Since We Last Spoke

by Brenda Rufener

  We pause, my rebuttal forming on my tongue.

  “Don’t answer that,” Henry snaps. “But I’m hopeful, Max. Someday my Brienne of Tarth is going to ride in on a beautiful Lipizzan horse and scoop me up in her arms.” Henry stops himself. “Okay, so I’ll call you back.”

  “I’ll be here waiting, Sir Lannister.”

  Henry’s burned bridges with most of the lake girls. Technically, there are only seven lake girls around our age, including Aggi, and they all think of Henry as the dreaded friend. The one to count on, not date. Henry’s also seen as trouble, not boyfriend material, thanks to his deep-seated prison roots. Families living around Plum Lake believe a certain thing about Henry, but none of them know him like I do.

  Henry, or Hank, as his dad slapped on his birth certificate, comes from a long line of convicts. Henry’s dad insists he’s next in line to commit a crime that’ll reunite him with his oldest brother behind bars. He says it like it’s a badge of honor. Henry’s brothers and father expect Henry’s path to follow theirs, but they don’t know the Henry I do. They see poor, white-trash Hank. They don’t see Heart-of-Gold Henry, as Aggi always called him.

  Henry is the guy you call when your truck’s stuck in the snow. The friend you talk to when your heart breaks into pieces. The one you confide life’s secrets to.

  I once thought the perfect girl for Henry was Umé. She’s one of the few people who push him to do better, be better, or at least help convince him he’s something other than his family thinks he should be. But Umé’s not into Henry. She says a guy’s got to do a lot to impress her, and as of now she’s quite happy dating a townie girl she met at a gas station. Not that there’s anything wrong with meeting someone at a gas station; it’s just not the place I think of as a nice backdrop for a revisit on your one-year dating anniversary. Of course, who am I to judge? Aggi and me on top of the science building might be even more ridiculous. But what I wouldn’t give to be holding Aggi while we stare at the stars on top of that roof.

  Umé lives near Connor on the other side of the lake, except Connor’s property spreads and sprawls across ten acres and includes a restored mill–turned–livable space. Technically, Umé is Connor’s neighbor, but the pines obstruct their view. In actuality, Connor’s neighbors are trees and deer, eagles and rock. Connor’s parents have all the land their money could buy.

  The lake presents a mix of classes. Only one Connor and many Henrys.

  When I say my family lives on a lake, transplants from the north assume a large lake house or three-story cabin with A-framed balconies, not shared property with communal drives. People don’t understand the difference between those living on the north side of Plum Lake and those on the south side, unless, of course, you’re from Plum Lake. In fact, if you look at the southeast side of the lake, you won’t have to look far to find two single-wide trailers with tires on the roofs and a Porta-Potty blanketed with Christmas lights. One of the trailers is owned by Henry’s dad, and I use the term “owned” loosely, as Henry’s dad and twin brothers stole it from a construction site and spray-painted the logo into a large black blob. Now it serves as a second bathroom on their junkyard estate.

  On our property, the land we share with the Franks, lake living is a comfortable remodeled rancher with added-on bonus room and screened-in back porch. Inside, we’re updated and modern and very middle class. Right now, though, we’re lower than middle class, with the lingering funeral and legal bills. The refrigeration company my dad owned with Aggi’s father is suffering, too, since Mr. Frank quit showing up for work. Our fathers built the business together when they graduated high school. My dad took classes at a community college, learned the trade, and taught Aggi’s dad how to tinker with refrigeration units and air conditioners. They did everything together. Work, boat, fish. Now all they do is blame.

  Connor lives on the opposite side of the lake from Aggi and me. His nineteenth-century home is the real deal. Really restored, really expensive. Connor’s parents moved here from Silicon Valley a few years ago and brought the hipster with them. Connor wears stop-sign-red pants and tailored seersucker blazers complete with matching pocket squares. He folds the square point to match his mood. Why do I know so much about Connor’s fashion? He tells everyone. He says, “The one-point-triangle pocket square means today I’m on point—ambitious, precise, going places.” Connor has confidence I wish I had. He has a burgeoning beard, too, but it’s a rumored fact that Connor’s dad had beard implants to make his face look like a Chia Pet. Connor says if his own whiskers don’t fill in the way he likes, he’ll add the same implants. Have I mentioned on most days I refer to Connor as an asshole?

