by Dahlia Adler
“Possibly. Especially if it requires me to explain why my car is indisposed.” As if Connor didn’t already think as little of me as humanly possible. I’m not sure I could even look him in the eye again after this.
Cait glances at her watch. “I’m so sorry, Boo, but I really have to run to lacrosse practice. I’ll drive the Slutmobile to the shop to get painted. Are you gonna call for that ride?”
“Yeah,” I grumble, because I have to at least try. And I know in my gut he’ll say yes.
“Good.” She kisses me forehead. “Again, I’m so, so—”
“Cait?”
“Yeah?”
“Get out.”
• • •
I’m not a morning person, but I’ve been up for about an hour longer than necessary today, watching the parking lot through the living room window. It’s a fucking miracle that he agreed to this, though he refused to flat-out lend me his car, insisting on picking us up instead. I refuse to be even a minute late, knowing this is probably the last favor I’ll get to ask of him.
A car pulls in, and when I squint I can see it’s an old gray Altima, just what he said to keep an eye out for. “Boys, get out here! Time to go!”
“Why is some random guy driving us to school again?” Tyler whines as he tromps out of their room. “You realize if I had my bike, I could take myself.”
“Well, we didn’t bring your bike up here, so you can’t take yourself, now can you?” I point out, though I know it was my own stupid fault we didn’t; I had no idea how to put a bike rack on my car, and therefore no way to drive it up. Once upon a time my rather handy father would’ve gladly done it. Now it’s just another thing on the list of shit I need to learn, fast, so I can stop being the world’s crappiest guardian. “I’ll get you a new one,” I promise hastily, though I have no idea how much one costs. “Please just help me get Max outside and we can go this weekend, okay?”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Thankfully, the bribery works, and Connor’s wait is no more than three minutes before we pile into the car. The boys go into the backseat immediately but I hesitate, unsure whether it’s weird for me to climb in next to Connor. Then I think it’s probably weirder to make him ride alone upfront like the Brandt family chauffeur, and I jump into the passenger seat before I can change my mind.
“Boys, this is Con—um, Mr. Lawson. He’s doing us a big favor by driving us this morning, so buckle up and be good, okay?”
“What’s wrong with the car again?” asks Max. “I thought we got a new one.”
Goddammit. “That’s Max,” I say, trying not to grit my teeth. “And the bigger guy is Tyler. He’s first. Barrington Junior High. I can direct you.”
“Are you my sister’s boyfriend?” asks Tyler. “She says you’re not, but she wouldn’t tell us if you were.”
“Tyler, Jesus Christ. I already told you, no.” I knew this was a mistake. Seriously, the Slutmobile would’ve been better than this.
“Why not?”
“Max!”
“If you’re not her boyfriend, why would you be driving us to school?” Tyler demands.
“Because he’s nice,” I snap back, “unlike certain brothers who are being jerks right now when I told them to be good.”
“I’m being good!” Max cries. “And I’m buckled!”
“I’m buckled too,” says Tyler, as if that makes up for anything.
“Your turn,” says Connor, and I realize they’re the first words he’s said since we got in the car. I glance up to see a tiny smile playing on his lips. He’s enjoying my misery. Why am I not surprised?
“My turn for what?”
“To buckle up,” says Connor. “Everyone else is ready to go.”
“Oh for the love of….” I snap my seat belt in place and narrow my eyes at Connor. “Ready?”
“I will be when you tell me where to go.”
Tyler snorts, and if I wasn’t regretting everything about this decision before, I am now. “Left out of the parking lot,” I all but growl.
“Yes, ma’am,” says Connor with a perfectly straight, even smile, and I turn and glare out my window as he hits the gas.
• • •
They continue to be utterly annoying—all three of them—right through dropping Tyler off, though mercifully it’s more of the “talking about sports and other shit I don’t care about” variety. I had no idea my brothers were into hockey, or that Connor was into football, but apparently they all have far more in common with each other than I do with any of them.
“All right, Max,” says Connor. “Your turn. You gonna tell me how to go?”
