The Last Time We Were Us

by Leah Konen

  Once we’ve gotten most of the butter off our fingers, we head to Belk’s juniors department and start picking through the rows of sparkles and beads and flashy colors. Mom generously lent me her credit card with a warning not to tell Dad, and I have eighty dollars to spend. The girls all pull their favorites in my size, and we head to the dressing room, ignoring the “6 Items Only” in our tiny, gala-focused rebellion.

  The first one is baby pink and has MacKenzie written all over it.

  “Love it!” Kenzie says as I walk out.

  I look back in the mirror, see nothing but ruffles. “I’m moving on to the next one.”

  There are a few boring black things and one with way too much lace. Finally, I slip on one of the ones I grabbed. Sweetheart neckline. Flared just enough at the bottom to make it perfect for twirling. Beads all over. Dark purple, and totally me.

  When I walk out, I can see that they all love it.

  “That’s it,” Nicole says.

  “Say yes to the dress!” Marisa yells.

  “Lady, you are going to blow his mind,” MacKenzie says, before nodding down to the bag in her hand. “I mean, not as much as I’m going to blow Payton’s at the lake tomorrow, but still definitely up there.” She smiles mischievously.

  “It is a pretty great dress, isn’t it?” I glance back in the mirror and take it all in. I’m here, with MacKenzie and two potential new friends, and I’m about to spend nearly the whole weekend with Innis and his family.

  Things are good, I remind myself. So good.

  All I have to do is not mess them up.

  MOM CAN HARDLY contain her excitement when Innis’s dad pulls up in his Escalade the next morning. She insists on following me down to the car—she’s not going to let an opportunity to rub elbows with Mr. Taylor pass her by.

  Innis smiles at me as I open the door and grab the only empty seat next to Skip. MacKenzie and Payton are cuddled up in the back; Marisa and Alex are idling in Marisa’s Mercedes, behind us.

  “Liz, this is my dad,” Innis says. He sounds happy to introduce me, like I’m something to be proud of.

  I’ve seen Mr. Taylor in pictures in the paper and around town before, but never really this close. His dark brown hair is smooth, combed back and still full, even though he must be in his forties. He’s in good shape, his skin tan and taut, and he wears expensive sunglasses, a crisp visor, and a shirt that looks freshly pressed. “It’s great to finally meet you,” he says, but it sounds a little forced. Then he looks to Mom, and I swear I see a flash of annoyance in his eyes. She’s hovering outside the car, beaming like it’s some superhuge occasion. “Genevieve,” he says automatically. “It’s been way too long.”

  “It has, hasn’t it?” She’s oblivious to the fact that he was just saying it, that he didn’t really mean it at all. Am I nothing but a reminder of Lyla, of the moment his son lost his place as golden boy? “Thank you so much for inviting Liz along.” Mom raises her eyebrows at me. “It’s so kind of you.”

  “Yes, thank you so much.” I shoot her a look. I was totally going to say it, as soon as she stopped awkwardly hovering.

  “Of course,” Mr. Taylor says, perfectly polite and yet cold all the same. “Anytime. We’ll be back before dark.”

  Skip spends most of the drive staring out the window, watching little North Carolina towns pass us by, his bad side facing me the entire time. When I’m not making eyes at Innis in the side-view mirror, I allow myself to take him in: His strong features stand out against his damaged skin, and I realize that his hair is even darker than Innis’s, more like his father’s. Beyond all the scars, there is a grotesque sort of beauty about him, a closed-off, say-nothing Quasimodo sort of grace.

  I wonder what the burn specialist did yesterday, if he’s in any pain. I wonder if Jason wonders these things, too, or if he even cares.

  Eventually, we turn onto a road that looks just as new and kept up as the Escalade. We pull up to a house, almost gluttonous in its grandness. Mr. Taylor turns off the car, and we all get out.

  MacKenzie and Payton steal maybe the seventeenth kiss of the morning, as Innis looks my way and pretends to hold back vomit, and Marisa and Alex get out of her car, obvious annoyance on both of their faces. I chuckle to myself. They’ll probably be off-again soon.

