by Dahlia Adler
All traces of snugness disappear from my expression in a heartbeat. “Tyler, no.”
“Lizzie, yes.”
“What’s the green one?” Connor asks, practically salivating at the promise of my misery.
“Oh, you’ll see,” Ty says gleefully as he locates the offending thing and dances over to the couch with it. Connor all too eagerly shifts closer to me to make room, and I’m tempted to snatch the album and toss it into the fire. Only it was my parents’ all-time favorite, and I know I could never.
I turn to Connor, who’s pulling the album onto his lap. “Just remember,” I plead, stilling his hand on the cover, “this was a long time ago, and I was a very different person, and you really, really like me.”
“All things duly noted,” he replies, eyes twinkling. “Now, move your hand.”
I do, and cringe as he opens it up.
His jaw drops as he takes in the pictures in front of him. “Sacre….” He glances from them to me and back again. “Lizzie, what are these?”
That’s all it takes for Tyler to break out in hysterical laughter. “It was a phase!” I cry.
“A baby hooker phase?”
My face is flaming, which only eggs Tyler on. “She wanted to be in beauty pageants,” he manages as tears of laughter stream down his cheeks. “She begged our mom to get her hair done like that, and for one of those denture things.”
“They’re called flippers,” I say defensively, but then I lose it too. Ty’s too young to actually remember any of this—I was Max’s age, and he was just a toddler—but my mom loved sharing these pictures and stories with anyone who’d listen, and they’d always been Ty’s favorites.
“And the outfit?” Connor asks, eyes wide as he turns the page. “Or should I say outfits?”
“Aunt Lily used to buy them for her,” says Ty, pointing to the blonde smiling next to me in one of the pictures. I’d forgotten Lily used to love this stuff, or anything at all that didn’t come in a glass bottle, back before her divorce, and her bitterness at my parents for having three kids when she couldn’t have any.
“Except that one,” I say, pointing at a ruffled red one with gold sequins. “That was my favorite. It was my mom’s when she was a kid. She brought it with her from the Philippines.”
“We still have it here somewhere,” says Ty as Connor turns another page. And then my heart cracks a little, because these next pictures are all of us smiling brightly as a family. My dad’s actually trying hard not to crack up in most of them—an admirable effort, and one he never managed to pull off on pageant days—but my mom is pure joy, baby Ty in her lap, her hand squeezing mine, my father’s arm around her shoulders.
“She looks so young here,” Ty marvels. “I forgot how much she used to look like you.”
“She really does.” Connor looks at the picture, then me, then the picture again. He taps her face in the photo and smiles. “Thanks for passing along the great genes.”
I laugh, my heart squeezing in my chest. My parents should be here for this. They would’ve loved to see this album viewing, and sibling bonding, and meet Connor. This should be when my dad grills him on his intentions. I should have to sneak into the guest room for some alone time after everyone’s passed out.
Instead, it’s on me to figure out exactly what his intentions are, and to make the decision that Connor will sleep with me tonight and be there when I wake up.
Given the choice, I’d take the third degree and forced sneaking around any day, if it meant getting my parents back. But I don’t have that choice, so damn if I’m not going to take a little advantage of being the head of the household sometimes.
“Who do you look like, Connor?” Ty asks, turning the page and grinning at a picture of me in a ridiculous ballerina get-up.
“My dad, apparently,” Connor says wryly, raking a hand through his hair. “That’s what my mom says, anyway.”
“You don’t think so?” Tyler asks.
Connor glances at me, and I squeeze his thigh under the blanket. He looks back down at the album, but I can tell he’s turning pages without really seeing them. “I think it’s harder to see that sort of thing in yourself.”
Ty shrugs. “I guess. I don’t really see either of my parents in me.”
It’s true Ty doesn’t as obviously resemble either of our parents as Max and I do—he doesn’t have any of the Asiatic features my mother and I share, and his skin is paler than both mine and Max’s—but I’ve never heard him sound so sad about it. “You have Dad’s eyes,” I say, reaching across Connor to brush Ty’s milk-chocolate brown hair out of them. “You probably have his mouth and chin, too; it was just hard to tell with that crazy mustache of his.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say with a smile. Then I tap a lens in my glasses. “But I, of course, am the one who got his eyesight.”