Max laughs. “I don’t drive.”
“You don’t? Well, you should! Come on up here. Let’s switch places.”
“Really?”
I sigh. “He’s kidding, Max. You can drive when you’re thirty.” I whack Connor on the arm. “For the love of God, please do not get his hopes up like that.”
I expect some sort of know-it-all grin in response, but when Connor apologizes, he sounds genuinely contrite, and suddenly I wish I hadn’t said anything at all. After that, the ride is awkwardly quiet but for the sounds of me directing him to Sweetwater Elementary, and then saying goodbye to Max as he scoots out of the car.
“Are you gonna come pick me up, too?” he asks Connor.
“He can’t,” I tell Max, and watch his face fall, as if Connor’s already become his new best friend. “But I’ll come get you in a cab, okay? You’ll get to ride in a taxi, like that time you did in New York City, remember?”
Just like that, his face lights up again. “Cool. Bye!” He runs off, the picture of little-kid resilience.
Connor grins. “I can see why you’ve got your hands full.”
“Right?” I roll my eyes. It’s sort of nice to have someone else experience my new morning normal with me; Cait and Frankie doesn’t understand why getting them out each day isn’t a matter of letting them throw some waffles in the toaster oven and then shoving them out the door.
“I’m sorry if I—”
“Don’t,” I cut him off. “I’m sorry. It’s fine. The kid is seven. If he doesn’t know you’re kidding about driving, he’s already beyond hope.”
He laughs. “You’ve got a point there.”
“Listen, thanks so much for doing this. I know I’ve been asking a ton of you, and—”
“Hey, is that Lauren Samoset?”
I turn to follow his eyeline, and I have no idea why, since I’ve never even heard that name before. “No idea.”
“I think it is! Come on. I’ll introduce you.”
“What? Connor—”
“Come on, Elizabeth. Just do what I say for three seconds, will you?”
I swallow my snappy response—he did drive me, after all—and follow him out of the car and over to a tall bronze-skinned woman with face-framing curls who looks way too good for morning. I feel distinctly troll-like in my jeans and sweater, even though it’s probably the dressiest I’ve been before noon since starting at Radleigh.
“Connor Lawson? Is that you?” She comes dashing over and greets Connor with a kiss to both cheeks I find borderline repulsive. “What are you doing here?”
“Just doing a favor for a friend,” he says dismissively, and the word “friend” flops around in my stomach. “Lauren Samoset, this is Lizzie Brandt.” I open my mouth to correct him out of sheer habit, then realize he’s actually gotten my name right for once. “Lizzie’s with me at Radleigh, and her brother Max just started here. She’s serving as guardian for him and their other brother, and she needed a hand.”
“Oh, wow,” says Lauren, and I can see newfound respect filling her eyes that sort of makes me want to puke. Why is Connor subjecting me to this awkward conversation? “If there’s anything I can do to help….” She fumbles through her purse and digs up a business card, which she hands over. “I’m sure we can work out some sort of carpool situation.”
Oh, that’s why.
“That’d be great,” I say feebly, feeling like an ass for not realizing this would be an attempt to help me. I tuck the card into the back pocket of my jeans, wishing I had my own to give over. “I’ll, um, text you my number.”
“Great.” She smiles warmly, then puts a hand on Connor’s arm. “And we should catch up, Connor. It’s been way too long.”
“For sure.” He seems to mean it, because of course he wants to hang out with the pretty lady who has her shit together, but it’s weird to see him act all…friendly. They don’t exchange numbers though, and I wonder if that means they already have each other’s. Either way, it doesn’t come up, and we get back into the car and head out of the parking lot.
“So, um, as I was saying, thank you,” I say sheepishly. “Again, I guess. You’re sort of a nonstop favor machine, aren’t you?”
“It’s a right at the light, right?”
“Right.” I wait for him to acknowledge the thank-you, but it doesn’t come. Maybe he didn’t hear me? “Tha—”
“Are you ever going to tell me why your car is out of commission all of a sudden, days after you actually told me you got into an accident and so couldn’t come to class?”
