Last Will and Testament Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used factiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT

  Copyright © 2014 by Dahlia Adler

  Cover design: Maggie Hall

  Interior formatting: Cait Greer

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any capacity without written permission by the author, except brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  ISBN-10: 0990916804 (e-book)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9909168-0-2

  Other books by Dahlia Adler:

  Behind the Scenes

  Under the Lights (coming soon)

  I, Dahlia Adler, being of vaguely sound mind—depending on whom you ask—hereby declare this to be my in-no-way-legally-binding Last Will and Testament:

  To Gina, chocolate macarons and a filthy mention in every book;

  To Marieke, a key to Nijkamp Hall for always;

  To Katie, doughnuts, ballet dancers, and a swipe to the right;

  To Sara, all the salad, none of the bacon, and half my Gushers;

  To Becks, all my copy editor empathy;

  To Lindsay, a hoodie of terror with mini vodka bottles in the pockets;

  To Maggie, the perfect mimosa…after you delete your inbox;

  To my family, anything you want if you please stop reading this book right now;

  and to Yoni, all my love and all that I am. Plus flat-front pants.

  Supposedly no one even answered the front door when they first started knocking. No one could hear it over the music blasting from the speakers, the Sigma Psi Omegas chanting around keg stands, and Jessica Fiorello singing loudly along with some song no one else seemed to hear. (She got admitted to the hospital that night for alcohol poisoning, but nobody really talks about that. It kinda got lost in what came next. Lucky me.)

  I didn’t hear the knocking either. The tightly closed door of Trevor Matlin’s room made sure of that. Even if it hadn’t, Trevor’s moaning in my ear as he begged me to get down on my knees probably would’ve drowned it out. He’s never been very quiet. Kinda makes me wonder how we got away with it for so long.

  The knocking was impossible to miss when it sounded on Trevor’s door, though. And once Trev and I were silenced by it, it was almost as easy to hear Sophie Springer yelling, “Why the hell would you think she’s in there? That’s my boyfriend’s room.”

  “Shit,” Trevor mutters, yanking his pants back up as I straighten myself out. “Who the hell is that?”

  “Well I obviously don’t know,” I whisper back, snatching my black-framed glasses from his nightstand and sliding them on. “Am I zipped?” I show him the back of my sleeveless top, then check my fly.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Me?”

  “Yeah. Wait, no, your buttons are off.”

  “Trevor Matlin? Are you in there?”

  “Who wants to know?” he calls back as we both scramble to fix his shirt.

  “This is the Radleigh Police Department. We’re looking for Elizabeth Brandt. We have reason to believe she may be with you.”

  Trevor and I both freeze, eyes widening in a panic. “Why the fuck are the cops after you?” he whispers fiercely.

  “I have no idea! Just tell them I’m not here.”

  “I can’t lie to the cops!”

  “Your girlfriend is standing right outside that door,” I remind him. I have no love for Sophie Springer—not since she “accidentally” spilled her beer on me last year when she spotted me talking to Trevor for the first time—but that doesn’t mean I want her seeing me with her boyfriend, in the flesh.

  As if on cue, Sophie yells, “That slut better not be in there, Trevor Matlin!”

  “Ma’am, please,” I hear an officer say, his voice muffled. I wonder how many of them there are. What the hell are the police doing after me? I wouldn’t say I’m a model citizen, but they just walked through an entire house of underage drinkers, so…Then the same officer says, “Mr. Matlin, I’m not going to ask again. Open this door.”

  Trev and I exchange one more quick glance and then I dash under the bed, squeezing in as much of my body as possible. I’m not tiny, but sadly, this isn’t my first time in a similar predicament, though this is the first time the cops are involved. I’ve learned how to get decent coverage under Trevor’s full-size mattress.

  I pull the blanket down enough to cover me but still allow me to see feet, just as Trevor pulls open the door. “Sorry about that,” Trevor says with the same charismatic smoothness that allows him to be president of Sigma Psi Omega, date the campus princess, and bang a random nobody on the side. “How can I help you, officers?”

