The Dare

by Elle Kennedy

  How did this happen to us?

  “He’s nice,” I reply. Because it’s the truth and reassuring enough. “He seems cool, I guess. And Conor says good things about him, so that’s something. How’s his hand?”

  “Not too serious. It’ll heal in a few weeks.”

  I hate this. Neither of us saying what we mean to say—that I don’t know how to like the guy my mother is dating, and that she, in turn, will be broken-hearted if Chad and I can’t find a way to be friends. Or if not friends, then at least something that looks close enough from a distance, because the alternative would be some awful feeling of incompleteness every time the three of us are in a room together.

  I’ve never needed a father. Mom was more than enough, and if you asked her she would say the same thing—that I was enough for her, too. Yet I feel like there’s this programed patriarchal voice buried deep inside her, maybe the remnants of the society that raised her, saying she’s a failure as a mother and a woman if she doesn’t have a man in her life or can’t give her only daughter a male role model.

  “Do you like him?” I ask awkwardly. “Because really, that’s more important. I saw no glaring flaws in him other than maybe don’t let him near an oven again.”

  “I do like him,” she confesses. “I think he was nervous last night. Chad’s a private guy. He likes simple things and not a lot of fuss. I think getting you two girls together for the first time, having all of us together, was a lot of pressure for everyone. He was worried you might hate him.”

  “I don’t hate him. And I’m sure he and I will find a way to get along if, you know, this is going to be a thing.”

  Although I suppose it already is a thing. Wasn’t that the point of last night? Why we all nearly burned to death for a pot roast or whatever that blackened mess was?

  My mother has gone and gotten herself into a thing with a Chad. A hockey Chad, to boot. What the fuck is it with us and hockey?

  Did my dad play hockey? Isn’t it also a huge sport in Russia?

  Has this been festering in my DNA this whole time like a dormant virus?

  Am I going to be one of those fucking clichés who grows up to marry her dad?

  Did I just insinuate I’d marry Conor?

  Fuck.

  “How will it work long term, though?” I ask. “I mean, if long term is where this is headed. Are you going to keep commuting or—”

  “We haven’t discussed that,” she cuts in. “At this point it isn’t—”

  It’s my turn to interrupt. “Because you realize you can’t leave MIT, right? For a man. I don’t want to be a snob or a bitch or whatever you want to call it, and I’m not trying to be mean. But you’re not leaving MIT for him, okay?”

  “Taylor.”

  “Mom.”

  A flicker of panic tears through me, and I realize that maybe this new development is getting to me more than I’ve been willing to admit. It’s not like MIT and Briar are that far apart. But for a moment there, I imagined Mom selling our house, my childhood home, and—another jolt of dread hits me. Yeah, I definitely haven’t quite processed everything yet.

  “Taylor. I need you to know something,” she says firmly. “You will always come first.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Always. You’re my daughter. My only child. We’ve been a team your whole life, and that’s not going to change. I’m still here for you above anything else. And anyone else. If you decide—”

  “I’m not going to tell you to stop seeing him,” I blurt out, because I can see where she’s going with this.

  “No, I know—”

  “I want you to be happy.”

  “I know. I’m just saying, if it came to it, I’m always going to pick my daughter over anything and anyone. It’s not even a question. You know that, right?”

  But there were times she didn’t, and we both know it.

  There were times when she was competing for tenure and promotions, writing books and touring campuses for speaking engagements. When she spent all day on campus then all night locked away in her office or hopping from one plane to another. Forgetting what time zone she was in and waking me up in the middle of the night to call me.

  There were times when I wondered if I’d already lost her and that’s just how it was supposed to be: your parents get you walking and talking and able to heat up your own Hot Pockets, and then they get to go back to living their own lives while you were supposed to start creating your own. I thought I wasn’t supposed to need my mom anymore, and I started taking care of myself.