“Oh fuck,” I mutter without thinking. How had I completely forgotten that Connor knew about car number one being out of commission?
“I’ll take that as a no,” he says, his voice tinged with anger.
The idea of telling him about the Slutmobile makes my gut roil, but somehow, the idea of him thinking I lied to him feels even worse. “It’s not what you think. That was real. This was my loaner car.”
“You got in a second accident?”
“Not exactly.”
“Oh. It’s all clear now.” He makes a left without checking to make sure it’s the right way to go. It is, but I almost wish it weren’t, just because it’d be nice to see him screw up for once.
“Can you just trust me?”
“You tell me. Can I?”
“Christ, Connor, why did you even agree to drive us this morning if you thought I was lying?”
He glances at me for a second before returning his eyes to the road. “Honestly, because I was too shocked you asked to say no. But I did hope that you’d volunteer the truth at some point.”
“Well the truth is embarrassing, okay?”
He snorts. “Oh, come on. How bad can it be?”
“Bad enough to call my TA for help,” I reply pointedly.
“And you really thought I wasn’t going to ask?”
I press my lips together, stare out the window.
“Elizabeth.”
Dammit. I can feel my eyes stinging now, but there is not a chance in hell I am going to cry in front of Connor Lawson.
He sighs and pulls up to a red light, and I can feel him looking at me, but he doesn’t push. “Fine,” he says, a little flatly, but I can tell he’s trying to sound kind; it just doesn’t come all that naturally. “I believe you. And you’re welcome.”
I nod, a little afraid of what’ll come out of my mouth if I actually speak, and we drive back to my apartment in silence.
“They painted ‘Crazy Slut’ on my rental car,” I say the instant I walk in to Connor’s office the next day, before I even sit down, before I even close the door behind me. He deserves to know the truth, after everything he’s done for me, or at least to feel like I’m capable of being honest with him. That’s the decision I’ve come to over a sleepless night, anyway.
“I’m sorry, what? And who’s ‘they’?”
I close the door and take my usual seat across from Connor at his desk. “Trevor Matlin’s frat boy underlings, I assume. Or Sophie Springer’s. Either way—‘Crazy Slut,’ spray painted on my car. I didn’t want my brothers to see it, so my friend Cait took it in to get repainted and I called you. There, now you know everything.”
He shakes his head slowly. “No, Elizabeth, now I know even less. Why the— and why would—” He exhales slowly. “Do I want to know?”
“That I was screwing Trevor the night the cops came to tell me about my parents, and now the entire campus knows, and multiple people are out for my blood? Probably not. Oh, but Trevor’s telling people he had no idea who I was and I was just a random stranger hiding under his bed, so, that’s where the ‘Crazy’ is coming from. Well, either that or my very publicly informing Sophie that her boyfriend is a lying piece of shit. It’s hard to say.”
Connor opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again. Same result. “I wish you’d told me sooner,” he says finally.
I snort. “Why on earth would I want you to know any of that?”
“If your property is getting vandalized—”
“It’s a one-time thing,” I say dismissively. “Probably. Hopefully. I think we’re even now, right?”
He raises an eyebrow.
“I knew I shouldn’t have told you.”
“I didn’t even say anything.”
“You’re judging me. You think I’m a crazy slut.”
“First of all,” he says with a sigh, “no, I don’t. Second of all, any judgmental thoughts I would have are about the fact that it sounds like you unapologetically cheated with this girl’s boyfriend and then publicly humiliated her about it. But of course, I’m not having any of those thoughts.”
His words make my stomach turn with their...non-inaccuracy. “She’s a bitch,” I offer in the most pathetic defense ever. “She said my parents deserved to die for birthing me.”
Connor sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Did she really?” He mutters something I can’t make out. “What is wrong with people?”
“See? She sucks.”
He gives me a pointed look.
“Fine, it’s possible I suck a little bit too.”
“I’m not saying a word.”
“You engage in the loudest silence ever, Connor Lawson.”