  Connor could be tolerable in small doses. I have nothing against his pants or pocket squares, but he morphed quickly into full-fledged ass at Kate’s funeral, when he wrapped his arms around Aggi and told her he was there for her, day or night. His affections for Aggi are as fake as his father’s beard, and lately, whenever I’m around him, whenever my heart punches at my chest and tries to convince me that what I’m doing will eventually matter, Connor’s affections for Aggi grow loud and elephant-like. He knows about our families’ falling-out, and I swear, he loves it more than he loves his pocket square.

  Henry insists Connor is only trying to fit in like the rest of us, but Henry’s an eternal optimist, and I have become mostly negative.

  After I’ve worried myself into a state of despair thinking about Connor and Aggi holding hands, her tugging at his pocket square while he chuckles and nods, Henry calls back.

  “Pick you up at four. Remember, swimsuit and towel. Don’t forget.”

  “I changed my mind. I’m not going.”

  Henry exhales.

  “It’s just that . . . I don’t think . . . Ouch!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  I glance at my chin in the bathroom mirror and smear on a thin veil of Neosporin. “I scraped my face exercising earlier and it looks ridiculous.”

  Henry scoffs. “Well, thankfully it’s not a zit on your nose.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Just slap on some antibiotic cream and wait for me.”

  Henry hangs up before I can argue.

  Henry’s on my porch at four o’clock and we’re piling into my Jeep and driving to Connor’s lake house for hot-tubbing. I’ve forgotten my towel.

  “So I decided to hide my brothers’ truck keys,” Henry says, flicking pebbles of snow from the cuffs of his pants onto the floorboard of my Jeep.

  The fresh cut and purple bruise on the bridge of Henry’s nose worry me, but I decide not to mention them, as I’m certain the damage to his face has everything to do with the reason Henry hid his brothers’ keys. After witnessing several eyebrow gashes and black eyes, I’ve learned to give Henry space to share details of his horrible home life when he’s ready. Henry sniffs, twitching his nose like a rabbit, and I motion toward the glove box so he can save face. “Tissues in there. I’m catching that same damn cold.”

  Henry tilts his head in my direction and half smiles. Our eyes meet, and I nod until Henry reciprocates. He’s helped me save face too many times to count, but he knows I’m here, ready to talk, when he is.

  After a long pause, Henry reaches into his coat pocket. “When I said I hid my brothers’ keys, I meant . . .” He jingles the ring of keys in the air.

  I slap the steering wheel. “You stole them.”

  Henry shrugs. “You know how they get when they drink. They wanted to wrestle me, and the more they drank the rougher they got. I could have beaten the shit out of them, but you know I don’t operate like that. Instead, I did them a favor. Waited until they passed out and likely saved their damn lives.” Henry tucks his arms behind his head.

  “What a great brother you are,” I say sarcastically. “So great, in fact, that you’re going to get your ass kicked—that is if you actually make it through the night!”

  “No reason to be scared, Maxwell.”

  I shiver. The twins are nothing
like Henry. Sometimes I wonder how Henry could possibly be related to any of his family members, especially his twin brothers. “Don’t they have a second set of keys?”

  Henry rubs his knuckle along the bump on his nose and winces. “Yeah, well, I may have taken those, too. No one at my house was in any condition to drive but me.”

  “You’re scaring me.”

  Henry slaps the dash, a grin spreading across his face. “Oh, Max! They’re going to be so pissed. I just hope they don’t remember my dad also has a set of keys.”

  11

  Max

  “WAIT ON THE GRAND STAIRCASE,” Connor says at the door, and rushes up the stairs.

  “Grand what?” I shoot Henry a What the hell? look as we walk inside Connor’s house.

  Henry shrugs and drapes his large body across the bottom steps of the Grand Staircase while we wait for Connor to dip his body in cologne.

