The Last Time We Were Us

by Leah Konen

  “He’s not my love interest. He’s my friend.”

  “And your friend is tall and dark and handsome and dangerous and the poor little underdog who Miss Elizabeth Grant is just waiting to save.”

  I stand to face her. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Before she can say another word, I bolt up the stairs.

  But I can’t help it—a tiny part of me wonders if she’s right.

  MY PARENTS TAKE away my car for a week.

  Mad as I am, I’m almost impressed. Mom always says she’s going to take away car privileges but never does. She’s serious this time. She wants to stop me from seeing Jason, and she’s going to any lengths she has to to do it.

  On my first day of punishment, Innis texts me repeatedly, asks to have a conversation “face-to-face.” The thought of seeing him now seems unbearable—I’ve already said what I needed to say—so I lie and tell him I’m fully grounded—it’s partially true at least. He seems to understand that, if nothing else.

  Needing a distraction, I go to MacKenzie’s. She’s been on me to come over, and she’s pretty much my only social outlet without the car, not that I have a whole host of social outlets with the car. She leads me up into her room and barely gets the door closed before she starts pressing me for intel.

  “Did you and Innis have sex?”

  I sit down on her bed. “Payton told you?”

  She clasps her hands together, so pleased that I can see she doesn’t know the whole story. “Liz Grant, I swear I wasn’t sure if you had it in you.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Apparently I did.”

  “What? You’re not feeling guilty, are you? It doesn’t make you a slut, no matter what Veronica says.”

  I ignore her jab about Veronica. “Did Payton also tell you that Innis asked me to be his girlfriend?”

  “No! Oh my God!”

  “And that I broke up with him?”

  She sucks in a breath. “Are you crazy?”

  “Why are you surprised? You saw how upset I was.”

  She shakes her head, like she can’t wrap her mind around what I’m telling her. “I know. But when Payton told me, I thought you guys must have made up and you just hadn’t told me because you were mad at me.”

  “MacKenzie, I slept with him before we talked. The night he beat up Jason.”

  “What?” She sounds hurt. “And you didn’t tell me? I was at your house and everything.”

  “I didn’t want you to judge me.”

  She pouts. “I wouldn’t judge you.”

  “You are judging me.”

  “Not for that. I’m proud of you for that.”

  I roll my eyes. “You shouldn’t be. It was a mistake.”

  Her eyes brighten. “And what does Innis think?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Because from the way he was talking to Payton, he sure didn’t make it sound like you guys were broken up.”

  I shrug. “He wants to talk in person.”

  “That’s good. Very good.”

  “You aren’t listening to me. That’s not what I want.”

  “You want Jason, right? To take him to homecoming.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, you’re going to have to think about it.”

  “I have thought about it! The whole world does not revolve around homecoming! It’s a dance!”

  “Maybe not,” MacKenzie says. “But the world does revolve around your sister and your friends and what people think of you—I don’t care if you think that’s shallow—it’s true. Innis is crazy for you. He’ll take you back.”

  “I have to go,” I say.

  “Trust me,” she says.

  But I leave without saying any more. What she doesn’t understand, and what she may never understand, is that I’m finally at the point where I have to start trusting myself.

  Chapter 23

  I CONTINUE TO SEE MACKENZIE THAT WEEK—I REGULARLY visit after I’m done babysitting—and she tries a range of tactics. Pros and cons lists. Persistent urging followed by a puppy-dog pout. At a certain point, she always lets it go, tells me about Payton, about how things are going with them. In these precious moments between us, Innis and Jason fade to the background, and I remember what it was like to be friends without the drama of them.

  Innis continues to text, to say he’s sorry, that he can’t wait to talk. He even calls a few times, but I don’t know what else I can say. So I ignore him.

  Mom spends the week glaring at me through dinner, like I’m an enemy, while Dad tries to keep the peace, talking about the latest Fantasy NASCAR goings-on, asking me about babysitting.

