The Last Time We Were Us

by Leah Konen

  Alex walks back then, a jug of orange juice in one hand, two open beers in the other.

  And behind him is the person I want to see more than anyone right now.

  Innis.

  Chapter 10

  INNIS IS WEARING A WHITE T-SHIRT, CORAL SHORTS, and leather boat shoes. His eyes are friendly, and he says, “Hey, Liz,” like he didn’t just avoid me for days. Like he’s been standing here waiting for me the whole time.

  Alex hands me my beer, and I take it gratefully. “Hi.”

  Innis steps closer, so close, in fact, that I can feel heat emanating from his body, smell the hint of cigarette on his breath. Unlike Jason, Innis only smokes when he’s drinking. It’s still not my cup of tea, but it’s more acceptable to me, somehow.

  “I didn’t know you were coming,” he says.

  I tip my beer back, take a sip. “You didn’t ask me.” It comes out so bold it surprises me.

  But he just smiles and says: “I know. I should have.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Marisa step aside, pulling Alex with her, leaving us alone. “How was fishing?” I ask.

  His eyes light up like shiny river rocks, but he doesn’t answer.

  “I like your dress.”

  Before I can stop myself, I yank the hem down. If I were really bold, as smooth as I imagine myself when I replay conversations in my head, I’d wave my hand and say, I wore it for you, or, And what are you gonna do about it? I’d reach into his pocket and grab his pack of cigarettes and balance one on my lips and ask for a light. Not for the smoke—gross—but to look like Lauren Bacall in To Have and Have Not, Mom’s all-time favorite movie. You know how to whistle, don’t you, Steve? You just put your lips together and . . . blow.

  But I don’t do anything that cool. I just say thanks.

  “Come with me,” he says. “I need another beer.”

  It’s even more crowded as we push our way to the kitchen. The Lords and Ladies of East Bonneville High fist pump and nod at us as we walk by: Mary Burke, head cheerleader. Luke Brown, basketball giant. Ainsley Landry, senior student body president who’s on the softball team with MacKenzie. Erich Moon, a fellow one time plebeian who realized he’s funny enough to make it in the cool crowd, standing on an ottoman and regaling the others with an especially weird face—their dedicated court jester.

  Innis ignores everyone, dragging me into the kitchen, where it’s only us and a few empty coolers.

  “Looks pretty beerless,” I say, immediately cursing myself for my corniness. It’s a dadism if I ever heard one. Ten-four. We’ve got a beer shortage. The kitchen is beerless. I repeat, the kitchen is beerless.

  “Don’t worry,” Innis says. He whips open the fridge. Inside is another case of cheap stuff. He grabs two and hands one to me.

  I finish the one I’m holding quickly, the cold fizziness rushing to my head. Innis leans on the counter, and I sink back against the fridge.

  “I really didn’t expect to see you here,” he says again.

  I mess with the strap of my dress. “Why not?”

  “I didn’t know you’d even know about it.”

  “MacKenzie asked me,” I say, wondering, briefly, if she’s still mad.

  He nods. “She and Payton are getting pretty serious, I guess.” His tone is flat and unreadable. Either subtle approval or bro-y protectiveness. Or he’s just too cool to care.

  Maybe it’s the adrenaline from my fight with MacKenzie, or maybe it’s all the nice things Marisa said, how hopeful she made me feel. Or maybe it’s just the cocktail of Goldschläger and beer, winding its way through my bloodstream. Whatever it is, I channel all the moxie I’ve got and look him straight in the eyes, finally ready to speak my mind. “You know, you’re not exactly making me feel welcome.” I take another sip—okay, a gulp this time—and relish my boldness.

  “That’s not it,” he says.

  “And I’m not about to sit around waiting on invites from you. They don’t ever seem to come.”

  Innis sets his beer down and steps closer. “I deserve that.” His voice is so soft and kind and intimate, I find myself holding my breath, waiting to wake up.

  But I force myself to focus, to say what I want to say. “Uh, yeah, you do. You basically tell your ex you only saw me accidentally. Then you don’t text me for days. You leave me thinking that . . .”