  Henry tucks his knees to his chest, cradles his long legs. Connor’s going to be a while, so I plop into a fuzzy black chair and sink deep into the cushions. My legs ache from this morning’s half run, half jog, full fall. My mind races over the repercussions of Aggi seeing me, but I’m also enjoying the possibility that she saw me and spun out on purpose. At least then I’d know she cared enough to sling slush at my face. Better than being invisible.

  I rub my forehead and sigh as Henry’s always-a-good-friend radar flips on.

  “Tonight will be good for you,” he says. “Get you out and around other people. Away from She Who Must Not Be Named.”

  I moan. “Aggi?”

  “Is that her name?” Henry locks his eyes on the floor and scuffs his foot across the tile. “We need to resuscitate life back into you. Tonight is rich with oxygen. The trees pulse. I feel it.”

  My mouth gapes as I’m about to ask Henry to elaborate on how exactly the trees pulse when the sharp piney smell of cologne jabs my nose.

  “Fuckers!” Connor shouts.

  I groan and Henry pushes off the banister, shooting me a look that says, Play nice.

  For Henry’s sake, I ignore Connor’s annoying salutation, but his pants? Impossible to overlook.

  “Nice yellow pants,” I mumble, and Connor pats his front pockets.

  “You like ’em, huh? Had ’em sent over from Melrose Ave—”

  I cut him off. “I didn’t say I liked—”

  Henry jumps between us. “So who’s coming over tonight?”

  Connor turns toward Henry. “Lake crew. A few townies.”

  “Lake crew?” I repeat. “You mean, lake kids?”

  Connor’s eyebrows lift, and his eyes dart from my head to my toes and back again. “How’s Aggi?” He grins and we’re suddenly back on the staircase where he called us “fuckers.”

  My face freezes, eyes squint. The temperature in the room rises as my hands form fists.

  Henry glances at my hands and shakes his head. I exhale and fall into a wing-back chair. Connor rolls his eyes, and I squeeze the back of my neck, stare at the floor, and wait for him to answer his own question, offering a full report on exactly how Aggi is.

  On cue, Connor says, “I texted her last night.” He digs into his pocket and pulls out his phone. His fingers race across the screen as he swipes for content. “Aggi said she was doing well, great actually, and asked me to come over. Bitch is ripe.”

  I lunge from the chair, and Henry straight-arms my chest. Connor steps back with hands raised. “Jesus, Maxwell! Settle down! Thought you were long over her.”

  I swat Henry’s arm aside and grab Connor’s checked shirt collar with both hands. “Don’t ever refer to Aggi as a bitch! Do you hear me? In fact, don’t refer to her at all. Don’t even say her name.”

  Connor squirms. His voice a squeal. “Put me down!”

  It takes a second to register that Connor’s toes are scratching at the ground like one of his family’s free-range chickens.

  My cheeks burn. I need to dip my face in snow. When I drop Connor and straighten his collar, his furrowed brow and worried eyes scare me.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” Connor shouts. “I invite you into my home and you act like this?”

  Henry slides between us, patting at my chest. “Relax, buddy. Let it go.”

  “But he called her—”

  Henry whispers, “He’s a pig. His words, irrelevant.”

  “But—”

  “Let it go, Max. Let her go. Don’t you think it’s time?”

  I ponder Henry’s words. Time is all I think about. How I’m running out of it. Every day I wake up, still here, still breathing, yet given another chance to let it go or make it right. To be brave, to fight for love, to chase after what I want. But I’m failing miserably. Scared as hell. Time, so finite. A limited commodity. And it’s never on my side.

  I shrug, staring blankly at Henry. I’m changing. I’m angry. If Henry and I were alone, I’d confess these things. That I’m so afraid of becoming passive like my parents that I’m becoming as angry as Aggi’s dad. I need time, but the clock won’t stop ticking. I have to talk to Aggi, but not in front of Connor’s lemon-drop pants and piney cologne.

  I spin around at the door. “Going home.”

  “What about the party?” Henry asks, and there’s softness in his voice. A sound that always catches me off guard, especially when I’m fighting hard to stay mad at the circumstances of my life. Henry has an ability to stay calm in the middle of a storm.

  “Let him go,” Connor snaps.

  I pause with my hand on the doorknob. Voices mix, whirl, twist into the shape of a tornado. Go to her, Max. If you want her, you have to go after her. Then the wind changes direction, and I hear his hate-filled words. Stay away from my daughter. If it weren’t for you . . .

