Thirteen days ago
"And it's painfully obvious he's head well over heels into me," Michaela was explaining as she drove along the New Jersey Turnpike, "but I'm just not feeling it."
They were driving from Michaela's fancy new place in New York City back to Connor's in Philadelphia. They had crashed at hers yesterday. But the fun was to be at his.
"Right." Connor, sitting shotgun, cocked his head and narrowed his eyes as he turned to look at her. "You're not feeling it," he said sideways as he slid into a smirk. "You're just feeling like having at least three of his beautiful babies."
"I am not," Michaela protested. "Were you even listening? Half his insta is his motorcycle."
Oh, Connor had been listening. He turned back to the road. "'Cuz you stalked him," he sang, his smirk spreading into wolfish grin. "And did he respond to your Facebook request? Or was it LinkedIn?"
Connor stole a glance. Michaela's grip on the steering wheel had tightened noticeably. Lips pursed shut. Connor licked his canines behind his cheeks. Delicious. He'd missed her.
"Ah, I see," Connor exacted, "both. And he responded to…?"
Michaela opened her mouth to say nothing.
Neither, of course. Whenever this unworthy loser had been eyeing Michaela, she'd probably been staring first. Maybe this was a little mean, but maybe that was half the fun.
But she needed help.
"You know Michaela," he said, leaning in conspiratorially, "you're too much of a winner to keep playing for the losing team."
"What," Michaela stammered, "do you mean?"
"You can't beat us, so join us. Your taste in men is… how to put it… Chef Boyardee. Ever tried the fairer sex?"
"Have you?"
"Empirically proven fact: I'm as straight as Annalise's natural hair. I'm immune to poison ivy and also girls," Connor reported. "She used to wear that wig, you know, but she's moved on. You, though… you straighten your hair, don't you?"
"What are you getting at?" Michaela demanded, exquisitely irritated… though Connor wondered if maybe the hair comment was insensitive. I should probably look that one up on my own time, he figured… but he'd probably forget. Oh well, I've probably said much worse anyways. Some excuse. Hopefully Michaela didn't give a crap.
"Don't forget," she continued, "I put my blossoming career on hold because after four years, you 'urgently' needed to 'hang'."
He was glad she had. Some things were best forgotten, but still, he'd really missed her.
When something in the "not so fun" category for Connor had happened, it had been Michaela's couch he would go cry on, and she knew not to pry. Oliver being a dick, his 'dad' Jeff being a dick, just chemicals in his head being a dick, it had never mattered.
It had been the same couch, same as always, yesterday. Today, they urgently needed to go clubbing in Philadelphia. It was a mission, of course. Of course Michaela had a case the next day, but she had caved, as he knew she would. She was a good friend.
And probably amply prepared anyways. In spite of everything they'd been through, Michaela had never lost her sense of … savage responsibility. Connor could not say the same, he often found himself out of fucks to give. He admired her for it. Maybe one day he'd remember how to work like she did, like he used to.
"Hey," Connor said, "it's just that a day-time boss like you deserves equally fruitful success at night."
He elbowed her playfully. Michaela grinned in spite of herself.
"And," he explained, "you and Laurel when we were 1Ls? I totally shipped it. What do we call it, 'Lichaela'?" He flicked his tongue as he articulated "lick"-chaela. "Hot."
"Oh, shut up!" said Michaela between laughs. Horrible pun. Dad humor, if 12 year olds had kids. Of course Michaela preeshed. Connor could say anything, and she'd laugh if she was supposed to. He'd missed her.
Or was that pun… Asher's humor? Asher's voice echoed in Connor's head, saying it "lick-chaela" just as Connor had. Oh, wait, Asher had said that.
Traffic. Michaela focused her attention back on the road. She tended to win in traffic, just like most other aspects of her life. Arriving early was like extra credit on a test.
The memory of when Asher had said that was coming back to Connor. Spring semester of 2015. Before Asher's dad had died. But right after Bonnie had broken up with him.
"C-dawg," Asher had said. after unilaterally deciding they would walk back from class together. "Do you think I could get with Michaela? Real ten out of ten, I'd hit dat ass again, and again, and A-gain."
Connor had rolled his eyes. "Would she hit you 'again and A-gain'?"
Then, Asher had made some stupid BDSM joke which somehow transitioned into his unsolicited fantasy about Laurel being "freaky" in bed, involving some quote from that Rihanna/Britney song in relation to her and Michaela.
He had then dubbed the "shipping" "lick-chaela", flicking his tongue and using exact same tone Connor was just using at present in the car. Maybe that was what they all were hiding from him, Asher had wondered aloud. Back then, he still didn't know about Sam.
Gawd, won't he just shut up already, Connor had thought at that time, before telling Asher to go get surgery for whatever part of his `malfunctioning' brain it was that was responsible for his supposed 'humor'.
