The Last Time We Were Us (21 page)

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“You
swear
?”

“Yes,” I say, as convincing as I can, because an ill-judged kiss aside, it is true. “I swear.”

He rests his hands in his lap, stares straight ahead.

When he turns to me, his face has softened. “I like you more than I’ve liked anyone before.”

It hits me like a thud in the chest, because I wasn’t expecting it. Not from him. Not tonight.

He leans in even closer, runs his hand through my hair. It feels so nice, so safe.

“You do?” My voice trembles.

A smile creeps onto his face. “I do.”

He’s just inches from me now, and I feel tingly all over. Vivid, alive.

You are so naive.

I put my hand on his chest, pushing him back. I can’t continue this without knowing—this question is just too big—not if I want it to be real. “I have to ask you something.”

Innis pulls back, looks at me warily. I start talking before I lose my nerve. “Jason made it sound like there was more to that night than I know. Like you, like you got the story wrong or something. Or went against what he said.”

Innis rolls his eyes. “
He
pled guilty.”

“He said that everyone pleads guilty.”

“Well, that’s pretty goddamn convenient.”

“I’m just asking—”

“Jason hates himself, and he sure as hell knows everyone hates him. Of course he wants to change the story. Especially since he’s trying to get with you.”

“He’s not trying to get with me.”

Innis cocks his head. “Sure he’s not.”

I rest my hands in my lap. “You promise?”

Innis’s eyes are unblinking; they don’t leave mine once. “He was my friend, too. But I stopped trying to understand why he snapped. It’s something that happened, that I refuse to forgive.” I hold his gaze, trying to read him, trying to make everything less muddled. “The worst part is that it’s messing things up with you.”

He doesn’t wait for me to answer. He kisses me then, presses his lips to mine, opens his mouth and takes me with him, far away from the movie theater parking lot, into our own special world, me and Innis, a world where all the other stuff doesn’t exist.

He pulls back. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

And of all things, I remember chem last year, sitting next to Innis while Ms. Philips explained Occam’s razor to us—among competing hypotheses, the one with the fewest assumptions should be selected. In other words, the simplest answer is usually right. In the midst of all of Jason’s vagueness and cryptic outbursts, there are news stories in black-and-white, testimony. Crime—and punishment.
He was charged as a minor and was sentenced to 24 months in a juvenile detention facility . . .
As much as I want to believe that it’s wrong, as much I’d honestly rather believe that Skip launched himself into the fire than think my onetime best friend could so brutally and viciously hurt someone, it’s a pipe dream. It’s not what happened.

Everyone already knows this. Everyone but me.

There are a lot of things I wish I could believe. That Mrs. Sullivan cared about Jason too much to leave him. That Lyla got to make her own choice about the boy she loved. That I am not the kind of person who ditches a friend when popularity comes knocking. But it doesn’t make them true.

“I believe you,” I say.

Innis smiles.

“So we’re okay?” I ask.

His voice sounds raw and honest: “Everything is going to be all right.”

I lean in then, pressing my lips to his.

But he pulls back. “There’s one more thing.”

“What’s that?” I ask, immediately nervous.

“I want you to be my girlfriend.”

The
yes
spills from my lips before I can think to say anything else.

W
E DRIVE TO
his house, follow the circular drive around the back, park near the basement.

Three nights ago, everyone was here, in all their finery, dancing to symphony music, and now, it is just me and him, boyfriend and girlfriend, on the brink of something bigger.

He fumbles with the door, and I wonder if he’s nervous, too, even though I know he’s done this before.

When it finally opens, he takes my hand is his, pulls me inside, shuts the door, and kisses me long and soft.

His hands trace my outline, his fingers reaching at the sides of my shirt.

“What if your parents come down?” I ask.

“They won’t,” he says. “They never do.”

“What about Skip?”

“Don’t worry,” he whispers.

He lets my shirt go, moves his hands back to my hips, and kisses me again.

“Are you nervous?” he asks.

“A little.”

“Do you want to stop?”

I look into his eyes then, barely illuminated by the moon and the porch lights coming through the windows.