  I slam the door so hard a porch planter topples over, cracks, and dumps dirt. I skid my foot through the soil and shout at the sky, “Cal! Do you hear me? What the fuck do I do now?”

  12

  Aggi

  UMÉ TEXTS AND ASKS IF I’m going to the bonfire near East Lake cabins. She says everyone’s meeting at Connor’s, heading to the dock, and hot-tubbing afterward. I send Umé a picture of a pervy-looking guy with a molester-style mustache and thin-rimmed glasses floating upright in a Jacuzzi full of girls. Then follow with a cartoon character barfing. Umé’s no stranger to my feelings about Connor. He’s pushy, flashy, rich. The exact opposite of what I’m used to. Connor wants to fit in with the lake kids, but he goes about it the wrong way.

  My phone buzzes and flashes Umé’s name.

  “Pictures didn’t answer your question?”

  “Yeah. Tell me how you really feel. But seriously, I’m getting you out of the house before it swallows your soul.”

  “And Connor’s supposed to save me?”

  Umé snorts. “Jesus George Michael Christ! You will save yourself. With my help, of course.”

  “But Dr. Nelson’s going to bring Grace home this afternoon, and I can’t leave her alone with my mom and dad.”

  “So bring her along.”

  Umé, my reasonable and persuasive friend. I wish I could be there for her like she is for me, but Umé never needs me the way I need her. Sometimes, after we’ve spent the day together, and she’s listened to me talk about Kate and Max and everyone I’ve lost, I go home, crawl into my bed, and imagine myself as a tornado sucking up everything in its path. I spin and uproot trees, suck up lawn chairs and mailboxes. I am the cause of so much destruction. I am the suck zone.

  “So?”

  “Not this afternoon. I’m sorry. I would be horrible company.”

  But Umé refuses to listen, and within thirty minutes, she stands on my porch, eyes darting around the living room. “Is Grace here yet?”

  I motion toward the driveway as Dr. Nelson pulls alongside the house and Grace bounds from the car.

  “Hey, Gracie!”

  Grace waves at Umé and races inside the house, tearing her coat from her thin limbs and tossing it over a chair.

  �
��Mom and Dad are upstairs,” I call after her, but she’s on the couch, feet kicking a dust-covered caulking gun across the coffee table, and flipping channels with the remote.

  Dr. Nelson taps the horn, and I wave, then plop down on the couch beside Grace. Her eyes stick to the screen filled with talking animals.

  “Have you and Grace eaten dinner?” Umé asks. “’Cause I’m starved.”

  “Dr. Nelson made me eat before I left, but I can always eat again,” Grace says without eye contact.

  I rest my hand on Grace’s shoulder, and she scoots away from me, tucking herself into the corner of the couch.

  “If you’re hungry, I can make us dinner,” I say, but Grace refuses to look at me.

  I think about the last meal I prepared for Grace. A can of minestrone soup, lukewarm, and in a water glass because the soup bowls and cups sat dirty in the dishwasher. All that murky broth turns my stomach.

  “Nobody’s making anything to eat,” Umé says, tightening her scarf. “Grab your coats, kids—we’re going out for dinner.”

  The three of us end up at our only option within a twenty-mile driving radius if we don’t want pizza from Lucio & Sons. Plum Lake Café. Complete with a giant plum painted on the side of a weather-stained building. The dark wood and purple paint make the plum look like an oversized blueberry.

  Becky, the blue-eyeshadowed waitress, slaps the swinging door to the kitchen and shouts, “Be right there! Sit anywhere you like!”

  The restaurant is empty, customary during the winter season, so we sit in a purple, padded, crescent-moon-shaped booth designed for six customers.

  “I am starving,” Umé says, tearing open a sugar packet and pouring it into her mouth.

  “Me too.” I glance at Grace. She tucks two napkins into the waistband of her black ruffled skirt and yanks at the knees of her tights.

  Umé drops a fist on the table. “When’s the last time your mom or dad went to the grocery store?”

  I shake my head and motion toward Grace, shooting Umé the not now eyes.