“You’re lucky you’re not blind.”
“There’s still plenty of time.”
We finish the album, and then Ty yawns and announces he’s going up to bed. “Really?” I ask. “It’s still pretty early.”
He smiles sheepishly and holds up his phone. “Amy texted and asked if I wanna video chat, so….”
“Got it. And Ty, if you and Amy need a ride to a movie or something tomorrow night, lemme know?”
“Yeah?” he asks, blushing adorably.
“Yeah.”
“Cool.” He stoops to wake up a drooling Max and the two of them shuffle upstairs.
“Well,” says Connor once they’re out of earshot, “that was brave of you, encouraging a teenage boy to spend a night in a dark room with a teenage girl.”
“Oh, come on. He’s thirteen. What were you really doing at thirteen?”
“Uh, masturbating myself blind because my big sister didn’t drive me to the movies with girls?”
I shake my head, laughing. “God, teenage Connor. Were they Anne Boleyn fantasies?”
“Catherine Howard, actually. I’ve always had slightly off-the-beaten-path tastes.”
“I’m flattered.”
He leans over and kisses me gently. “You should be.”
I genuinely am, but it’s too odd to say so. Instead, I ask, “So how’d you get from the Tudors to the Byzantines?”
“Hard to say.” His fingertips trace patterns on my thigh under the blanket as he speaks, giving me pleasant chills. “I think I got into history in the first place because I was so fascinated by the concept of people being able to make that strong a mark on humanity. I liked the idea of these incredibly important, unforgettable people, especially given how easily I was left behind.”
“Oh, Connor….”
There’s only a tinge of bitterness in his laughter. “I know, I know—daddy issues. So sue me. Anyway, at some point, I realized everyone was into Anne Boleyn—there were books about her, movies about her…she was already a star. And I guess I grew out of the legend of the celebrity. I wanted to know about the huge players who didn’t get quite as much attention. I started with Mongol history and eventually I just clicked with the Byzantines.”
“Well, I’m glad for it,” I say with a smile, linking my fingers with his. “And for whatever it’s worth, you’ve obviously made your mark on the remainder of the Brandt family.” I snuggle into his side and close my eyes for a moment, enjoying the warmth of his touch and the crackling fire and the comfortable silence that comes with both boys having gone upstairs for the night. But I can feel his gaze on me, intense and unyielding, and my eyes flutter back open. “What?”
His smile softens as he tucks my hair behind my ear, and so does his voice. “I really do love you. I just wanted to say that, on my own, out of bed.”
The words tingle my insides until they melt, and I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him with everything in me. I can’t say the words back, even though I feel them; having never been in a serious relationship or had the kinds of friends who freely exchanged such sentiments, they’d been reserved for my parents. I’m kinda rusty
on that particular vocabulary with them gone.
If he minds, he doesn’t show it.
I pull back, just slightly. “So,” I say, bringing a leg over his lap until I’m straddling him, perched on his solid thighs. “Let’s say you got a ride to the movies.”
“Uh huh,” he breathes against my lips as his hands cup my ass.
“You and me and a dark room.” I rock my hips forward gently; he’s already most of the way to hard. “What do you do?”
“If I’m thirteen? Probably come in my pants the second you touch me.”
“Hot,” I murmur against his mouth, and our tongues dance around each other.
“Yes, you are.” Warm hands slide up my shirt to caress me through my bra, and he sucks my lower lip into his mouth. “I would’ve had no clue what to do with a girl like you at that age. Hell, probably not when I was your age, either. Maybe it’s a good thing we didn’t meet until now.”
It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him say anything positive about the age gap between us, and a fresh wave of hopefulness sweeps through me. “Maybe,” I murmur, kissing him again before pulling my shirt up and over my head.
Connor’s eyes widen. “Uh, Lizzie?” He gestures to the open entrance.