His lips quirk up a bit at that. “Yes, well. I can’t be blamed for what your conscience whispers in your ear.”
“Ugh. This is why I didn’t want to tell you anything. My conscience sounds way too much like you these days. Have you ever even done anything wrong? Like, ever? Other than crimes against fashion?”
“I can’t tell if that was the tightest combination of compliment and insult in history, or if that was just entirely mocking.” He narrowed his eyes. “And what crimes against fashion?”
“Oh no.” I hold up my hands. “I’m so not falling into that trap.”
“You’re the one who mentioned it!”
“I take it back. You dress impeccably. Cary Grant should rise from the dead and learn from you. Can we study Byzantine History now?”
Connor’s eyebrows shoot up. “Wow, talk about six words I never thought I’d hear you say.”
I smile sweetly. “See how studious I am?”
He rolls his eyes. “Yes. Completely fooled. But, given that you have the right idea, I’m going to ignore the fact that you’re weaseling out of your fashion comment. Did you do the reading about Choniates’ account of the Fourth Crusade?”
“I did, thank you very much.”
I can’t tell whether he believes me, but he says, “Good, then let’s jump right in to the homework questions. How does he describe the common people of the capital?”
I’m relieved to know the answer, even though this isn’t a usual tutoring day, and the next hour flies by as we zoom through the questions. Connor even gives me a little pop quiz on dates and a map, which I pass with flying colors. When the time is up, he’s clearly both surprised and impressed, and it makes me embarrassingly joyful to see it. “Guess it’s possible your study materials for dummies worked,” I admit sheepishly as I start packing away my stuff.
“They’re not for dummies,” says Connor. “Some people just learn more visually, like I suspect you do. A lot of the visual learning we get accustomed to in elementary school and even high school tends to disappear in college; studying strictly from textbooks and slides isn’t for everyone, but it’s
how a lot of college classes work. It’s not how I learn best, though, so I created more visual materials. Same with the poems—that kind of thing has always helped me, and I figured it’d help others. It’s a different way of learning. Doesn’t mean it’s a stupid way.”
Well, I feel like an asshole. Again. So of course I choose that moment to say, “It’s the pleat-front pants, Connor.”
“What’s wrong with pleat-front pants?” he asks, far more defensive-sounding than he was about the study materials.
“Nothing. Except for everything.”
“Subtle,” he says with a snort. “And what, in your esteemed opinion, should I be wearing instead?”
“Flat-fronts. Duh.”
“Are you trying to turn me into a hipster?”
“I said flat-fronts, Connor, not skinny jeans and a fedora. I’m trying to turn you into a non-hopeless dresser.”
“Which I would be if I wore flat-front pants,” he says dryly.
I shrug. “It’s a start. I figure it’s the least I can do as thanks for the study materials.”
“Thank you so much for those words of wisdom, Elizabeth. Now we’ve both learned a lot today.”
“If you’re going to be sarcastic, Connor, I won’t share any more fashion tips with you.”
He mimes a lip-zipping motion, and the fact that he actually cares what I think seems to open the fashion-advice floodgates. “More slim-fitted shirts wouldn’t hurt you either,” I add. “And maybe get them without those skinny stripes.”
“Do I want to know what’s wrong with the stripes?”
“They’re…ugly?”
He looks down at his shirt. “This is ugly?”
“You don’t really think I’m going to answer that, do you?”
The corners of his lips curve up. “Oh, come on. Suddenly you’re gonna hold back?”
“My grades are bad enough without telling my teacher I think his shirts are ugly and corduroy pants are a travesty.”
“That’s some excellent restraint you’re showing.”
“Thanks, I thought so,” I say sweetly. Then I notice the time out of the corner of my eye, and realize I’ve way overstayed—now I’m gonna be late for the Russian study group that already thinks I’m a delinquent. “Crap, I’m sorry, I gotta go.” Wait, why am I apologizing? Of course I should go—we weren’t even supposed to have a session today, and I’ve been here for over an hour. “I mean, not…sorry. We’re, um, done, and I’ve got Russian group.”