  “That I’m a dick.”

  “Well, I wasn’t going to say that exactly—”

  “That I don’t care, then?” He’s so close now I can feel his breath on my lips. Mine begin to tremble.

  “Yeah.” I look down for relief. “That’s what I thought.”

  He cups my face in his hands and tilts it up to his. “I like you.”

  If my stomach were a gymnast, it would medal in the Olympics. Because these are not the words I expect from Innis. They’re contrary to every fiber of his being.

  He lets his hands fall but he doesn’t step back, doesn’t give me the room I both crave and despise. “With Alexis,” he says, but then he stops himself. “Sorry, I’m sure you don’t want to hear about Alexis.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “The thing is, I haven’t liked anyone in a really long time. And I already had the fishing thing planned with my grandpa, and I thought maybe if we didn’t talk for a few days, it would go back to normal.”

  “What is normal?” I ask. “Buying beer and watching you play video games?”

  He shrugs. “Sure.”

  “Sorry to ruin your plans.”

  “Hey.” He reaches his palms to my cheeks again. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

  Then he leans in and touches his lips to mine, and it’s soft and sweet, with a question mark at the end. My blood pumps quicker, and I’m kissing him back, fast and furious, like our lives depend on it. My hands are all over him, and I want him, just as much as he wants me.

  And whatever the question is, the answer is yes.

  EVENTUALLY, WE MAKE our way out of the kitchen, moving hand in hand through the crowd. I pass MacKenzie and Payton in the living room, and she looks so happy to see me with Innis, and I’m so happy to be with Innis, that all we do is smile at each other, like the argument never even happened. “Good luck,” she mouths, and I just smile wider in return.

  We’re almost to the stairs that lead up to who knows what, when we pass Skip, standing on the hall table, leaning one hand on the wall and singing into a beer-can mike with the other, belting out lyrics in a drunken stupor.

  In a parallel universe, he’d be poring over reception menus with my sister, getting fitted for a tux, not standing here, humiliating himself at a party he’s way too old for.

  Innis stops, standing there, lips pressed tight, taking it in. I’m about to ask him if Skip’s okay when one of the rising juniors, a lanky guy whose name I can’t remember, turns to his friend. “What a loser.”

  My hand instinctively reaches for Innis’s arm, but I can’t stop him. Before Skip can get to the next line, he’s got the guy by the collar, up against the wall.

  “What the hell did you say?”

  The guy shoots off a string of apologies I know won’t do a thing.

  Innis hits him once, quick to the gut, and the breath goes out of him as he melts against the wall like a Popsicle in summer.

  The crowd rushes around, but I grab Innis, pull him to me, and catch the slightest mist of tears in his eyes. I wrap my arms around him and hug him tight, but he wiggles away, looks at me with a face so sad I want to do anything I can to make him feel better.

  “Come on,” I say. “Let’s go upstairs.”

  He nods, and our fingers entwine, and we step through the crowd and head up. I turn back to see the lanky boy and his friend stumble away.

  We walk down the hallway, covered with floral wallpaper and looking more wholesome than it should. We stop at a door that’s slightly ajar, and he squeezes my hand, pushes the door open.

  Inside, there’s a half circle of people passing around a bottle of rum. B
lake Edgeworth, Innis and Payton’s friend from lacrosse, is there, and the two of them exchange a look. Then he stands up, says they should all go smoke, and stumbles out the door, his cronies in tow.

  Innis shuts it behind him, and in seconds, we’re kissing again. He smells like Downy and cologne and faint cigarettes. His lips are salty with summer sweat.

  My hands rake through his hair, tugging at his soft curls, pulling his lips even closer to mine, as his hands move up and down the length of my body, searching and finding.

  He is so good, I realize. He cares so much, enough to stop anyone who dares to say a word against his brother. He is so much more than his looks and his money and all the things that everyone else sees.

  He pushes against me, and we fall onto the bed, the sheets rumpled from Lord knows what’s happened in here already. Our kisses are hard and hungry; his hands mess with my skirt before reaching up underneath.

