The Last Time We Were Us (13 page)

I remember it so vividly, the moment I realized we were no longer us. It was right at the end of eighth grade. He’d gotten taller by then, sprouted a few hairs on his chin—he was in a leather jacket he’d dug up from his dad’s old things and jeans that fit just right, that made him look good, cool. I’d grown, too, but I was still a kid, wholly unaware that best friends were things that could be lost. I was still Lizzie.

He was standing with Innis at the edge of a circle of guys and girls, leaning on a locker.

“Hey,” I said, walking up to him.

He barely looked at me. He almost pretended not to notice me.

“Jason,” I said.

And then he looked down at me—scratch that—he looked
through
me. “What?” he said, and the others turned then, saw me standing there, slack-jawed, picking at my thumbs, uncomfortable. I bet Innis doesn’t even remember that was me.

“What do you want?” Jason’s voice was caustic, annoyed.

What did I want then? I wanted us to still be us.

Innis stares at me, waiting for an answer.

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it like?”

But I don’t have a chance to answer, because the chef comes over then, sidles right up to Innis. “In-
ise
,” he says in a thick French accent. “I didn’t know you were ’ere.”

For a moment, I completely forget about Jason, because it’s like watching a congressman at a meet-and-greet, or an ad man from the nineteen sixties. There is a total and complete transformation. It’s not like Innis isn’t usually sure of himself—he is—but now he seems like a proper adult, making things happen with his drawly voice and ease of conversation. He introduces me to Jacques, and they look at each other like equals. The chef tells him to make sure to tell his father that everything is set for the gala.

It is so clear to me all the things that Innis could be, all the promise he has in him.

It takes a minute after Jacques goes back to the kitchen for me to come back to reality. “So do you just talk to French chefs about upcoming galas on the regular?”

Innis becomes normal Innis again. “
He
calls it a gala,” he says. “Because French people are weird. It’s just the library fund-raiser.”

“I see.”

Lyla was dating Skip for two full years before my parents finally went to the Taylors’ famous library fund-raiser. Dad complained about the expense for weeks in advance, and Mom said it was shameful that they hadn’t gone earlier. “Everyone who’s anyone in Bonneville goes,” Mom said about once a day. Dad’s probably thanking his lucky stars that Innis and I started hanging out after the tables sold out, sometime back in April.

“So do you actually get to go?” I ask.

Innis rolls his eyes. “My parents insist that me and Skip make an appearance. We usually stuff our faces and go back to the kitchen and drink beers with the caterers—they’re the only people who aren’t completely uptight.”

“Sounds pretty fun to me,” I say, grabbing one last fry. It’s the kind of thing my mom pines after, and to him, it’s nothing.

“You can come if you want,” he says.

I nearly choke on my fry. Here I am, hoping he’ll even text me back, and now he’s taking me to proper dinners and
inviting me to galas.

“Seriously?” I ask.

He shrugs. “It’s on Saturday. I warned you that it’s a bore, but if you want to.”

“Do I need a dress?” I ask.

Innis nods.

“Wow,” I say.

He raises his eyebrows. “Sounds like that’s a yes?”

I smile, beside myself. “Sounds like it is.”

I
HAVE NO
beer or liquor to loosen me up tonight, but I don’t need it. It’s just me and him in the dark of the car, only a few feet down from my house, where the streetlights don’t shine.

Our hands wander, and we kiss each other hard, the minutes going by way too fast. Eventually, the clock shines 10:59, and we have no choice but to stop.

“Get yourself home, Liz Grant,” Innis says.

“Thanks for dinner,” I say.

It’s only as I walk up to my house, past Jason’s empty driveway, that I remember about his truck. In all the talk of the party, it’s like I completely forgot to care.

I feel instantly defensive, like I let something bad happen without doing anything to stop it. If I weren’t so worried about Innis liking me, would I have had the guts to tell him that deep down, this is wrong?

I shake my head, pushing it away. It’s a small thing. The side of a truck, not the side of someone’s face. I focus on the library fund-raiser, all that stretches out before us.

Because the way things are going with Innis, I can’t afford those other kind of thoughts anymore.