  “We’re looking for Elizabeth Brandt,” one of them replies. I count shoes. Six, including Trev’s. They’re all men’s, but I know Sophie’s lurking there somewhere. I can feel her silent fuming. “Her roommate said she was probably here with you.”

  Fucking Cait.

  “Sorry, officer—I don’t even know who that is, or why her roommate thinks she’d be here.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell them,” Sophie says, her voice steel-edged.

  “Are you certain about that, son?” the other officer asks. “It’s very important we speak with her.”

  “Very certain,” Trevor says. Hell, I’d believe him with that confidence in his voice, if I didn’t know way, way better. “I’m sorry I can’t help you gentlemen. Whatever this girl did, I hope you catch her.”

  “She didn’t do anything, Mr. Matlin. There’s been a family emergency. If you find—”

  I whoosh out from under the bed like a tidal wave; I’ll deal with Sophie later. “What family emergency?” I demand, getting to my feet on wobbly legs. “What happened?”

  The officers don’t even look amused at the fact that they’ve caught perfect Trevor Matlin cheating on perfect Sophie Springer, and that’s when I know this is really, really bad. My brain starts to go fuzzy and my hands clam up, my heart turning over in my chest. Sophie’s screeching at Trevor somewhere in the room, but it’s barely penetrating my consciousness.

  “Elizabeth Brandt?”

  “Yeah. Yes, I mean. That’s me. But…Lizzie. It’s Lizzie.” My tongue feels enormous as it struggles to work with my lips and teeth to form words.

  “Lizzie.” The lighter-haired officer’s face falls, and I can tell he’s wishing I’d never slid out from under that bed, that he’d never found me at all. “I’m so sorry. There’s been a terrible accident. Your parents…they didn’t make it. I’m so sorry.”

  I know the words he’s saying are horrible, life-altering ones, but I can’t seem to assign them any meaning right now. Because he can’t be saying what I think he’s saying. I wonder if it’s his first time delivering news like this. It certainly sounds like it is. The double apology—that’s the giveaway. He’s new at this, new to the force. Looks it, too, all young and covered in shaving nicks.

  “Lizzie?” I’m not even sure who says my name. It might be one of the officers. It might be Trevor. Hell, it might even be Sophie. I’m so far away, I swear it could be fucking Santa Claus. I shouldn’t have had those stupid Jell-O shots. They’re just confusing everything right now.

  “Lizzie?”

  “Miss Brandt?”

  I blink. I’m not sure why it’s “Miss Brandt” that does it, but it is. “I’m sorry, did you just say that my parents are dead?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m so sorry.”

  “You apologize a lot.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  I smile, just a little, and it briefly occurs to m
e I must look deranged. I feel deranged. “You’re still doing it.”

  “Miss Brandt—”

  “Please don’t call me that.” I hold up a hand. “My parents are dead. Yes? That’s what’s happening here? That’s actually what you meant to say?”

  “Yes.”

  It feels like I’ve swallowed a blade and it is slowly but surely shredding my insides with every word. “My parents were in an accident, and they were alive, and now they’re dead. My parents, like, the people who raised me. Edward and Manuella Brandt. Tall lawyer guy with a mustache? Filipina high school history teacher? Those parents?”

  “Miss Brandt—”

  “It’s Lizzie.”

  “Lizzie, then. Do you have a counselor on campus? Someone you can speak to? A family member we can reach out to?”

  It’s like having salt rubbed in an open wound the size of my entire chest cavity. “Didn’t you just tell me my parents are dead? Who the fuck in my family would I want to reach out to if my parents are dead?”

  Blondie wants to melt into the floor; I can see it. I should feel bad, I know, but also, apparently my parents are dead, and I don’t give a fuck how he feels.

  “We’ve spoken to your grandmother—”

  “Fantastic. She won’t remember in the morning.”