“Oh, right.” I hop up and close the pocket doors to the den, then reclaim my spot on Connor’s lap. “Now, where were we?”
“I think we were talking about what we would do if I had you alone in a dark room.” He kisses my shoulder. My collarbone. My throat. “Though I’m pretty sure they don’t let you sit like this at the movies.”
“The quality of Hollywood entertainment really has gone down.” I roll off until I’m sitting next to him, movie seat-width apart.
“Mmhmm.” He leans in to my neck again, kissing with light suction that drives me crazy. “And obviously I’d have to play it cool, just holding your hand at first.” His hand takes mine, places them both on my thigh. “I’m very innocent, you know.”
“I’m well aware.”
The logs continue to crackle in the fireplace, bits of ember dropping into the ash. I love the smell of the burning wood, the intense natural warmth.
Connor’s fingertips are stroking my thigh now, inching closer to the fly of my jeans.
“Subtle,” I whisper.
“That’s my game,” he whispers back.
The wait feels interminable as his fingers move mere centimeters every few minutes, and by the time the tip of his pinky skates over the zipper I’m about ready to explode. But I let him take his time as we watch the fire, brushing over the denim and metal as if unsure whether I’ll let him inside.
“Mmm, you smell good.” He’s nuzzling my ear now, nipping the lobe, and despite the heat emanating from the fire, chills dance down my spine. “Taste good, too.”
My eyelids flutter closed. His hand covers my fly now, and he rolls his palm over the stiff denim so it hits me in all the right places. A whiny little whimper escapes my lips, and he whispers “Shh” in my ear. “People are trying to watch the movie.”
“I’m probably going to kill you.”
“I have a lot of celibate teenage years to make up for.”
“Teenage Connor didn’t have game. Adult Connor’s got some.”
“Some?”
“A little bit. Don’t let it go to your head.”
He cups me through the denim. “Those are some awfully damp jeans for a little bit of game.”
“I hate you.”
“I don’t think you do.” He resumes the rough stroking, and I grit my teeth through it. “I actually think you rather like me, even if you’d only admit it under extreme duress. And maybe not even then.”
I open my mouth to respond, but the feeling of his fingers working the button of my jeans shuts me up. “Teenage Connor moves slowly,” he continues, “because he is respectful of teenage Lizzie and wants to be clear she is free to stop things at any time.”
“You gave a lot of thought to how chivalrous you’d be if you ever got this far, didn’t you?”
“I did. How am I doing?”
“A little torturous, but I suppose it works under the guise of chivalry.” I let my head loll back onto the couch cushions and look up into his slightly glassy gaze. “You know I’m still Teenage Lizzie, right?”
“I know,” he says quietly, and then he kisses me again, his free hand stroking my cheek as the other one tugs my zipper down so slowly I swear I can hear it release every single one of its teeth.
I pull back, because I have to ask. “And you’re okay with that now?”
He presses his lips together, obviously choosing his words carefully. Finally, he says, “I just want exactly who you are.”
“Good answer.” I slide my hand through his hair to pull him back into a kiss. His fingers return to their work, stroking the little triangle of underwear revealed by the open zipper, and I shift to give him better access.
“You are completely soaked,” he groans, slipping two fingers inside me.
“Shhh.” I nip his earlobe. “People are trying to watch the movie.”
Connor nods and turns back to the fire, pulling his fingers the shallow distance allowed by the confining jeans, then thrusting them back in. “Didn’t mean to disturb everyone,” he says pleasantly, as if completely unaware he’s fucking me with his fingers. I want to give a smartass answer but I’m too far gone, my hips rocking into his hand, desperately trying to take in more than the jeans will allow. Then his thumb finds my clit, and I’m gone, coming all over his hand while he covers my mouth with his and swallows my cries.
When the waves have passed and he releases me, I feel completely wiped out. “I don’t think I’ve ever come so many times in one day,” I moan sleepily. “I’ve actually lost count.”
“That was five. And if I have my way, there’ll be a sixth. Maybe a seventh.”