Chapter 12

O
N
M
ONDAY, IT
’
S MIRACULOUSLY COOL ENOUGH FOR
the girls and me to actually enjoy the outdoors. I push Sadie while Mary Ryan pumps, her face bright and full of pride at not having to be pushed. Mild days are rare here, and we’re making the most of it. Swing set, big slide, tricycle—repeat.

I’m pulling Sadie out of the baby swing when Mary Ryan hops off, walks up, and taps me on the leg. “Miss Liz,” she says.

“Yes?” Sadie grabs onto me tightly. The girl is deathly afraid of falling. I prop her on my hip and hold her close.

“Guess what?”

“What?”

“We saw you on Saturday,” she says. And by the look on her face I can tell she’s excited.

“You did?” I turn to Sadie, grab a tissue from my pocket. “Did you see me?” I wipe the snot from underneath her nose. She nods. “Well, why didn’t you say hi?”

The words spill out of her mouth like a big bucket of LEGOs, clunky and jumbled around. “It was right after dinner, see, you were in the car and Mom said, ‘Look at Miss Liz,’ and then I said I wanted to stop and say hi, but she said we can’t because you were with someone special and then Sadie started giggling for no reason because she’s such a baby.”

I feel an unexpected sense of pride that Mrs. Ellison has seen me with Innis. “Come on.” I hoist Sadie higher on my hip and grab her sippy cup. “Let’s go inside.”

“But Miss Liz,” Mary Ryan says. “Who was the boy?”

Who was the boy? He’s the boy whose smile can make me tingly in a matter of seconds. The boy who sticks up for his brother, no matter what. The boy who wants to take me to the biggest Bonneville event of the year. The boy who texted me to tell me he had a great time yesterday—and three more times after that.

The screen door clangs behind us, and Sadie starts screaming. She wants more juice.

“He’s a friend.” I quickly pour some apple juice into the cup, trying to pacify her.

“A
boy
friend?”

“Maybe.” I beam. “Maybe not.”

Mary Ryan bursts into giggles, and Sadie finally stops wailing. “Don’t you
know
?”

Oh sweetie, I think. No, I do not know. Not for sure. Not yet, at least.

My phone buzzes. I pull it out, and there he is. Innis.

happy monday, pretty lady

My heartbeat quickens, and I don’t wait to text him back. Since Saturday, I haven’t felt the need to.

;) happy monday to you, too

Mary Ryan is looking at me like I’m the Queen of Sheba. “Is that your boyfriend?” she asks.

“Maybe,” I say again.

Maybe,
indeed
.

M
OM’S GOT LUNCH
set out in the kitchen when I get back. Potato salad, cold cuts, and cucumbers and tomatoes with lots of dill.

“What’s the spread for?”

She fiddles with the strings of her half apron. “I thought it would be nice if we had lunch out on the porch. It’s only eighty-two out, and there’s a breeze.”

She looks at me like a lost puppy, waiting for an answer. This funny thing happens to moms, right about when you turn fifteen. They start trying to be your friend.

“Sure.”

“Great. Grab a plate. I’ll pour the tea.”

“Half-and-half, please.” During the summer, our house always has two pitchers of tea in the fridge. One sweet and syrupy for Mom—the kind that’s led many a Southerner into the throes of obesity—one unsweet for Dad. I like a little of both.

I fill my plate with a slice of ham, lots of cucumbers, and a dollop of Mom’s neighborhood-famous potato salad, and head out front, taking a seat on a wicker bench covered with floral pillows. It took Mom four solid months to find pillows in a pattern she liked that you could keep outside. I kick up my feet on the ottoman and pop a cucumber into my mouth, watching as the bugs collect on the wraparound screen, looking for food or a long drink.

Mom pops out, a plate on her arm, a glass of tea in each hand, and forks and napkins tucked into her apron.

“Thanks.” I stand up to help her with the tea and grab a fork and napkin out of her pocket.

She takes a seat opposite me and smiles. “Isn’t it nice out?”

I glance at the thermometer tacked to the post. “Only here is eighty-two in the shade considered a good thing.”

“Only here, only here.” She takes a sip. “What do you know about other places? You’ve only ever lived here.” There’s this crazy little thing called the internet, I want to say, but I let it drop.

“It does feel nice.” I flip the switch of the fan behind me. “Thanks for lunch.”

She takes a small bite of potato salad, yellow and thick with eggs and mustard and Duke’s mayonnaise,
only
Duke’s mayonnaise. “So I want to hear all about your date.”