  Innis grabs his duffel, takes my bag and swings it over his shoulder, and shoots me that big Taylor smile. “Not a bad drive, huh?”

  I shake my head. “Not at all.”

  “Come on, I’ll give you the tour.” He grabs my hand and pulls me with him, and a subtle fluttering descends into my stomach.

  “I’m just going to show her around,” he calls to his dad.

  MacKenzie manages to pull back from Payton long enough to give me an excited look. Behind her, Marisa beams. The two are like my own personal cheerleaders.

  Innis pulls a key out of his pocket and opens the door. I follow him in. Black-and-white tiles set off the entryway. The inside is huge, open and airy with high ceilings and wooden rafters. It looks like a house from one of Mom’s magazines.

  Innis slips his loafers off, and I follow suit with my flip-flops. Barefoot, my head doesn’t even come up to his shoulder. He looks down and gives me another smile, the kind that says he’s happy I’m here. His gray eyes glisten, and his skin is tan and glowing from the light streaming in from the windows.

  We walk across a lush striped rug, past a dining room on the left, formal as all get out and just waiting to host a fabulous dinner party, and a sitting area on the right, each sofa so full and fat, it looks like you could sit down and be swallowed whole.

  But it’s not just the furniture that’s luxurious. It’s an air about him and his dad, even Skip. Innis is in his element. He’s confident, proud of what he has. And beyond that, he’s not scared. The future is bright, very much so, and you can see it in all of their faces. Maybe that’s why Jason is so hated; he messed up the order of things. In one night, he broke what should have been unbreakable.

  He grabs my hand and squeezes, giving me another tug. “Wait ’til you see the view.” His voice is a whisper, his lips just barely brush my ear as he says it, and chills rush through me, a soft, tingling sensation I can feel all the way down to my toes. He laces his fingers through mine, and I follow.

  The back wall is covered in windows, floor to ceiling, side to side, so we’re staring out at a living landscape, an oversized oil painting set off with glass. The house sits right on the lake, which is a deep blue, set apart by verdant trees and a sweeping sky with only the slightest wisps of clouds.

  He turns to me and smiles, our fingers still interlocked, and my heart beats quick and light, wings flapping like it’s going to fly right out of my chest.

  MACKENZIE AND MARISA and I lie on the dock while the boys do boat stuff, getting the shiny beast of a machine ready for the water. Things are easier here. There are no beach bags and coolers, no carting towels around or planning lunch. Right off the dock, there’s a fridge with ice-cold bottled waters, thinly sliced salami, and cheese with a name I don’t know. A cabinet holds thick towels, extra flip-flops, visors, sunglasses, and sunscreen.

  I take a sip of water and pop a piece of salami into my mouth. “This is the life.” I smile at MacKenzie. “Isn’t it?”

  She leans closer. “Innis is gaga for you. He looks your way like every five seconds.” I glance towards the boat and start counting. At eight-one-thousand, he looks over at me, smiles and goes back to work.

  She lowers her voice even more. “Payton says that he’s thinking about asking you to be his girlfriend.”

  My heart starts beating fast again. “Seriously?”

  Marisa laughs. “Don’t act so surprised! He’s taking you to the ball like Prince Charming or something.”

  “It’s not the ball.” I laugh.

  “It’s Bonneville,” Marisa says. “Take what you can get.”

  The two of them snicker, but I wonder what I would say if Innis did ask me to be his girlfriend, officially
and all. I would have to stop seeing Jason, no doubt about it. But it doesn’t matter—the answer has to be yes. It’s Innis Taylor. As the sun beats on me and a bit of water laps onto my feet, the choice seems crystal clear.

  After a while—I don’t know how long because I feel so delightfully lazy—the boat is ready, and we all pack on, Mr. Taylor at the helm, Innis at the front, me next to him. Skip takes the seat to my right, his face even harder to look at in the blanket of sun. He doesn’t say a word.

  We motor out to the middle, towards a bridge far-off with beach-bum dandruff, little specks of people flaking off into the water every few seconds, the sounds of screams and splashing in the distance. As we get closer, I see that the kids are our age, cars blaring music, a slight smell of weed surrounding them.