  His fingers brush against my lace underwear, one half of the set I hid from my mother because I felt weird buying it, the one I only bought because MacKenzie told me I should.

  I think about stopping, but then MacKenzie’s words are with me—“you might even like it”—and there is beer on my tongue, and he is good, so good, and I kiss him harder, because I’m not 100 percent sure now, but I’m not sure I’ll ever be.

  “Is this okay?” he whispers.

  This time, I don’t push him away.

  THE NEXT MORNING I’m already awake and thinking about last night when MacKenzie’s eyes flutter slowly open.

  “Hey there, lady. I think someone’s got a story to tell.” She smiles groggily. Sunbeams peak through the blinds, and she looks like my guardian angel, sent to teach me the ways of boys and parties.

  I bite my lip. “How do you know?”

  “I saw you guys walk upstairs. I was sober, remember? I had to drive your booty-getting booty home.”

  I gulp down the glass of water MacKenzie benevolently left on the nightstand. Even though she force-fed me water last night, I still have a headache.

  “So . . . ?” she asks.

  “You want details?”

  MacKenzie shakes her head. “Just a basic understanding.”

  My skin gets all hot and tingly as I think about what we did. “It wasn’t anything huge, okay? But a little more than before.”

  “Did he finger you?”

  “Shh,” I snap. “Your parents are going to hear!”

  “Oh, stop worrying. You need to relax. Amirite?”

  The look on my face must say yes, because MacKenzie claps.

  “And? Was it as awful as you feared?”

  I shake my head. It was exciting, heart-pounding, and completely unlike anything else. I wasn’t really sure how long it was supposed to take, and eventually, I just pulled his hand away and we made out for a little bit more. I rejiggered my dress, and we went back downstairs.

  “It was good,” I say. “But we didn’t have sex.”

  She laughs. “You implied that much.”

  As excited as I am, it feels like Innis has a part of me, a tiny part that no one else has.

  And I don’t quite know what he’s going to do with it.

  Chapter 11

  MY PHONE BUZZES AS I WALK BACK FROM MACKENZIE’S. My heart beats against my rib cage, because I want so badly for it to be Innis. I still like you as much as before. I have not spent the morning carving a half notch into my bedpost.

  It’s not.

  you ignoring me?

  I type back furiously.

  what do you want?

  I can see Jason typing. Whatever he wants, I can’t give it. He stops, then starts again.

  to be your friend

  Part of me wants to be all that we were to each other. But I can’t. Not after the promises I made to Mom and Lyla. Not after last night with Innis.

  I type the words quickly.

  sorry i can’t

  It’s not until I’m back in my house, in my room, lying on my bed and replaying the night before, worrying that Innis won’t text, that my phone buzzes again. I pick it up, ready to tell Jason no.

  As soon as I see the message, I feel warm all over and alive as hell. Because it’s not Jason, it’s Innis.

  dinner tonight? on me?

  I look at the clock, my fingers already antsy, because in five minutes, I know I’m going to text Innis back and say yes.

  INNIS SAID HE’D pick me up at seven, and Lyla gets off work at four on Saturdays, so that gives me just enough time to go over there and make peace with her. She looks surprised when she answers the door.

  “Liz.” Her eyes flit to a deep lilac potted orchid in my hands, an expensive little olive branch. “You shouldn’t have.”

  Except I should have. If I want Lyla to forget about everything, I really should have. Lyla loves grand gestures and hates cheap flowers. Luckily Mom floated me some money to help heal our sisterly rift, otherwise it would have equaled two hours of babysitting.

  “Sit down.” She gestures to an off-white overstuffed sofa. “I’ll make some tea.”

  “Is Benny here?” I plop down. Everything matches, from the pillows to the walls to the ribbon holding up the engagement photo she’s already gotten framed.

  “He’s playing racquetball,” she calls from the kitchen.

  My hope deflates a little. Lyla’s on her best behavior when Benny’s around, which isn’t really that good, but I’ll take what I can get.

  She returns with two steaming cups, and I jump right in. “I want to talk about yesterday.”