What am I waiting for anyway? This is what I wanted, for it to mean something, for it to be with my 100 percent certified real-deal boyfriend.

And now that’s what I have. “No,” I say.

“Me either.”

He kisses me harder then, his lips moving to my cheeks, my chin, the top of my chest. I lose my breath in his kisses, his urgency.

His hands reach to the bottom of my T-shirt and slowly peel it off. He takes his off, too, and then he grabs my hand and leads me to the couch, and we kiss some more as he fumbles with my bra, tugging at the clasp. After a minute, I reach back and do it for him, my own fingers shaking with nerves.

It falls forward, and then his hands are on me and we lie down together.

I undo the button of my skirt before I can lose my nerve, and then he shimmies it down over my legs and my feet and I have this crazy thought that if I’d known this was going to happen I would have at least taken the time to reshave my legs.

But of course he doesn’t notice, and he unzips his shorts, kicks them off, and then it is him and me in our underwear, and I feel so silly, but he kisses me again and I don’t feel silly anymore.

He pulls my underwear off and tosses them to the floor, then drops his boxers, and I realize that the two of us have never been naked together like this before. But Innis doesn’t act like it’s weird—just like he’s really, really happy—so I don’t either. Then he fiddles around in the pocket of his pants, pulling out a shiny package, rips it open, and puts it on.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

I nod quick, afraid I’ll lose my nerve, reach up to his shoulders, pull him close.

We kiss again as I part my legs, then he presses into me, just a little at first, his hand fiddling around so everything fits right, his kisses never stopping, and then finally he pushes all the way. “You okay?” he asks.

“Uh-huh.” I wrap my hands around his neck as my breaths quicken, as my heart beats loudly, as our bodies move together, as connected as two bodies can be.

Eventually, he falls on top of me, his body beaded with sweat.

He kisses me soft and sweet, and then he pulls back and looks at me, almost bashful. “Was it okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say. I lean forward, kiss him on the lips again.

And just like that, I’m not a virgin anymore.

W
E PUT OUR
clothes back on and watch bad TV. When it’s close to my curfew, Innis drives me home, smiling like he’s just won the lottery.

I feel different and not different at the same time. Womanly and powerful and bashful and silly and a little relieved and kind of like maybe I should take a shower. But not dramatically different. Just a little . . . new.

Outside my house, he kisses me long and slow and then looks in my eyes like I’ve got the answers to a whole slew of questions he’d never even think to ask.

He tells me he’ll call me in the morning. And I smile, say, “Okay, good night,” and give him one last breathless kiss, because I know without a doubt that he will.

I
NNIS SENDS ME
three texts by morning.

good night, Liz

you were amazing

i’m a lucky guy

I text him back immediately.

you weren’t so bad yourself ;)

The tips of my fingers are pulsing, I feel so bold. Excited, too. It’s not just about sex for him. It’s so much more. And now that I’ve made my choice—finally, totally—everything will be easier.

I decide to go to Jason’s as soon I’m done babysitting. Tell him kindly, calmly, that Innis is my boyfriend now and it’s best I don’t see him anymore. That this secret friendship, this secret . . . whatever it is, is over. For real this time.

Mary Ryan and Sadie seem to sense my happiness, my resolve. It’s as contagious as their laughter, this in-control feeling, this power to create the life I want. The best things are out in the open, are ones you don’t have to hide. My mother said it to Lyla at the bridal shower, when Lyla was going on about how comfortable she was with Benny: “Pleasant beats the hell out of star-crossed.”

Jason’s truck is in its usual spot in front of the apartment complex, and I park next to it. I feel nervous, sick inside, but I know I’ve made the right choice. I’m finally doing right by my sister, by my mother, by Innis, by me. What I thought, just a couple of days ago, that I could forgive him, could go on hanging out with him even though all the closest people in my life never can, now seems insane. Naive, just like Jason said I was. Only he didn’t realize then that it was him I was being naive about, not everyone else.