  But through the carless week, the carless and, more importantly, Jasonless week, it’s the nighttime that keeps me going.

  After Mom and Dad have gone to bed, after the TV turns from late-night hosts to infomercials, right around when the honeysuckle reaches the height of its dewy perfume, we talk. About the little things, the daily things, more than anything else. How often he ices his jaw. The games I play with Sadie and Mary Ryan. The oppressive heat, the way Dad skimps on the AC to be cheap, how his dad does the same.

  Some nights, we talk about being kids. He doesn’t remember things like our silly games half as well as I do, so I have to outline them for him in great detail: the way we played detectives, used flour to dust for fingerprints, ripped almost every scenario out of a TV show; how we proclaimed the tile in my kitchen lava, took turns climbing from chairs to countertops to make it through without getting burned.

  The minutes tick by, and two o’clock in the morning turns to three, and everything from our words to the sound of our voices is safe. We talk as if we are just a girl and a boy. Childhood friends who just realized they liked each other right around the time that it matters. His voice over the phone is deep and thick and delicious, like hot fudge, melting through all the ice cream it touches, turning it milky and soft. I giggle, perhaps more than I should. As a laugh catches me in a higher octave, I think of how I sound like Lyla used to when she used to curl up in her room on her cell and waste our family minutes talking to Skip. But I don’t dwell on that thought, because Lyla and Skip—that’s not safe.

  Occasionally, we hit the thorns, the subjects that divide us, that remind us even roses can make you bleed. I am sitting in the kitchen, eating a late-night orange and flipping through all the junk mail, and I see yet another college pamphlet. I mention it, and Jason’s quiet for a moment, and then I wonder—can a convict even go to college? Is it even legal? And I make a note to look it up later, and the next day I do, and it turns out you can, but not the sort of school I’m probably going to go to, and who knows if his dad has the money or if he can get in, and did he even take classes in juvie or is he way behind? A million questions accost me, but I don’t ask them the next time I talk to him, because I want it to be just the way it is between us. I don’t want it to change.

  LYLA AND SUZANNE come over on Saturday, the first day I get the car back. My sister gives me a terse hello and a forced smile before she heads to the kitchen, her big binder in tow. I can tell my mother has told her everything. Maybe because she’s got a tightness on her face, like she’s just gotten out of an awkward trip to the doctor. Maybe because I’ve known Mom and Lyla all my life, and that’s how the two of them work.

  I want to leave right then. I want to get in the car and go over to Jason’s before Lyla has a chance to cast me another judgy look, but by the way Mom asks if I’m going to stay and help, I know I’ve got to be a good sport. If she sees the slightest hint of Jason written across my face, the car will be taken away just as soon as it was given back.

  The four of us spend the morning tinkering with the final shot list for the photographer, the final song list for the band. Suzanne and I manage to get at least get some Pink Floyd and Stevie Wonder on there, instead of the long list of wedding-only disco hits that Mom pushes for. Lyla may be a lot of things, but she’s not a brick house.

  At one point, in a
fleeting moment of Lyla-ness, while my mother and Suzanne are upstairs deciding on which pearls Lyla should wear for the wedding, my sister looks at me, gives me a quick, fast hug. When she pulls back, she smiles softly. “Thanks for helping with everything. It’s all going to be okay.”

  I want to believe she’s saying that, no matter what I do, things will be all right between us. I want to believe that she feels bad about what she said before, that nothing in the world would tempt her to throw me out of the wedding. Because we are sisters. We are stronger than this.

  That’s what I want to believe, but as she composes her face and goes back to her binder, I doubt it’s actually true.

  IT’S AFTER ONE before Lyla leaves, before the lunch dishes are cleared away, before Dad abandons the yard work and comes in to watch the Braves, before Mom runs out of excuses to keep me in the house. I force myself to wait a bit longer, just for show. I sit in my room, lie back in my bed, and dillydally just long enough to prove I’m not going to run off to Jason’s the first chance I get.