  But then it would change. Get better. She would realize we hadn’t had dinner together in months; I’d realize that I’d stopped asking when she’d be back or for permission to borrow the car. She’d notice me coming home with my own groceries while she was eating a pizza on the couch and we’d realize neither of us had even considered checking with the other one. That’s when we’d realize we’d become roommates, and it would get better. We’d make an effort. She’d be my mom again and I’d be her daughter.

  But to say that I have and will always come first for her?

  “Yeah, I know,” I lie.

  “I know you do,” she lies back. And I hear her sniffle as I’m rubbing the blur out of my eyes.

  “I liked Conor,” she adds, which makes me smile.

  “I do too.”

  “Are you taking him to the Spring Gala?”

  “I haven’t asked him yet, but probably.”

  “Is this serious, or…dot, dot, dot.”

  That’s the question everyone wants an answer to, Conor and me included. The question neither of us have wanted to look directly at, instead catching it in glimpses and flashes out of the corners of our eyes. The moving target floating in the periphery of our vision. What does serious mean and what does it look like? Do either of us have an idea or would we know it if we saw it?

  I don’t have a good answer, and I’m not sure Conor does, either.

  “It’s still new,” is all I can think to say.

  “It’s okay to try things, remember. You’re allowed to be wrong.”

  “I like things the way they are for now. And anyway, it’s probably not a good idea to put a lot of expectations on each other right before finals, and then it’s summer break, so…dot, dot, dot.”

  “That sounds like an exit strategy.” She pauses. “Which isn’t a bad thing, if that’s what you need.”

  “Just being realistic.” And reality has a way of smacking you in the face when you least expect it. So, yes, Conor and I might have something good going right now, but I haven’t forgotten how this whole accidental relationship started. A dare that turned into a revenge plot that morphed into a full-blown situationship.

  I have a feeling that someday, many years from now, Conor and I will cross paths at an alumni banquet and, squinting at one another from across the crowded room, remember the semester we spent in each other’s pants. We’ll laugh about it and share the amusing anecdote with his statuesque supermodel wife and whomever I wind up with, if anyone.

  “I do like him,” she repeats.

  I almost tell her he invited me to California over the summer then bite it back. I feel like she’d make a big deal of it.

  Granted, I already opened that stupid door when I let him meet my mother.

  It didn’t even occur to me that bringing Conor to dinner last night was crossing that major relationship threshold of introducing him to Mom. I just couldn’t stomach the idea of sitting through the evening without some backup.

  You’ve got to hand it to Conor—he didn’t even flinch or fluster. He’d just shrugged and said, “Sure, if you don’t mind picking out my clothes.” His biggest concern was whether he had to shave, and I’d told him if I had to shave then so did he. After a week of his stubble rubbing a raw patch on my chin, I had put my foot down on the facial hair situation. Thinking about it now, that was another relationship milestone.

  Mom and I chat for a while longer while I putter around my apartment.
We talk about the Spring Gala and finals and whether I want to keep the apartment in Hastings over the summer or move my stuff into storage…a decision I realize I’m putting off until certain other summer plans are determined.

  Later, when Conor texts to say he’s coming over with takeout, I consider throwing together some elaborate high school display as a way of asking him to the Spring Gala. Like writing it across my chest in red lipstick or spelling it in underwear on the floor. Then I realize that making a big deal of the ask makes a big deal of the date and maybe that sends the wrong message. So I keep it casual and bring it up over a bowl of my favorite tomato soup and grilled cheese from the diner.

  “Hey, so, there’s this Kappa gala coming up. And I was going to ask my other fake boyfriend to be my date…”

  Conor raises an amused eyebrow.

  “He goes to another school, you wouldn’t know him. Anyway, then I figured, well, since you’ve already met my mother and we’ve escaped a burning house together, maybe you’d go with me?”

  “Is this one of those parties where you drag me around the room making other girls jealous and generally treating me like a dick with feet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I accept.”

  A giddy smile threatens to break free. Conor makes everything so simple, it’s no wonder I’m so comfortable with him. He makes it easy for me.