  Mr. Taylor plays Lynyrd Skynyrd as he leads us under the bridge and into a glistening cove, far from the sounds of the partyers. After a few minutes, he stops the boat, Innis drops the anchor, and we strip down to our suits.

  Payton doesn’t lose time. He pushes MacKenzie in and watches her bob up before jumping in after her. Alex follows, pushing Marisa and jumping in himself, but from the look on her face when she pops up, I really don’t think she likes it. Innis hops in next, and then they all stare at me, waiting.

  I turn to Skip. “You coming?”

  He shakes his head. “Nah.”

  I jump. The water is cool and refreshing, and it sends my stringy swimsuit everywhere. I pop up, adjusting, and Innis looks at me with waterlogged lashes. “How’s it feel?”

  “Great.”

  “Good to hear.” He says it mischievously, and I only have a second to grab a breath before his hands are on my shoulders, dunking me under.

  I kick to the surface, gasp for air. “You know you’re going to pay for that.”

  I swim towards him as he makes his way to the other side of the boat. Innis doesn’t know what a good swimmer I am. In the summers, Mr. Sullivan would drop us off at the YMCA pool while he worked out at the gym. We made it a contest to see who could do the most laps, while all the other kids messed around in the shallow end. Jason was built for it, his body thin and lanky, and he always won. But I got pretty close.

  I whip my body through the water, scooping handfuls away from me, kicking quickly, and in seconds I’m behind him. I launch myself forward, throwing my whole weight onto his shoulders, pushing him down under and giving him a little tap with my feet.

  From underneath, I feel him grab my ankles, pulling me down, too. And then we’re under together, and he wraps his arms around me, and we meet the sunshine and the surface at the same time.

  “Very sneaky.” I gasp for breath.

  But he doesn’t say anything. Just plants the lightest of feather kisses right on my lips.

  TWO GAMES OF chicken later, I’m cold and exhausted. I climb back into the boat, but Innis and the others stay, swimming around and playing a silly game that Kenzie has just invented.

  Mr. Taylor still sits at the helm, drinking a beer, turning up Lynyrd, and announcing his various complaints to Skip and me, by proxy—the riffraff who’ve practically taken over the lake, the new congressman who wants to increase property taxes, Mrs. Taylor, who keeps texting him about details for the fund-raiser tomorrow.

  I grab a water from the cooler and a towel from the stack and sit there, quietly, watching my friends in the lake, thinking how lucky I am to be here, when Skip turns to me. “How’s your sister?”

  The question shocks me. Mr. Taylor digs through the cooler for another beer and turns the music louder. Skip scoots closer to me, waiting for an answer.

  “She’s good,” I manage. My eyes flit to Mr. Taylor. His face is red, and I doubt it’s from the Coors Lights. I bet he thinks exactly the way I used to, that Lyla left his son when he needed her most.

  “Her wedding’s coming up, isn’t it?”

  I nod, fast and furious. He takes a long sip of his beer. “Is Benny good to her?”

  This is what I want to say: Better than you! You broke her heart! She would have stayed with you! You could have been something together!

  With all my heart, I want Mr. Holier-Than-Thou Taylor to know that Lyla’s not the villain here. That it wasn’t even her choice. I want to remind Skip that even if it all hits the fan, you’re still in charge of your fate. You’re still responsible for what you do.

  I want to scream at Jason for putting us all here to begin with.

  But I catch his eyes, and in that moment I see the Skip I used to know, the guy who always gave me sticks of cinnamon gum when he came over to pick up Lyla, the guy who drove to Walmart the day I started my period, because my parents were gone and we only had Tampons in the house, which I was afraid to use. He is not a tragic character, not a player in a Victor Hugo classic. He’s the boy who dated my sister, pinned a corsage on the edge of her pale pink gown while Dad videoed the whole thing. He’s a person, just like anyone else, a person I used to look up to, even.

  A person who maybe didn’t realize that Lyla would have kept on loving him, if only he’d let her.

  I hold his gaze when I answer. “Yeah. He’s very good to her.”

  He nods, looks down, and I think I see a glistening in his one perfect eye, but I can’t be sure.

