as Lisa.

  You’d only fuck it up anyway.

  My chest aches like someone’s standing on it, and I can only imagine how much worse it would be if we let things go longer. If I got attached, if I fell in love—

  You’re already in love.

  “No!”

  I turn to see her blinking at me like I’ve just cursed in church, which is the least of my offenses. I take a step back, needing to put more distance between us. Needing to commit fully to what is hands-down my dumbest act of self-preservation in my whole history of misguided decisions. I yank at the goddamn tie, ready to rip the fucking thing off my throat.

  “We’re too different,” I growl. “Isn’t that clear by now? Hasn’t it been the whole time we’ve been doing The Test? It was the whole point, wasn’t it?”

  She shakes her head slowly as another tear slips down her cheek. “We’re more alike than you think.” She reaches up and dashes the tear away, and I want to pull her against my chest. To fix what I’ve just smashed to pieces.

  A door slams nearby, and she whirls around to see who’s it is. It’s just a waiter coming out for a smoke break, and her face is washed with relief as she turns back to face me.

  “Thank God it’s not my sister,” she says. “Or Kaitlyn or—”

  “Go back inside,” I say again. “The last thing you want is for people to see you out here with me.”

  She stares at me for a moment then shakes her head. “Dax.”

  I don’t know what else she planned to say. She presses her lips together, tears still glittering in her eyes, but they aren’t falling anymore. I fold my arms so I don’t reach for her. So I don’t make this harder on us both.

  She nods once. “Fine. If that’s what you want.”

  It’s not what I want. Not at all. But I can’t make myself say those words out loud.

  Or any words at all as she turns and walks away, her expensive heels clicking on wet pavement.

  Shame and anger and self-pity foam up in my chest like a toxic volcano.

  Of all the stupid things you’ve done—

  Stupid. That’s exactly what I am. It’s all I’ll ever be. Surely Lisa knows that? It’s better this way, it has to be.

  She disappears into the building, and the door slams shut behind her, a hard, metal clang that echoes off the bricks behind me.

  I close my eyes and lean back against the cold, damp wall, hating myself more than I have in my entire life.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Lisa

  It’s Sarah who finds me in the bathroom crying.

  I love my sisters more than anything, but for some reason I’m relieved it’s her instead of them.

  She sits down beside me on the red plush chaise that looks both luxurious and absurd in a room where women go to pee.

  “What happened?” she asks.

  Without waiting for an answer, Sarah slides a hand into her little black handbag and pulls out a small silver flask. She offers it to me without comment, and I give a choked little laugh-sob.

  “That’s why,” I say out loud as I screw off the top and knock back a mouthful of gin so strong it may as well be turpentine. I wipe my hand over the back of my mouth and hand the flask back.

  “Why what?” she asks.

  “Why I’m glad it’s you,” I say. “Missy would have handed me a cross-stitched lace hankie and a Belvedere martini, and Cassie would have tried to make me laugh with dirt jokes. Not that I wouldn’t appreciate it, but sometimes a girl just needs to drink straight gin in a bathroom while wearing a four-thousand-dollar rented dress.”

  Sarah laughs and takes her own small sip from the flask before tucking it back in her purse. “I wasn’t sure they’d have anything at the bar that costs less than my monthly car payment.”

  “Good guess. A woman who plans ahead.” I shake my head, chastising myself for not doing exactly that. Not with gin, but with Dax. How the hell did I think this was going to end?

  “For the record, I’m not working tonight,” Sarah says. “In case you’re worried about me drinking and looking after Junie.”

  I glance at her, startled. “Is that what everyone thinks of me? That I’m such a judgmental bitch?”

  It’s Sarah’s turn to look startled. “What? No! That’s not what I meant at all. I was just—”

  “Sorry. I was just venting.”

  I take a deep breath and scrub a tissue across my cheeks, leaving dark smears of mascara on it. I can only imagine what I look like.

  You care so damn much what everyone thinks of you…

  I wince at the memory of his words, and Sarah gives me a sympathetic smile. “I take it you and Dax had a fight?”

  I nod, wishing for another nip from the flask. “Yeah. He said we’re too different. Th
at we come from different walks of life.”

  “That’s true enough,” she says. “But don’t they always say opposites attract?”

  “Attract trouble, maybe,” I mutter. “That’s about it.”