  I watch as he shoves the last piece of his cheeseburger into his mouth, munching happily, and my good humor falters slightly.

  No matter how comfortable I feel, there’s always that whisper of doubt, fear. It’s like white noise, a hum in my head when I’m falling asleep, a persistent warning that maybe we don’t really know each other at all. And that at any moment, the elaborate fantasy we’ve designed could completely and utterly collapse.

  25

  Taylor

  Conor has the artistic aptitude of a gerbil.

  I learn this troubling fact when he comes over on Wednesday after his Econ class to find me already in my pajamas and elbow deep in construction paper. The kids are creating paper rainforests in Mrs. Gardner’s class this week and I’ve got about two hundred paper flowers, birds, and other living things to cut out for them tonight. When Conor offered to help, I assumed he had at least a fifth-grade education in tracing and basic humanoid skills at operating a pair of scissors. My mistake.

  “What is that supposed to be?” I ask, holding back laughter. Cartoons play in the background while we sit on the living room rug. One of the things I love about working in an elementary school is that it doesn’t let you take yourself too seriously.

  “A frog.” He admires his genetic abomination, so sweetly proud of the grotesque creature that were it alive it would wheeze in agony before throwing itself in front of a moving car.

  “It looks like a turd with warts.”

  “The fuck, Marsh.” With a look of sincere insult, he covers where the frog’s ears would be. “You’re going to give him a complex.”

  “He needs a good mercy kill, Edwards.” Giggles sputter out of me and I almost feel bad for Conor’s devotion to his deformed creation.

  “Do you spend your off hours poisoning all the less than conventionally attractive baby bunnies, too?”

  “Here.” I hand him a few sheets of colored paper where I’ve already traced several flowers. “Just cut these out.”

  He pouts. “You’re going to be the meanest teacher.”

  “Try to stay in the lines, please.”

  Grumbling “whatever” under his breath, Conor retreats into the joyless task of cutting out flowers.

  I can’t help but cast surreptitious glances his way, admiring the adorable look of concentration on his face.

  How is this real? There’s six feet, two inches of solid muscle and man sprawled out on my floor. Conor constantly blows his hair off of his forehead as he works.

  Sometimes I forget how attractive he is. I guess I’ve gotten used to him being around, taken for granted the soft shape of his lips and the masculine curve of his shoulders. The way his skin brushing against mine when we don’t even mean to be touching makes my nerves jitter. The way it feels when he’s on top of me.

  When I imagine him inside me.

  After a few minutes, I check on his progress to discover he’s spent his time cutting out dicks of protest and lining them up neatly across my living room floor. When he notices me noticing, he crosses him arms and smiles proudly.

  “Do you care to explain the dicks?”

  “They’re flowers,” he says in a defiant tone, and I can easily picture a younger version of Conor rolling his eyes at high school teachers and flipping them the bird behind their backs.

  “They have testicles!” I sputter.

  “So? Flowers have testicles. They’re called anthers. Look it up.” He smirks, all full of attitude and mischief. It’s not fair that he’s so charming when he’s being a pain in the ass. If we’d met in high school, I can only imagine the trouble he’d have gotten me into. We’d probably be fugitives by now.

  “What if one of your dicks made it into the flower pile and tomorrow I had to explain to their teacher why she has two dozen six-year-olds plastering penises all over her classroom?” With an irritable sigh, I gather up the dicks and dump them in the trash.

  “I thought you were using the word rainforest as a euphemism,” Conor replies, unconvincingly and quite pleased with himself. “You know, like birds and bees.”

  “They’re in first grade.”

  “When I was in first grade, Kai and I once hid in the cabinet under his kitchen sink to spy on his brother’s friends watching Girls Gone Wild DVDs.”

  “That explains so much.” When I go to the fridge for a soda, he comes up behind me and catches me around the waist to press his body against mine. He’s hard, and that knowledge sends a current pulsating under my skin.