  Innis texts while I wait.

  you ungrounded yet?

  I think about what to write, start typing, yes, but . . . but then I delete it, keep it simple: i don’t want to see you. And it’s true.

  At two, I head downstairs. Mom’s dusting knickknacks in the formal living room and rearranging the antique frames that hold shots of me and Lyla.

  “I’m going to the mall,” I say.

  “Which one?”

  “The one in Greendale.”

  She looks at me askance. “By yourself?”

  “Marisa is meeting me.” I’ve gotten so good at lying, I almost fool myself, my voice is so steady and calm. “The girl who came over when Innis’s dad picked me up.”

  “Okay.” I can see that she doesn’t trust me, not quite. But she seems to make a decision then, maybe based on my week of good behavior, maybe because she wants to believe that her baby girl wouldn’t continue to associate with people like Jason, maybe because I’ve never been the impulsive type, the passionate type, and definitely not the rebellious type, not until now, when I have a reason to. “Have fun.”

  I paste on the most innocent smile I’ve got. “I will.”

  The drive to his house is agonizing. Every traffic light, every crossing pedestrian, every slow granny in front of me an object between us, one I can’t wait to get past.

  Eventually I do. I park next to his truck, take the stairs two at a time, knock three times, wait.

  Milliseconds feel like seconds feel like minutes and hours and lifetimes, and then he opens the door, the drumming of my heart a percussive soundtrack. His face looks so much better already. The cut on his lip has healed, and many of his bruises have begun to fade. His left eye is still more closed than it should be, but he manages to give me a signature Jason look, a slightly lifted eyebrow, the makings of a crooked smile, a delectable blend of desire and understanding.

  “Hey.” He leans down, moving to kiss either my lips or my cheek. I don’t figure it out soon enough, and his lips land on the edge of my mouth.

  He laughs. “Well, that was awkward.”

  I feel achingly clumsy, but I manage a small smile.

  “Come in. My dad’s at work.”

  His words give me chills, a not-so-subtle reminder we have the apartment to ourselves. Seeing him now, after not seeing him for a week, after speaking with him for hours each night, there is want in every bone in my body, in the jillion hairs on my head, in the tips of my fingers and the pit of my stomach.

  He makes a show of offering me sweet tea, but I decline.

  We hover, strangely, in the living room, because what is happening is so new. And it’s amazing how you can know someone forever and then find this secret place, like a password-protected clubhouse, where only the two of you are allowed in.

  “You want to show me your old photos?” I ask. “I saw a box on your dresser.”

  “Sure.” He’s obviously grateful for the suggestion. Can this boy who has spent the last two years locked away with so many different kinds of people, struggling against more than I ever have and more than I likely ever will, be just as nervous as I am?

  We walk into his bedroom, and he grabs the box, pulls out a photo with a slightly shaking hand—in it, I have ketchup all over my face.

  “You sure were a cute kid.” He sits on the bed, and I sit next to him. “I don’t even remember this being taken. Do you?” He turns to me as he says it. I shake my head.

  His hand is trembling harder now, and I pull the photo away, put it back in the box, rest my hand on his, and trace the outline of his thumb and forefinger.

  “Have you thought about us before?” I ask.

  “Yes.” He says it without hesitation. “Many times.”

  “Me too.”

  We stare at each other, waiting to see who goes first. Sitting here next to Jason, I feel all of the things I never felt with Innis, as much as I tried to tell myself I did. With Innis, the butterflies were the challenge, the conquest, the wondering if someone so popular could possibly like me, the sheer appreciation of Innis’s looks, of his power in our town. But with Jason, there is no wonder. I know he likes me, it’s not that. With Jason, it’s just that if he kisses me, I feel like I’m going to explode. And if he doesn’t kiss me, I’m going to explode, too. His breath is hot between us, and I am hyperaware of my thumb tracing the lines of his rough hands. Of all of the different parts of him that I could touch.

  “This is kind of weird, isn’t it?” I ask.