Then Connor had corrected himself: actually, generalized "personality surgery" was advisable. If Asher wanted to ever get laid, that was. Just as Asher had started to dutifully inform him of all his possibly fictional recent sexcapades yet again, Connor had decided he was going to CVS instead, and said bye.
Asher… Connor cursed himself. He winced. His own words burned like acid in his head. Why couldn't he have just been nice?! It wasn't even that hard. His right hand started clawing his thigh. After four years, it had gotten better, but, just as predicted, it kept coming back. No jail, no do-gooding would fix him; time wasn't working. He wanted to smack something, preferably himself. Badly. Unfortunately, he was with Michaela. Or rather, fortunately.
If he kept thinking about this, there was about a 20% chance he'd start crying, Connor figured. I probably just forgot my Zoloft, Connor tried to reason to himself. A lie, he realized. Connor forced that smile back onto his face, but his thoughts kept going.
Connor glanced over. Michaela still hadn't noticed.
They hadn't seen each other, but they had been texting now and then for the last two years. Actually, Connor had heard three or four other incarnations of that same story from Michaela about some dude who she "totally wasn't into" but yeah right.
Maybe this isn't so funny, Connor realized. There were surely plenty of men who were attracted to her, yet he only seemed to hear about the ones that clearly actually weren't. It seemed that ever since Asher, Michaela had found yet another bad trait to be attracted to: uninterested.
She'll get past this, he told himself, unsure if he believed it. He realized he didn't look quite happy when he peaked into the rearview mirror. He plastered his smile back on.
Michaela was only going to be oblivious for so long. The traffic had abated. But listening to her talk usually made him smile.
"By the way how's the day life going? What is it, twenty years 'till you're on the Supreme Court? Or is it ten? Five?"
Michaela beamed. That line never failed.
"Actually, what is a night-time boss like yourself doing in the days? New job?"
Connor's grin rapidly faded. "C & G." He considered putting it back on. Nah. No fucks left to give.
"Junior associate?"
Connor shook his head.
"Senior associate, of course," Michaela assumed, clearly proud of him.
"Getting colder."
"You're... just a clerk?!"
"I manage the interns from Middleton," Connor confessed. "That's my job. All of it. No cases for me."
Michaela couldn't believe what she was hearing, clearly. "So..." she started. "You got out of jail. Beat the FBI. You beat the administration at the Supreme-"
"No," Connor cut in. "That was all Annalise."
It was a long story, actually. He had been approached by a certain Stephanie Clifford (nom de travail "Stormy Daniels") on the subway, and before he knew it, he was working with Annalise yet again, and going to the Supreme Court… again. And they had won. Again. It was partly him. But Connor didn't feel like conceding that point.
Michaela plowed on. "You won at the Supreme Court, and now the next step is intern babysitter?!"
"I needed income," Connor explained sheepishly, "and, you know, coronavirus happened."
"I"m sure you had options," Michaela protested.
"Some firms reached out," Connor stated flatly. "I didn't reply."
Michaela was clearly perturbed. She couldn't make sense of this calculus.
"And you sent your resumé to..."
"C&G."
"And?"
"Nada."
"So, no effort at all. Do you hate yourself?!"
Nolo contendere, Connor responded. Silently.
"Did C&G even have an 'intern manager' or whatever position before you applied or did you ask for mediocrity?!"
Connor decided to not mention the part about how he had decided he was never arguing a case in front of a judge and jury again. Everything he had ever learned about being a lawyer from his father or from law school had been about cardstacking, gerrymandering what would be considered, covering up parts of the truth, because if you didn't trick them into thinking the elephant in the room was actually a hippopotamus, the prosecution would convince them it was the murder witness.
Connor respected those who could fight that good fight and he knew that his experience being a lawyer was skewed, but he was done with it. No more framing, no more lies, no more deceit. Even though the end justified the means, Connor wanted a continent between himself and the means. He wanted to be an honest person. But he couldn't tell Michaela her profession was dishonest.
So he covered up that part of the truth with another part of the truth. "I'm sure," he said," that Annalise got it invented after someone else became the newest junior associate."
"Oh," Michaela scoffed, rolling her eyes. "It always comes back to Annalise. You always come back to Annalise. Why do you think you have to be stuck with her? I swear..."
"It's her who's stuck with me," Connor tried to say. But Michaela could not be stopped as she walked him through what a huge mistake this was for such a smart, ambitious stallion like Connor and his limitless potential and all that. He would overcome it all, like he had everything else. Because she knew him so well. Bla...bla...bla...bla...BLA.
It's crazy, Connor thought as he tuned her out without really meaning to, how Michaela could have been so close with him, going through all that crap together… but she had never gotten to see him for who he really was. Not that she ever needed to really know me though. This stream of inaccurate compliments, Connor thought, was boring, but kind of nice. Good background noise. He didn't mind.
