The Last Time We Were Us (9 page)

I eat a full bowl, and we drink tea and talk about safe things: what I like about school, where I want to go to college, Mr. Sullivan’s job at the flower shop just one shopping center down the road, how he still does some decorating in between shifts. We don’t talk about juvie. We don’t talk about Skip. We don’t talk about whether Mrs. Sullivan is still in Connecticut, if she visited him while he was gone.

Jason does everything—gets the cheese, refills the tea, clears the bowls, starts the dishes—and he doesn’t do any of it grudgingly, like I’ve been known to sometimes. Seeing him like this, it is so hard to remember he’s a criminal.

When I finally manage to pull myself away from the table, when I’ve thanked Mr. Sullivan for dinner, refused multiple offers of dessert and promised to stay in touch, Jason walks me to the front door.

“Thank you so much.” His hand lands on my shoulder, squeezes ever so softly.

“Jason—” I start, and I don’t even know what I’m going to say, but his name feels so natural, it just slides off my tongue.

He interrupts me. “My dad wasn’t just saying that. We shouldn’t go years again without seeing each other.”

I shrug his hand off my shoulder. “It’s not that I want to, but it’s not that simple.”

“You don’t trust me,” he offers.

I shift my weight, buying time. In the deepest part of my gut, I do trust him. But it’s hard to trust those feelings. They’re fueled by nostalgia, not reason, by the way he looks at me in this way that says, I know you better than anyone else besides your family, and maybe even better than them. Finally, “No. How can I?”

I shrink away from him, turn and fiddle with the door. After a moment, Jason helps me with the lock.

“I really think you should give me a chance,” he says.

I turn back to him, but I don’t know what to say. “Tell your dad thanks again for dinner.”

I’m already a half hour late by the time I get in the car.

Chapter 8

I
SLIP IN THE FRONT DOOR JUST AFTER SEVEN THIRTY,
smell turkey tetrazzini, hear Lucy’s pitter-patter as she comes to greet me, poking her furry head into the hallway.

“You think they’re mad?” I whisper to her.

There’s a lot of talking, and I ignore the weight in my stomach, hoping it won’t be a huge deal if I grab a plate and pretend to eat for a half hour. As I get closer to the dining room, I hear my mother’s voice, in its highest octave of stressed-out and put out. “That
must
be her.”

I meet Mom head-on, pushing through the swinging doors almost with bravado. “Sorry I’m late. I hope you saved some for me.”

One glance around the table tells me it’s not going to be that easy. Dad and Benny both stare at their plates, while Lyla and Mom look straight at me like cats ready to pounce.

Mom goes first. “Where have you been?”

Lyla crosses her arms in front of her and juts out her bottom lip, looking like she did as a kid, telling me I couldn’t have a square of her bubble gum. I curse myself for staying so long. We have to go to her dress fitting tomorrow, and Lyla never stews for fewer than twenty-four hours. Benny wraps his arm around her, gives her an I’m-here-for-you squeeze. She softens, just a little.

“There was traffic.” I plop down in my seat, unfold the napkin, and set it on my lap like nothing’s the matter. “Sorry.”

“No,” Mom says, and the rest of them watch her like it’s the beginning of a presidential debate. “Where have you
been
?”

“I told you. I was with MacKenzie.”

Mom throws her napkin down on the table. “Damn it, Elizabeth, don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not.”

She looks at Dad, like, somehow, this whole thing is his fault, and if he doesn’t
do something
about it, all hell is going to break loose.

I feel Lucy’s warm body lying across my feet, like even she knows I need the support.

“Elizabeth.” He summons the deepest, most scary dad voice he can manage. “Please tell us where you’ve been.”

“I said—”

Mom’s so frantic she knocks over her water glass. Benny jumps up to stop it, but she doesn’t even give him a glance. “I saw MacKenzie walking Rocky an
hour
ago. I asked her where you were, and she just shrugged.”

Craaaaap
. I should never use MacKenzie as an excuse. She’s too close.

My eyes flit around the table. Dad is helping Benny sop up the mess. Lyla’s nostrils are flaring.

“Why is everyone so mad? It’s just dinner.”

Mom drums her fingers against the table, waiting.

“I was with Veronica.”

“Stop it, you were not.”

She must know, I realize. Or else she wouldn’t be half so mad. Is she upset because she’s worried about me, or is she worried about what everyone will think?