  Chapter 16

  THE NEXT NIGHT, WE ARRIVE AT CRAWFORD HALL AT seven o’clock, sharp.

  Dad pulls around the long driveway, the one Kenzie and I were always afraid to approach, and a college-aged guy in a crisp white shirt and black tie, who looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here, walks up to the car and opens the door. “Welcome to Crawford Hall, ma’am.”

  “Oh,” Mom says, flustered. “We’re just dropping our daughter off.”

  The guy looks confused. “So you don’t want the complimentary valet service?”

  Mom gives him a nervous smile. “I think we’re okay.”

  “Could you pull up there, then?” He points to a dirt drive off the roundabout.

  “Sure thing,” Mom says.

  “Innis couldn’t have picked you up and avoided all this awkwardness?” Dad asks. “Then we wouldn’t have to pull over in a dirt road watching the Beamers pass us by.”

  “Greg,” Mom says. “His family is running the whole thing. She’s lucky to even get an invite. Maybe if we were going ourselves, it wouldn’t have been so awkward.”

  Here we go. “Guys, I’m gonna get out now.”

  Mom stops bickering and rolls down her window. “Wait a sec, wait a sec, honey,” she says. “Let me just get one picture. Move over a little. I want the whole house in the shot.”

  “Mom.”

  “Just a little to the right. Perfect. Okay, smile.”

  “Don’t put this on the internet.”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “I mean it.”

  “Fine, fine.” She holds up the phone, and I give her my best get-on-with-it smile.

  “Oh, don’t you look just gorgeous?” She pushes the phone at Dad. “Greg, look at her.”

  His mood softens. “You look wonderful, Liz. Have a blast.”

  I don’t look back as my parents pull away. I take in the scene before me instead: the front of the huge mansion, which I’ve never even been this close to; the men and women in gowns and tuxes filing elegantly through the arched front door; the glow of real gas lamps; the bustle of more valets moving Mercedes and Audis to the back.

  I follow the crowd of people up the steps, and one of the guys holds the door open for me. Saying thanks, I quickly step inside.

  I don’t know the perfect word for the inside of Crawford Hall. Exquisite comes to mind, of course, but everyone says exquisite about places like this. Or breathtaking, but I am still breathing. Mom would call it stunning. Dad would call it ostentatious. But for me, it isn’t really any of these things.

  For me, it is simply a different world than I have ever known.

  And it’s not just in the silk drapes pooling on the floor, the perfect golden yellow of the walls, the intr
icate snow-white molding, the ceiling medallions and shimmering crystal chandeliers, or the elegant symmetry of the scrolling central staircase—I’ve been to the Biltmore, after all, seen houses far fancier than this.

  Instead, it’s the soft smell of baby powder on an older woman in a floor-skimming gown. It’s the din of orchestra music coming from down the hall. It’s the way people are talking: confidently, yet not too loudly; and the way they are walking: heads lifted high, feet gliding effortlessly, one in front of the other, as if the whole world is an invisible balance beam. It’s the glance of myself in the oversized gilded mirror that leans against one of the walls of one of the sitting rooms. I look older somehow, my hair done up in Mom’s signature chignon, the beads of my purple dress catching the light, the swath of dark red lipstick that makes my lips look all pouty and, dare I say, chic. It’s the way I look like I almost belong.

  I text Innis to say I’m here and wait for him at the bottom of the staircase, like he told me to. I scan the crowd of people coming in, looking for anyone I recognize, and see a middle-aged woman in a simple black dress. She’s one of our librarians, and though she doesn’t recognize me, I certainly remember her. She’s the person who encouraged me to read classics, before I was ever assigned them in high school. Gave me a list of the greats, which I ticked through religiously the summer after eighth grade, the summer after Jason ditched me and before I met Veronica, the summer I didn’t really have a friend.

  “Hi,” I hear behind me, and I flip around to see Innis, towering over me on the second step of the staircase.

  Innis in a tux is wild and I’m completely caught off guard because the tux doesn’t call to mind dreams of homecoming or prom; instead, I have this flash of him and me, walking down our own aisle, of how lovely a wedding would be at Crawford Hall, the curve of his lips as he says the words I do, as he leans in to kiss his bride . . .