I regard him from beneath slitted lids. “You’re keeping track?”
“I don’t think you understand,” he says, cocking his head as he slips his hand free. “You are literally the sexiest woman I’ve ever known, and I don’t buy into that ‘you can use literally to mean figuratively’ bullshit. If you don’t think I’m committing every fucking second of this to memory, you’re crazy. This is basically every fantasy I’ve ever had, come to life.”
Suddenly, I’m a little less sleepy. “You always have made very compelling arguments, Mr. Lawson.” I pick up the blanket and look underneath; the tent in his jeans could house a village. Yup, I’m awake. “I don’t know that we’re really covering fantasy ground, though. I haven’t worn any costumes, there’s only one of me…tell me what you really want.”
“What I really want?” he asks, eyebrows raised.
“What you really want,” I confirm.
“Fine, but you’re gonna laugh at me.”
“Well now I’m just curious. Is it something with rubber gloves? Want me to call you by the name of a childhood pet?”
He rolls his eyes. “Never mind.”
“Oh, no you don’t.” I reach under the blanket and grab his cock as if holding it hostage. “Out with it, Connor,” I demand as he grunts.
“This is messed up.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He sighs and loosens my grip. Then he scoops me up from underneath, blanket and all, and deposits me gently on the floor. “This,” he says.
“This?” I glance around. “I’m not even sure what this is.”
He gets up, turns off the light, then comes to lie down next to me, illuminated by the flames. “I want to make love to you by firelight. Yes, that’s a real thing. Yes, I said ‘make love’ and not ‘fuck.’ And yes, it’s what I want, just this once. Indulge me, will you?”
I don’t even know what to say. It’s cheesy, and it’s not my style, and for some reason, I really, really want it too. Just this once. So I don’t say anything at all, just nod once, and lift my hips.
Connor takes the cue to slide my unzipped jeans down my legs, taking my
underwear with them, before kissing his way back up my calves, knees, and thighs. Then I pull off the rest of my clothes, and help relieve him of his.
True to his word, there’s a sixth, thanks to his talented mouth, and then he covers me for number seven, warm and protective and solid and there. I can’t imagine Connor running away again, can’t believe I thought he had this morning. As he seats himself inside me, murmuring about how beautiful I am, I realize I’m an entirely new kind of happy from any I’ve ever been.
And then he begins to move, our hips rocking together slowly in a smooth rhythm that feels far more practiced than it is, and I realize just how much crushing sadness I had to suffer in order to get the man currently holding me in his arms.
While I can’t say it was all worth it, I do feel for the first time, in the late-autumn darkness, like the sun is finally starting to shine again.
Spent and sated, we both fall asleep in front of the fire, but I wake up not long after. Next to me, Connor is still comatose, his torso bared by the blanket having slipped down to his hips. I watch him for a minute, but I feel like a creep and cover him up. Then I slip my clothing back on, grab another one of the photo albums, and curl up on the couch.
This time, it’s my parents’ wedding album, and I handle it gingerly as I flip the pages. I used to love looking through this thing as a kid, teasing my mom about her way-overcomplicated updo. My parents were so young when they got married—Mom was still in college, a senior, and Dad had been out just a year, working as a paralegal to save up some money before law school.
My mom once told me people had assumed it was a shotgun wedding, though she didn’t learn quite how prevalent that assumption was until they had me three years later. “And if they didn’t think I was pregnant, they assumed I needed a green card, even though I was in the U.S. on a student visa. Bored people love to gossip,” she’d said. “It didn’t matter what anyone thought. We loved each other and we didn’t want to wait. That’s all there was to it.”
I glance back at Connor, lying peacefully on the floor. People are going to talk about us, that’s for sure. After the whole mess with Trevor and Sophie, I’m pretty sure I can handle any idiotic rumor. But will he be able to? Yes, he’d come here and apologized and told me he loved me and wanted to be together when the semester ended, but who knows if he’ll still feel that way under the scrutiny of the other students, and his grad student classmates, and “Jess,” and, oh God, Professor Ozgur….