“Come to the kitchen,” Mom says, her voice cold and demanding. Underneath the table, I hear Lucy give a little whimper.

“Why?”

“We need to talk.”

“Why can’t we talk here?”

Mom nods to the other side of the table at Benny. He’s back to comforting Lyla.

“He’s supposed to be part of our family,” I say.

Mom bursts out of her chair, walks over to mine, and grabs my arm so hard I have no choice but to follow her.

“Genevieve!” Dad says. “Come on.”

But she ignores him, and by the time we’re in the kitchen, I know that this is not about my safety. It’s not even about Lyla’s feelings. It’s about her social standing in this town, what Benny might tell the very parents she gossiped about yesterday afternoon. For her, that’s something worth fighting for.

“I heard you on the phone,” she whispers. “Dad said Lizzie. No one calls you Lizzie anymore.”

I take a step away from her, cross my arms.

“I’ve seen him over here, lurking around,” she says.

“It’s his
house
. You can’t lurk at your own house.”

“Keep quiet. Did you go to see him?”

“See who?”

She clears her throat. “Did you?”

“Geez, you can’t even say his name.”

“Jason!” Her whisper is somehow high-pitched, her neck muscles strained.

“You’re crazy.” I turn around without saying another word, blow through the kitchen door, and stomp up to my room.

But I know leaving is the only answer she needs.

M
OM AND
I don’t talk the next morning—I dash off to babysitting without so much of a glance her way—but after I’ve made myself lunch, after she’s meticulously done her hair, when we’re in the car together on the way to the fitting and the silence buzzes between us, she goes first.

“You know before I met your father, I dated other guys.”

“Uh, duh,” I say. “It wasn’t nineteen fifty.”

“Attitude, Liz,” she says.

“Sorry.”

She turns into the parking lot for the bridal shop, driving about three miles an hour as she always does in parking lots. “I just mean I’ve dated bad boys before. I think half the appeal was just that they weren’t right for me, that I knew they’d piss my mother off.”

It takes a second for me to realize she’s talking about Jason. Do I
want
to date Jason? Of course not. But in her motherly brilliance, does she know me better than I do?

“I’m not
dating
Jason,” I say, as much to myself as to her. “And I don’t want to. I went over there to see his dad.”

“Why?” She asks this with genuine curiosity.

“They used to be a big part of our lives, remember?”

Mom sighs as she pulls into a spot. “I know everything that happened with them has been hard on you, and I’m sorry about that. But Jason is dangerous. Look at Skip.”

Sullivan allegedly punched, pushed, and held Taylor over a bonfire in the backyard.

My skin crawls as I think of it. What would it take, what kind of person would you have to be, to do something so sick?

Mom turns the car off, folds her hands in her lap. “I want you to promise me you won’t see him anymore.”

“Mom.”

“Liz.” She turns to me, and her voice is calm. “I don’t ask a lot, but I’m asking this. Promise me.”

Maybe it’s the evenness in her voice, a polar shift from her tone last night. Or maybe it’s the box under my bed, the words themselves a kind of fire that destroys everything in its path.

But I hold her gaze, and I think I actually mean it when I say it. “Okay. I promise.”

T
HE BRIDAL SHOP
is small, a lot of swanky packed into a tiny space. Lyla and Erica are already inside, charming the hell out of the shop lady. Erica’s been Lyla’s best friend since forever, and I’m pretty sure Lyla really wanted to have her as her maid of honor, but, you know . . . sister code.

Lyla rushes to Mom and gives her a big hug. “I wasn’t sure if you guys were going to make it.” She glances at me, her eyes icy little darts.

“Don’t look at me. I’m not the one who decided to straighten my hair.”

Mom bashfully runs her fingers along the edge of her perfectly straight bob. “I hope we’re not too late.”

Lyla dismisses Mom’s words with a flick of her hand. Apparently if it’s not my fault, then it’s no problem.

“Good,” Mom says. She puts a hand on my shoulder. “Jackie, this is Liz. Liz, this is Mrs. Barton.”

The woman is old and Southern as can be, with curled hair, pale pink lipstick, and peach foundation caked over every wrinkle.

“Nice to meet you.” I reach out my hand, and she takes it, her knobby knuckles and expensive rings digging in ever so slightly. It’s the Goldilocks of handshakes, not too strong, not too soft.