  “Actually,” he murmurs against my neck, “I was just hoping we could take a break so I could get you naked.”

  His palms travel up my ribs, while his lips kiss down beneath my ear and across my shoulder where my oversized cropped shirt sags low. When those firm hands cup and squeeze my breasts, I can’t help but arch my back.

  Groaning, he spins me around and backs me up against the fridge. His lips muffle my sound of surprise, his tongue penetrating my mouth.

  There’s something different about him tonight. Hungry. I reach for his T-shirt, but Conor catches my hands and lifts them above my head. Holding my wrists in one hand, he uses the other to tug free the bow on the front of my pajama shorts and lets them fall down my legs. Still kissing me, his fingers slip between my thighs, beneath my bikini underwear. The stainless steel of the refrigerator is cold against my back as he gently rubs up and down my slit, teasing my entrance.

  I hold my breath, pulling away from his lips as he glides one, and then a second finger inside me. My knees bend of their own accord at the wonderful feeling of fullness and Conor’s thumb rubbing over my clit.

  “I love making you come,” he says, his voice rough. “Will you let me?”

  Excited bumps erupt over my skin as a rolling wave of arousal washes through me. My body goes a bit limp as it surrenders to Conor. My eyelids flutter closed. “Yes,” I beg.

  He pulls away abruptly.

  I open my eyes and stare at him in a daze. “What’s wrong?”

  “Let me look at you.”

  I’m not sure what he means until I watch him cup his erect cock through his jeans. The long, thick outline protruding beneath the denim makes my heart race. He squeezes, waiting for me to comply.

  We’ve never crossed this threshold, not with the lights on anyway. But I don’t want to say no. I don’t want to feel self-conscious or embarrassed in front of him anymore. Conor makes me feel safe, beautiful, desired. And right now, here in this moment, I don’t want to be the thing standing between us.

  Slowly, I pull my shirt over my head and drop it on the cold tile floor. Then I slide my panties down my legs and
kick them aside.

  His hot gaze freely roams my naked body as if he owns it. “You’re gorgeous, Taylor.”

  Once more he hoists both my hands above my head, exposing my breasts to his lust-drenched eyes. He bends his blond head and wraps his lips around one nipple, licking and suckling until I’m squirming against him, needy for attention elsewhere.

  “Con. Let’s go to bed. Or at least the couch.”

  “Nah.”

  God, that California surfer-boy drawl kills me every time. I shiver as he kisses his way down my abdomen and kneels in front of me, pulling one leg over his shoulder to open me to his mouth.

  I moan the moment his tongue licks my slit. He flicks it over my clit and sucks purposefully. He devours me with practiced precision, and it’s all I can do to hold on to his shoulders while my hips move against his mouth.

  My thighs clench as I feel the orgasm building low in my belly. “Keep doing that,” I plead. “I’ll kill you if you stop.”

  His husky chuckles vibrate against my core. But he doesn’t stop. Knowing I’m close, he laves my clit with his tongue and slips one long finger inside me, thrusting slowly as he coaxes me to climax. I shatter, panting in shallow breaths, the pleasure detonating in my core and surging through my body.

  Before I’ve completely recovered, Conor stands up and buries his face in the crook of my neck, kissing and sucking on my flesh while I continue to quiver from the orgasmic aftereffects.

  “I am so fucking addicted to you, Taylor.” His voice is gravel. He lifts his head, and I see his eyes gleaming with need.

  Then he suddenly scoops me up in his arms, eliciting a squeal of protest from my throat.

  “Put me down,” I yelp, as my hands instinctively loop around his neck so I don’t fall on my ass. “I’m too heavy for you.”

  His laughter tickles the top of my head. “Babe, I bench like twice your weight on a slow day.”

  I relax slightly as he carries me off to my bedroom. I don’t feel light as a feather in his arms, but he doesn’t seem to be struggling at all, which is encouraging. Note to self: always date someone who can bench-press twice your weight.