  “And your aunt—”

  “Well, I’m sure that stopped her drinking for a whole thirty seconds.”

  Dark Hair sighs again. They really should’ve introduced themselves. If you’re going to tell an eighteen-year-old college sophomore that her parents are dead, don’t you think you should at least open with an “I’m Officer So-and-So” first? “Yes, we gathered that the rest of your family is…not in a position to assist you with this news. Is there anyone else?”

  And then it hits me like an actual punch to the gut. Of course there’s someone else. There are two someone elses. “My brothers,” I whisper. “Where are my brothers? Are my brothers okay?”

  “Your brothers are being taken care of,” Blondie assures me, confident again now that he actually has something to offer other than my name and an apology. “Your neighbor has them right now. We’re working on other arrangements.”

  “But…permanently. Who…? What…?” I don’t even know what I should be asking. This is an insane amount to process for someone who isn’t half-drunk and wasn’t interrupted mid-sex haze, let alone me, right now. “I need to sit.”

  I forgot Trevor was even standing there, but suddenly, he gets his ass in gear and brings me a chair. I drop into it like a lead weight.

  “Miss Brandt—Lizzie—your brothers will ultimately need to be cared for by a long-term guardian, whom your parents have presumably designated. Once you’re with your family, a lawyer and a social worker will help you through this difficult time.”

  But I stopped listening after “guardian.” Because I know exactly who my parents designated. And it’s someone who can barely handle her own life, let alone that of a thirteen- and seven-year-old.

  “Me,” I blurt out. “It’s me. I’m their guardian now. I’m the one in the will.”

  The officers exchange a look. “If you, and a judge, feel that you’re equipped to serve in that capacity.” It’s pretty clear from their demeanors that they possess no such feeling about me.

  “And what happens if I—we—don’t?”

  “You really should talk to your lawyer and social worker, Miss Brandt,” says Dark Hair.

  “It’s going to be a little while before I get to do that, considering I don’t have either one right now.” Is someone reaching into my skull and squeezing my brain? It really feels like it. But at least discussing logistics is keeping me from losing it outright. “Please just tell me what you know. Generally.”

  “Generally, either they’ll go to another family member—”

  “I think we’ve already established that won’t be happening.”

  “Or they’ll enter foster care,” Dark Hair finishes.

  “No.”

  “No, what?”

  “No, you’re not making my brothers into foster children. They’re my brothers. I’ll do it. I’ll take care of them. I can. I promise.” This is sort of a lie, but it’s all I can say right then.

  “Lizzie, come on,” says Trevor.

  “Fuck you, Trevor. No one asked you.” I turn back to the officers. “How does this work? What happens now? When can I see them?”

  “First, let’s get you back to your room,” says Blondie, shooting a glare at Trevor. “We can talk there, or you can come to the station.”

  “Yeah, sure, whatever.” I’ve had enough of Trevor’s room anyway. I need to get out. I need to breathe fresh air. “Let’s go.”

  I’d completely forgotten that there was an entire frat party taking place in the house until I followed the officers downstairs and found myself being stared at by every single resident of Greek Row. It’s hard to tell what people know; some faces are disgusted, some sympathetic, and some are just curious. I focus on the back of Blondie’s head as we walk out the door. It isn’t exactly how I’d imagined my first time in a police cruiser would be, but there really isn’t anything about this night I’d pictured happening as it does.

  Only when we pull away from the house, and Trevor and Sophie are gone, and I can hear the music blast from the house once again, do I fall apart in the backseat and cry.

  “How long are you going home for?” Cait perches on her bed to watch me pack, her green eyes wide with curiosity, her sharp little rodent teeth going to town on a Twizzler.

  “I don’t know.” Where the fuck is my black dress with the belt?

  “Are you coming back?”

  “I don’t know.” I need that black dress. My brain’s been running like a hamster on a wheel to nowhere since I got back from the police station, and focusing on an appropriate outfit is the only thing helping me keep my shit together.