My feet are lead as I walk up the stairs, like in the dreams where you can’t run or scream, no matter how hard you try. But I can walk, I remind myself, and soon I’m at the door, and in a minute, it will be over. And I won’t have to worry about Jason Sullivan anymore.

But my knocks get me nothing, not a shuffle of steps, not even an impatient “hang on.”

I knock again to more silence. Fear pulses through me, though I don’t know why. I knock louder, as my heart begins to thud fast and heavy. He’s probably asleep. Or in the shower. Or a lot of other things that mean you can’t come to the door. Things that are safe. Things that aren’t bad things.

I should turn around, come another time, but I’m afraid if I leave, I’ll never be able to say what I need to say. So I knock louder, pounding on the door urgently, trying to push away the crazy thoughts. What if he’s hurt? What if he’s trapped under a piece of furniture? What if he’s slipped in the shower and knocked himself out and is drowning in two inches of water?

They’re the sort of stupid fears Mom has about me and Lyla, the kind of paranoid thoughts I’ve never had about a single person before.

I try the knob, and as I suspected, it’s unlocked. Mr. Sullivan grew up in a small town just an hour or so away, and he never keeps the doors locked if someone’s home. I let myself in.

“Jason?” I don’t see anyone. “Jason?”

I creep past the kitchen and into the small hallway that leads to his room.

“Jason?”

A groan.

My heart relaxes, and I begin to breathe again. The fact that he’s okay is so important to me that I almost want to cry.

“Jason,” I say again softly, as I slowly open the door to his room. It’s pushy, overly intimate—I
know
this—but with Jason, it is hard to be proper.

I want to scream, but I feel tears instead.

He is lying in bed, his head propped on a pillow, one eye welded completely shut, purple and puffy, the other almost as closed and just as discolored. His lip is red, split, his face is fat and bruised—a rotten peach.

“Jason.” The tears are hot now, blurring my vision. “Oh my God.”

I rush over to the bed, then stop as his one open eye catches mine, cautious and wary. Almost unkind.

“What happened?” I sound sloshy, my words traveling through a vat of Jell-O.

He doesn’t answer my question. “What are you doing here?”

“What happened?” I ask again. “Who did this to you?”

He coughs deep, winces.

He sighs. “I know you know.”

My eyes narrow, and at first, I don’t. I have deluded myself so long, I have tasted sugar kisses and I have sunned on the lake, and I have agreed to be his girlfriend, and I have slept with him on the couch in his basement, but I do not know.

And then it’s so clear, so horrifyingly clear all of a sudden. MacKenzie to Payton, Payton to Innis.

Innis. Innis.
Innis
.

Everything is going to be all right.

That’s what he said to me. And this is what he meant.

“When?” I ask, as the tears come harder.

“Last night.”

I’m gasping, almost choking on my breath. The thought of Innis, the way he looked at me and told me it would be all right. The way he got what he wanted, but still it wasn’t enough.

“Don’t cry,” he snaps. “Just spare me, okay?”

“I can’t help it.”

“Go back to your life.” He sinks deeper into the bed. “Go back to Innis. That’s who you want. Those are the kind of people you should really be with. Not me.” He works to get the words out. “You and I are bad for each other.”

I step closer. “Don’t say that.”

But he stares at me, and all I see is anger. “How can you not see it? I wouldn’t be like this if it weren’t for you!”

“No,” I say. “I didn’t tell him to hurt you. I would never ever want someone to hurt you.”

He doesn’t even look at me again as he says it. “Just
go
.”

T
EARS FILL MY
eyes on the drive home. When I get to my house, I run up the stairs, not waiting for my mother to pester me with questions, to ask what’s wrong. I slam my bedroom door, shut and lock it.

I fish under the bed for the box, but my fingers hit my underwear, stained and stiff from just last night. My body feels weighted, full of rocks and things I can’t undo, but I push the feeling aside. My hands find the box, and I pull it out.

I grab an envelope full of photos and pour them on the floor. They fall around me like sad confetti. Me and Jason at the playground, me and Jason making sidewalk-chalk drawings, me and Jason with his dad’s chili on our faces.

I wouldn’t be like this if it weren’t for you.