“You, as well. Have you seen the bridesmaid dresses yet?”

“I haven’t even seen the wedding dress,” I say. “I can’t wait.”

“Can you save your sarcasm?” Lyla snaps.

I turn to her in shock. “I was being serious.”

Lyla rolls her eyes. I went to the first three dress shops happily, spent about nine hours of a Saturday bouncing around. But the one day I bow out is the day that Lyla finds “the one.” Erica was there, of course, and I swear Lyla’s going to hold that against me forever.

Mrs. Barton ushers us towards her, without missing a beat. We follow her down a hallway that leads to the back fitting rooms, Mom’s heels clicking against the hardwood floors.

“Are you excited?” I ask Lyla.

“I’ve seen my own dress before.” I’d clock her tone at about thirty-eight degrees, cold but not freezing. She zips through the pale linen curtain before I can say another word.

“It’s gorgeous,” Erica says to me, trying to ease the tension. “Totally Lyla.”

I follow them through the curtain and immediately see the loveliest dress in the world hanging on the door. Strapless, with about a million beads on the bodice, but somehow not too many. A silky wisp of a skirt that goes all the way to the floor and poufs out ever so slightly. Mrs. Barton turns the hanger around, holding it delicately, like the dress is a homemade pie, or a giggling baby, perfect but fragile all the same. A line of silk-covered buttons runs down the back, turning into more wisps of fabric that make the train.

“Wow.” I take a step forward.

“Don’t touch,” Lyla says.

“It’s perfect, Lyla,” Mom says, even though she’s seen it before. “Liz, isn’t it perfect?”

“It is.” I smile at Lyla, but she looks away. Screw you, Lyla.

I don’t notice the dress hanging on the next door until Mrs. Barton takes my arm in hers, leading me over. “This, dear, is yours.”

And I gotta hand it to Lyla, the girl has taste. It’s a rich navy, deeper than the baby blue she mentioned, with thin straps and a neckline that’s low enough to look good but not so low that it will terrify Mom. It’s fitted through the waist and flares out in a flurry of soft pleats. It’s not floor-length, thank God, and it looks like it was made for dancing.

“What do you think?” Mrs. Barton asks me.

Mom smiles at me, her eyes eager.

I glance to the dress on Erica’s door, see the baby blue I feared. Lyla changed the color just for me. “It’s beautiful. Thanks, Lyla.”

She ignores me.

Mrs. Barton gives me a nudge. “Try it on.”

“Try not to mess it up,” Lyla calls, as I head into the fitting room.

As soon as I shut the door, I hear a rush of strained whispers that could only be about me. Then the door next to mine opens and I see silk and Lyla’s bare feet through the space under the door.

I take off my clothes and pull the dress over my head. It’s very loose, but Mom said that’s how it’s supposed to be, that Mrs. Barton will adjust it to fit me “like a glove.” I pull the side zipper, step out into the open.

Mom’s eyes light up and get instantly watery. “Oh, Liz.”

“Looking good, lady,” Erica says. “That color is perfect on you.” I feel kind of bad for Erica and the other bridesmaids, stuck in that god-awful baby blue.

“Very nice,” Mrs. Barton says. “Come this way.”

She leads us to another room with three stools, pedestal-like, in the middle. I take the side one, and Erica takes the other. We both know my sister well enough to leave the spotlight for her.

“Amy,” Mrs. Barton calls into the next room. In seconds, a much younger woman with jet-black, asymmetrically cut hair comes out and smiles at me, a few pins stuck between her teeth. She proceeds to pinch every bit of me, pinning her way around my dress.

Lyla comes out then, and God does she look amazing. Mrs. Barton leads her to her pedestal, and Mom begins a rather steady stream of tears, only breaking to take pictures, her camera flashing against clouds of tulle and silk.

It hits me then: my big sister is getting married, and to a nice guy, no less.

I catch Lyla’s eyes in the big mirror. “Your dress is really awesome.”

“Whatever.” She’s trying to whisper to keep up appearances, but she’s not doing a very good job.

“What’s wrong?”

Her words come out as a hiss. “You know what’s wrong.”

“You’re upset about last night?”

“Ya think?” She crosses her arms.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “It was just dinner.”

“It was
not
just dinner.”

From inside the dressing room, my phone dings, and Lyla humphs, dropping her arms to her sides, nearly whacking Mrs. Barton in the process.