  “Are you really gonna be your brothers’ guardian?”

  “I don’t know, Cait. I don’t even know where my fucking black dress is.”

  “I think Frankie has it. She wore it to that thing.”

  Fucking Frankie. “That thing?”

  “That history department thing.”

  Oh, right. I’d skipped that history department thing. I’d gotten a C on my Byzantine History quiz that day and decided my talents were better spent elsewhere, like in the back of Trevor’s BMW, with a bottle of Maker’s Mark.

  I step out of my closet and into the common room. “Frankie?”

  “Yeah?” she calls back from our suite’s other bedroom, which she shares with a Greek pre-med named Stamatina whom I probably see once a week at best.

  “Do you have my black dress? The one with the belt?”

  “Umm…I think it’s in my hamper? Lemme check.”

  “It’s dry-clean only. It better not be in your hamper.”

  She pads out of her room a minute later, carrying the dress in hand. It’s got a small but glaringly obvious stain on it I can see from a few feet away, and it had better not be what I think it is. “Here you go.” She tosses it at me.

  I toss it right back. “First of all, what the hell is that stain, Francesca? Did you have sex with someone while wearing my funeral dress?”

  She hollows out her cheeks, the Frankie Look of Contrition I’ve come to know well since we first met during freshman orientation last year, and she lost my pen two seconds after borrowing it. “I’m so sorry, Lizzie. I didn’t realize it was your funeral dress.”

  I still can’t believe I even need a funeral dress. I shake my head. Or maybe it’s the rest of me that’s shaking. “Well it isn’t gonna be now. Who the hell did you screw at the department thing?”

  She snorts. “Please, like there was anyone fuckable at that thing. I went to the Sigma party after and hooked up with James Nagawa.”

  “That would explain why this also smells like beer and smoke,” I murmur. “Dry-clean it, Frank. Seriously. And you better have something to lend me i
nstead.”

  “Oh, actually, you know who looked really fuckable at the thing? Your Byzantine TA. What’s his name? Connor?”

  “I don’t care who looked fuckable at the stupid department thing, Frankie. I need something to wear to my parents’ funeral.”

  She exhales sharply, as if my not wanting to discuss the fuckability of Connor Lawson is an inexplicable offense to her very existence. In fact, Connor Lawson’s the one who gave me that C, and I don’t think any woman could turn him on harder than Alexios Komnenos does; even if I could think about sex right now, it would not be with my history TA.

  Unfortunately, the mention of his name does make me realize that I need to get in touch with him. My professors have all been notified about my parents’ death, but Connor’s the one who takes attendance. I’ve got a paper due tomorrow, and if Professor Ozgur didn’t tell him I won’t be there and why, I really don’t feel like dealing with the consequences.

  I head back into my room, followed by Frankie, who promptly receives a whisper-scold from Cait about saying “completely inappropriate shit” to me right now. Cait’s not wrong, but the truth is, I appreciate the predictability of Frankie’s inability to keep her thoughts to herself. It’s a grounding comfort now that everything else has been thrown into upheaval, and it stops my hands from shaking as I compose my quick e-mail to my TA.

  Hi, Connor,

  Don’t know if Professor Ozgur filled you in, but I had a family emergency and I won’t be in class tomorrow. Sorry about the paper.

  Lizzie

  I hit Send and then head back to my closet, where Frankie is knee-deep in discarded tops and skirts. Everything I own is too dirty or short or low-cut or…I don’t know what. Wrong. Wrong in that my mother, who was raised staunchly Catholic in Manila, would hate it, even though she hasn’t been to church in at least a decade. Wrong in that my father, who always called me his little girl, would think I looked too old in it. Wrong for a funeral that shouldn’t be happening in the first place.

  “What about this?” Frankie holds up a gray dress with pearl buttons and white lace trim. “I’ve never even seen this before.”