Before long, it was time for the next topic of Michaela's lecture: Annalise.
"You more than anyone know you can't let her continue to sabotage you!"
What did Michaela think he knew exactly?
Well, for Michaela, this was the injustice of the century.
This was less pleasant background noise. She paused now and then, but Connor had no fucks to give, so instead he gave her nods and "yeah"s and "true"s and "fair"s as he assented to her deep and impartial wisdom. He figured he'd amuse himself by counting how many times she said "bitch". He lost track. But the variety of words next to "bitch" was still interesting enough.
The bitch. That bitch. Psycho bitch. Heartless bitch. Ugly bitch. Crazy bitch. Fat bitch. Fat gargoyle bitch. Bulldog dyke bitch (Connor raised an eyebrow). Selfish bitch. Toxic bitch. Chernobyl-level toxic bitch.
Connor tried to change the topic to HBO's "Chernobyl". It was great. Michaela should watch it. He failed. Oh well.
Criminal bitch. Waste of space bitch. Waste of life bitch. In conclusion: bitch.
"She should just kill herself already," fumed Michaela, about the legal titan who had just been called the "most persistent obstacle against executive overreach" by the New York Times, the "front line defense of the rule of law" by the Atlantic, even "the world's last hope for American democracy" by one op-ed in the Guardian. Connor knew she didn't mean that, but that didn't make him less angry at hearing it.
There was one person, Connor thought, who might agree with this assessment. The target.
Traitor bitch. Faithless bitch.
Connor was confused. He couldn't remember Michaela ever being this vehement about Annalise before. He asked. Michaela just wanted Connor to understand just how badly he needed to escape from her "that bitch's" claws, she explained.
Didn't care about anyone but herself... bitch. She'd sacrifice anyone… bitch. She sacrificed us, didn't you forget? … bitch.
Whore. Worthless whore at that. Annalise was so ugly but she'd cheat as soon as she got the chance, apparently. That slut, she was probably cheating on Tegan right now. Fucking gorilla whore. (Connor wondered: racist, a bit? He'd better not ask.) That hag, she'd have all the fame and success she clawed her way to, that she "stole", but she'd die miserable and alone.
Annalise, miserable and alone? She had two lovers who were healthier than her, committed to her, and were somehow both tolerating her cheating. Who had joked about it. In front of Connor.
Connor realized he was gritting his teeth. His fists had clenched themselves too. But those fists knew they were unnecessary. His voice was locked on target and ready to fire. "Which bitch," Connor's tongue almost lashed, "are you talking about? Sounds more like the one driving." He bit his lip.
"We're the proof," Michaela was saying. "She ruined us. But at least every time she sees you, she'll have to remember how she destroyed your life and left you the self-hating shell of yourself you are now."
Every time she sees me… is this what it feels like for her?
It was plausible. It was never fun for Connor to be reminded of Wes. Or stocks. Because Paxton. But maybe Annalise isn't as pathetic as me? Or maybe she hid it better.
If Annalise were here, Connor figured, she would tear Michaela's case apart. For being too soft on her.
Michaela was failing to prosecute Annalise for the totality of her sins, she'd argue. Connor could just imagine Professor Keating laying it all out in the classroom. Litigation, she would say, was also warranted for all the other innocents that had been pulled into her vortex of destruction. Bonnie. Wes. Frank. Asher. And his dad, somehow. Nate Lahey Senior. Yesterday, even Sam and Hannah had somehow made it onto that list. Of course, the truth was that not a single person on that list was "innocent". This exact conversation (rather, the screaming match version of it) was what had made Connor run away to go visit Michaela. He couldn't stand it. Annalise was wrong. But Connor's words had failed him, badly. And he hadn't known what to do.
Connor's fists were beginning to protest, starting to feel necessary. They weren't. Instead, Connor forced his jaw to relax and his palms to open. He turned around, nodded thoughtfully at what she was saying. "You're right," he admitted. "I've got to quit."
Managing interns was never supposed to be a permanent thing anyways, after all. And he was done with the damn court cases, that was for sure.
"I'm always right," Michaela growled. "Especially about her."
"Hey, Michaela," Connor said, turning around to give her that smile you sincerely have for your friend that you'd been missing for four years. "Thanks for talking sense into me. I needed that."
"You looked a bit mad earlier," said Michaela. Connor hadn't hid it as well as he'd thought.
"Do you actually believe all those things you said?" he asked. Connor had a nagging, but hopeful, suspicion.
"I just really want what's best for you," said Michaela. "What I hate is seeing you like this."
There it was. He'd missed her.
"Aww, shuddup," Connor said with a grin, as he rolled down the window. "Love you too."