“Mom.” I lift a hand to block the sun so I can see her better. “I told you yesterday. It was great.”

I have yet to tell her about the library thing. I didn’t want to mention it when Dad was around yesterday. The very thought of it still annoys him, and I know he’s not going to want to pay for a dress. Mom says that Dad spends money like he’s still a broke college student.

Plus, it’s the day before Lyla’s bridal shower.

Plus, plus, and maybe this is the biggest plus, if I tell Mom, she’ll totally freak about it. She’ll assume Innis and I are officially dating, that he’s coming to the wedding, that he’s my proper Boyfriend, capital
B
. I don’t want to jinx it.

“So you’re going to be secretive?” She pouts. “Okay, okay.”

“I’m not being secretive.” I take a sip. “But what else do you want to know? We went out to dinner.”

“Only at the nicest spot in town. Was the food good?”

I nod, shoving potato salad into my mouth, and she starts talking about the first time she went to Cafe Rouge with my dad, more than a decade ago. She pauses every now and then to get a juicy detail. Did he open the door for me, what did we talk about, do I think he goes there often?

She’s deep into a story about her postcollege trip to Europe, a jaunt through Paris on bikes that she and her girlfriend rented, a restaurant in Montmartre that had roast chicken that practically fell off the bone, when I see Jason Sullivan pull the truck into his driveway, get out, and walk towards the front door. I’m far enough into the shade of the porch that I don’t think he can see me, at least not enough to catch my eye, but if Mom turns around, she’ll definitely see him. It’ll mean a rehashing of all those earlier fights, stern warnings, more questions.

“Liz,” Mom says. “Liz?”

“Sorry,” I say. “What?”

She adjusts herself like she’s ready to turn, follow my gaze.

“Innis invited me to the library fund-raiser,” I say.

As I expected, her jaw drops. Then it hangs there for a moment, before she shuts her mouth, pulls herself together. “He
did
?”

I nod, watching as Jason fiddles with the key. Could he go any slower?

“Why didn’t you tell me yesterday?”

I shift in my seat. “It’s the day before Lyla’s bridal shower.”

“So?”

“You don’t care?”

“Do I care?” she laughs. “Do I care? I certainly would care if you
didn’t
go! Oh my goodness, what are we going to do about a dress?”

“We’ll figure it out,” I say. Jason finally gets the key right and opens the door.

She ticks off her fingers. “Library fund-raiser, Lyla’s bridal shower, and the Fourth of July block party . . . you’ve got yourself a busy weekend ahead!”

“I know, it’s all at once.” I glance at the house, see that Jason is safely inside, breathe a little easier.

“Oh, I’m so pleased!” She sighs in excited exhaustion, puts her clean plate down, leans back in her chair, and runs her fingers across her bangs. “I’m glad he took you there. And the fund-raiser—the fund-raiser!—it’s so wonderful.”

My phone dings, and Mom looks at me and smiles. “Is that Innis?”

I pull it out, expecting it to be him.

everything is not what you think

I thank the good Lord that I never saved the number into my phone.

“Is it?” she asks.

“Uh-huh.” I nod.

She rocks back in the chair and rests her hands over her stomach, content. “When I was your age, we actually called each other. But I guess I’ll have to forgive him for that.”

I put the phone back in my pocket, force the words out of my head. I take another bite of potato salad, relish the good things, the not-Jason things.

New dresses. Fancy galas. Innis’s sweet words. The excited look on my mother’s face. Easy, open, screw-your-vague-secrets things.

The kind of things you’re supposed to ponder when you’re young and it’s summer and you’re sipping sweet tea.

M
AYBE THE TRUCK
was just far enough out of her range of vision, or maybe she was too caught up in gala news to notice, but we manage to get back inside without a word about Jason. Thankfully, she heads straight for the laundry room, where her chances of seeing Jason are low.

As soon as I clean up the dishes, I lock myself in my room, look at the text message again. Why is he saying this now? What good can it do?

I delete it before I can change my mind. I pull out the article, run my fingers across each line, and read the words again and again, reminding myself that these are facts.
Jason Sullivan pled guilty Monday night to assault inflicting serious bodily injury . . .
They’re printed words. Black and white. Etched in town history. As unchangeable as the scars on Skip Taylor’s face.