  Lyla’s pasted-on smile instantly goes flat. “It’s over,” she says. “Let’s just not.”

  I take a sip, and it scalds the roof of my mouth. Lyla slips a coaster beneath it before I can put it down.

  “I want to explain.”

  “What’s there to explain? You said you weren’t going to see him anymore.”

  “And I’m not.”

  “So what, then?”

  I know her tricks. Lyla says she doesn’t want to talk about it, but all that means is she doesn’t want to talk about it with me. Without a doubt, she spent two hours talking about everything with Erica yesterday.

  “I just want you to know, what he did to Skip was horrible, and I get why you’re mad. But you know he was my best friend. And maybe they weren’t to you, but the Sullivans were like second parents to me. I wanted to see his dad again—that’s it.”

  Lyla huffs. “I hope it was worth it.”

  “Lyla,” I snap, “I didn’t screw your fiancé or spill red wine on your wedding dress. I went to see an old friend. It doesn’t make me a horrible person.”

  She shakes her head and crosses her arms. “You know I thought I was going to marry Skip?”

  “Every girl thinks she’s going to marry her high school sweetheart.”

  “This was different.” Her voice cracks, and her eyes get glossy. “We loved each other. It wasn’t just about high school. We had plans. We were going to go to D.C. or Atlanta and really do something with our lives. He was going to be a model.”

  “Well, then why didn’t you?” I ask. “It’s not like he was freaking paralyzed. People get past way worse than that. Not everyone can be a model, anyway.”

  “God, Liz, is that what you think of me?” Her eyes properly tear up now, and her hands reach to dry her face. “That I broke it off because he didn’t look perfect anymore? I wanted to be with him. I tried. It wasn’t just his face, it was everything. He was so angry, and he didn’t want to see me, he didn’t want to touch me or kiss me, and he sure didn’t want me to touch him. He broke up with me.”

  “What?” I ask, before I can stop myself. “Really?”

  “Yes, really,” she yells. “Don’t you remember? I could barely get out of bed and go to school. I should have been thinking about college and spending every weekend with Skip. I was a mess.”

  I do remember. I remember her tears, her fights with my mother. I remember terse phone calls and the visits to the hospi
tal. And then I remember one night when Lyla wouldn’t come down for dinner, and Mom, who’s strict about things like that, telling me to leave her. That she and Skip had broken up. After that, we didn’t say his name in the house.

  And in my idiocy or naivety or jealousy of Lyla’s utter perfectness, I assumed she’d been the one to make the choice. Because, Lord, it’s hard to imagine someone making it for her.

  “I thought you were upset.” I run my finger around the rim of the teacup, avoiding Lyla’s eyes. “I didn’t think—”

  “You thought I was shallow enough to end it with the love of my life because he got hurt?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t know.”

  She stands up and gets a tissue and wipes her tears. It leaves mascara trails underneath her eyes. “Well, now you do. Now do you understand why I’d be upset?”

  I nod. “I’m sorry, Lyla. I really am so sorry.”

  That’s when Benny walks in, with a chipper hello. He’s dripping with sweat and wearing a cheesy exercise headband. He looks ridiculous in that way that makes everyone warm up to him instantly.

  Lyla quickly rearranges her face. “Hey, baby.” Her voice is as sweet and smooth as whipped butter. I think of the song that always comes on Dad’s oldies station, “Love the One You’re With.” Suddenly, I wonder if Benny is just her fall-back, if even after everything, Skip’s the one she’d be with if she had the choice.

  “I should probably go.” I stand up.

  She looks at Benny, then looks at me. “Yeah. You probably should.”

  DAD’S IN FULL Dad Mode that evening, his face stern as he opens the door for Innis.

  Innis wears a button-down lavender shirt over jeans. His face is freshly shaven and his curly hair is rocking the slightest bit of gel.

  “Hello, Mr. Grant.” He shakes my dad’s hand.

  “Nice to see you, Innis,” Dad says, and I can tell by his tone of voice that Innis used just the right amount of firmness. Dad cares about things like that: Not firm enough is weak and ambivalent. Too firm is like you’re angry, got something to prove.