  She studies me for a moment, then shakes her head. “Nah, there’s more than that between you. I saw it the other day on the field trip. The way he looked at you like you invented pepperoni pizza and ESPN. The way he hung on every word you said. That’s more than sex, my friend.”

  I sigh and shake my head. “I don’t understand why he blew up like he did. One minute we were joking around with his ex-girlfriend about some stupid thing he pointed to in the program, and the next minute he’s stalking out of the room like I kicked his dog.”

  The reminder of Dax’s dog story sends a flash flood of guilt coursing through me.

  So does Sarah’s creased brow. “Did you use that word, by any chance?” she asks. “Stupid?”

  I stare at her. “I have no idea. Why?”

  “Well,” she says slowly, choosing her words with care. “It’s just that adults with disabilities can be really sensitive about that. About judgement words or phrases that make them feel dumb.”

  My brain starts to spin, and I’m pretty certain it has nothing to do with the gin. “Disabilities? What are you talking about?”

  Sarah frowns. “I’m sorry, I just assumed—I thought you knew?”

  “Sarah, what on earth are you talking about?”

  She bites her lip, hesitating. “The paperwork I gave you guys before the field trip,” she says. “The way Dax asked you to fill his out for him.”

  “Right, he said he had to take an important call…”

  “Sure, maybe. But later when you left the room, I asked him to read the waiver form out loud for some of the other volunteers. It was clear right away he was dyslexic, so I stopped and moved on to something else.”

  “Dax is dyslexic?”

  How on earth did I not know?

  Sarah’s studying me like she’s wondering the same thing, but she’s too polite to say it. “I’m pretty sure, yes,” she says. “I assumed it was something you’d talked about.”

  I shake my head, dumbfounded. “I had no idea.”

  “I guess that doesn’t surprise me, now that I think about it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Sara shrugs and fiddles with the zipper on her purse. “I did a lot of coursework on adult dyslexia when I was working on my special ed degree. Unfamiliar fonts—like the ones on those forms for the field trip—those can be especially challenging for adults who have a tough time with reading.”

  Or the fonts in the program.

  I clear my throat. “Apparently, he didn’t want me to know.”

  My head is reeling, and I can’t wrap my brain around this. We were as intimate as two people can be. He told me about his childhood dog and the story about the laughing boys at the zoo, but he didn’t see fit to share something this important?

  “Don’t feel bad,” Sarah says, resting a hand on my arm. “It’s really common for adults with learning disabilities to keep it to themselves. They don’t want to look stupid.”

  Stupid.

  You’re so fucking smart. Why is that such a turn-on?

  Dax’s words from our time in the Oregon Adventure exhibit rearrange themselves in my memory, like puzzle pieces clicking together. Did I make him feel dumb? Like he couldn’t be himself with me?

  “Don’t blame yourself,” Sarah says, reading my mind. “With dyslexic men in particular, there’s a lot of shame involved. With someone they care about, they’re afraid of looking weak or unworthy in a new relationship.”

  I shake my head, stung by the words almost as much as the fact that I didn’t know. “We’re not in a relationship,” I murmur. “Not anymore. He made that pretty damn clear.”

  Sympathy clouds her eyes, and she slips an arm around me. “You’re sure?”

  I nod. “He said we’re both ready to be done with this.” I swallow hard, hating the tightness in my throat. “And I said okay.”

  Sarah gives me a squeeze. With the other hand, she reaches into her bag and pulls out the flask. “Here. Keep it. You need it more than I do.”

  “Thanks.” I take a hearty swallow, feeling sadness and shame burn down my throat with the gin. I wonder if I should find Dax and apologize.

  No. He chose not to let you in. He made it clear he’s done.

  “It was only meant to be temporary anyway,” I murmur, lifting the flask to my lips again. “Maybe it’s best just to let things go.”

  Sarah says nothing at first, but there’s pity in her eyes as she nods. “Sometimes it’s fine to be single while you figure out who you are and what you want.”

  “Cheers to that,” I say with no cheer at all. I pass the flask back, knowing how badly we both want to believe that.

  Wishing like hell I did.

  Wishing, more than anything, that I hadn’t fallen hard for Dax.

  Chapter Twenty

  Dax

  I move through the pat-down like a zombie, holding up my arms so the guard can frisk me before I shuffle through the metal detector in a daze.

  I’ve visited my brother in prison a million times before, but it feels different this time.