  He looks at me, his eyes so penetrating, so steady, I think mine might burn up if he doesn’t stop.

  “You think too much,” he says. And that’s when he leans in.

  His kiss is relief. Soft and smooth, his mouth on mine; our hands laced together.

  I kiss back, and slowly, our mouths open. We find each other, and it is so sweet and delicious that I forget to breathe until he pulls away, and I suck in air.

  “Remember when you said it’s not where you start, it’s where you end up?” I ask.

  He nods.

  “What if I end up with you?”

  We dive back in, our tongues exploring, our lips forming soft, perfect shapes.

  There was fire and there was burning and there was a night that should never have been. A night that changed everything.

  But now, there are fireworks.

  After a minute, he pulls back, and his smile is wide and true.

  “What if you do end up with me?” he asks. “Wouldn’t that be wild?”

  Chapter 24

  ON THE WAY BACK TO MY HOUSE, I DO GO TO THE mall. Not the one in Greendale, the one I went to a lifetime ago, with a troupe of girls to help me choose a dress, but the small one in Bonneville, just a few minutes away. I head straight to the cheapest store and back to the clearance rack, just so I have something to show for my so-called trip that’s taken now close to three hours.

  I’m fingering a shiny black necklace with plastic beads, when a girl says, “Excuse me,” as she reaches for a pair of faux-pearl earrings.

  Her voice is unmistakable. Sharp, direct, and free of the overdone Southern drawl that Mom calls charming and I call fake. I turn to see Veronica standing beside me.

  “Liz.” She looks startled, then immediately regretful. Apparently a cheap pair of earrings wasn’t worth the cost of running into me.

  “Hey.” Veronica’s hair is thick and straight, hanging past her shoulders, longer than I remember it. She’s wearing a touch of eye makeup and a sundress we picked out together. Behind her, Alice, her twelve-year-old sister, gives a quick wave before turning to a bin of neon-colored socks. “How’ve you been?”

  “Fine.” Her lips form a thin line, and she doesn’t return the question.

  The worst thing that happened between me and Veronica was what didn’t happen. The big blowout was actually between her and MacKenzie, not her and me. We didn’t scream about how we didn’t want to be friends anymore. We didn’t rip up the notes
we’d written each other, or block each other online. We barely even traded harsh words.

  The end of me and Veronica was a slow burn, so slow that I didn’t know it had started until it was well on its way. And it started way before that stupid party. It started before MacKenzie, even.

  Veronica and I were always a ticking time bomb, because she never understood why I’d want to be popular in the first place. It’s not like she was too cool or artsy or whatever, it’s just that she never saw the point. The first time we hung out outside of class, early freshman year, I told her about Jason, how much I hated him for ditching me for the “popular crowd.” I really think I used those words. She just looked at me with curiosity and said, “Are those the people you really want to be around, anyway? They always have so much drama.”

  Looking at her now, I ache to tell her everything that’s happened, to get her practical Veronica opinion on it all.

  “We should hang out sometime,” I say.

  She waits a second before answering. “Maybe.”

  I grasp at anything to fill the space. “My sister’s about to get married.”

  “I know,” she snaps. “You told me when she got engaged.”

  And it stings, because when Lyla got engaged, Veronica and I were still friends. She looks back at her sister. “I should probably be going.”

  “I was serious. We really should hang out. Maybe this week?”

  She almost seems to open up, let me in. But then she glares at me, her eyes almost black. “I think you’re probably too busy.”

  And like that, she turns around, grabs her sister by the elbow, and walks out of the store as quickly as she can.

  MY PHONE RINGS at seven the next morning, way too early for a Sunday. I force myself out of sleep, picking it up groggily. The number on the screen makes me smile, though I still haven’t programmed it, out of fear that Mom or Lyla or anyone else would see it.

  “Hey,” I say. How is it that my fingers are tingling from nothing more than a phone call?

  His voice is happy and open. “Come outside.”