  “You look like shit,” Paul says the instant he sits down across from me at the battered metal table.

  “Thanks,” I mutter. “You’re fucking ugly, too.”

  Brotherly affection at its finest.

  Paul laughs and leans back in his chair, arms folded behind his head. “Love you, too, baby brother. So, who pissed in your cornflakes?”

  I can’t believe this is the conversation we’re having less than five seconds after I arrive for my weekly visit. Then again, it’s all I’ve thought about for the last twenty-four hours. I take a deep breath, considering whether to confide in him.

  Keeping secrets is part of what fucked you over with Lisa.

  “It’s no big deal,” I mutter at last. “Broke up with some chick I’ve been seeing.”

  “Some chick.” My brother snorts like that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. I have to admit, the words sounded dumb coming out of my mouth. “Man, you’re the worst liar ever. You wouldn’t be sitting here acting this fucking miserable over ‘some chick’”—he lifts his hands in dramatic air quotes—“who didn’t mean shit to you.”

  I sigh, not wanting to get into this, but not sure I have any choice. “Look, it’s no big deal. We were seeing each other for a while, but now we’re not. End of story.”

  That’s such a blatant lie I can’t even look at him when I say it. From the disgusted snort across the table, I can tell he’s not buying it. “Whatever, dude. What was her name?”

  “Lisa.” My chest tightens as I say it, and I hate myself even more. “Lisa Michaels.”

  “Lisa Michaels,” he repeats. “What did you do, fuck her sister or something?”

  “What? No! Are you crazy?”

  Paul barks out a laugh. “Maybe. I’m in prison, aren’t I? Think it’s too late to do an insanity plea?”

  The fact that my brother is being so jovial about this makes me feel shittier. Like it’s possible to feel worse. What kind of asshole shows up and dumps his relationship woes on a guy who’s been stuck behind bars for the last three years?

  “I didn’t fuck her sister,” I say. “Can we please talk about something else?”

  Paul shrugs and drops his hands to the table, spreading them wide on the chipped black metal. “Sure thing, man. What do you want to talk about?”

  “I don’t know. Read any good books lately?”

  That gets a good laugh out of him, and I find myself smiling a little, too. It’s been our inside joke for years. One nobody but a couple of dyslexic degenerates would find funny.

  “Hey, you remember that time the principal sent notes home with us about how we were a couple dumbshits who couldn’t read and needed to be in special classes,” Paul says. “But we co
uldn’t read the goddamn forms and neither could dad, so we ended up shoving them in the burn pile?”

  “Yeah,” I mutter, darkening again. “Great childhood memories. Almost as good as that time dad shot our dog.”

  My brother stops laughing and frowns at me. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  I roll my eyes and rub my palms across the table. “Killer. You remember Killer, right?”

  “Of course, but Dad didn’t shoot him.”

  “The hell he didn’t,” I growl. “He loaded him up in the truck and drove away with his gun. When he came back, no dog.”

  Paul looks at me, then shakes his head. “Man, that’s really what you thought all these years?” The pity in his eyes makes me feel worse, which is saying something, since I already feel like shit. “Dad always had his gun, idiot. That doesn’t mean anything.”

  I roll my eyes, not willing to let my brother sugarcoat things. “So what do you think happened?”

  “I don’t think,” he says. “I know. I was there. I was hanging out at the bar with a fake ID when the old man showed up asking if anyone wanted to buy a wolf dog.”

  I stare at him, not sure whether to believe the story. Part of me wants to. Wants it desperately, more than anything. “What happened?”

  Paul shrugs. “Bartender said sure, his kid had been bugging him for a dog. Traded fair and square for a fifth of Jack.”

  I stare at him while my brain spins with this new version of history. I want to believe him. I do believe him. Why would he make this up?

  “Why didn’t you say anything? To me or to dad or—”

  “What, and risk getting my ass whooped for hanging out at a fucking dive bar at sixteen?” He shakes his head. “Besides, how the hell was I supposed to know that’s what you thought? You never said a damn thing.”

  He’s right. My habit of hiding shit that makes me feel bad isn’t my most admirable trait, but I’m still processing the dog thing, so I don’t have time to think about it.

  “Killer didn’t die?”

  “Well, probably at some point,” Paul says. “It was more than twenty years ago. Dogs don’t live forever.”

  I grunt and scrape my hand over my chin. “Hell, he probably ended up in a dog fighting ring or something.”