The Last Time We Were Us (19 page)

He sets the recycling bin down, gives me his full attention. “Wondered what?”

I spit the words out before I lose my nerve. “Do you think that Jason really did what they say he did? Like exactly how they said it?”

It catches Dad off guard, and I see a hint of fear slice across his face.

“It’s not because I want to hang out with him,” I say. “I just want to know. And I can’t talk to Mom or Lyla.”

The fear leaves his face, replaced with relief. He sits down. “I don’t know,” he says. “Honestly, it shocked me, too. And sometimes people do take pleas who aren’t guilty. But a lot of people take them when they are . . .”

“But you think there’s a chance?” I ask.

Dad shrugs. “Do I wish that Danny hadn’t moved away and that Jason hadn’t gone to juvie? Do I wish we were all hanging out at the cookout tomorrow? Of course. But good kids do bad things all the time. The
what if
s and
maybe
s only get you so far.”

“But there is a maybe for you?” I ask hopefully.

“I didn’t say that,” he says.

“I know.” I give him my most innocent smile. “Thanks, Dad.”

The truth is he didn’t have to. I know that, deep down, he feels the way I do. That there has to be more to the night than what we know, that Jason would never do something so awful.

I wait until I’m back up in my room to text him.

Six little words.

i want to be your friend

I
WAKE UP
feeling all kinds of crappy.

I’m not sure if it’s from the hangover or the text I sent to Jason, the one that seemed like such a good idea after a few glasses of champagne.

Mrs. Ellison told me she didn’t need me for the Fourth of July, and I thank my lucky stars I don’t have to babysit in this condition. I brush my teeth, splash water on my face, and throw on my most comfortable pair of shorts and a tank top. In the hallway, I pass Lyla’s old room, hear her snoring lightly through the door.

Downstairs, the kitchen is relatively spotless, but there’s a plate of half-eaten grits in the sink and a bottle of Advil on the counter, and Mom is splayed out on the couch—looks like she’s hungover, too. Dad sits at the table, flipping through the
New York Times
, completely amused that we’re all in such a sorry state.

“Happy Fourth,” Mom says. There’s a forced cheer in her voice, and her face is, thankfully, lacking in judgment. “You have fun yesterday?”

“Uh-huh.”

“As much fun as Mom?” Dad asks, bursting into laughter before eating another piece of bacon.

“Greg,” Mom says. “Please.”

“Oh, come on. It’s rare to see you out of form.”

I have to agree with him.

The pot is still warm on the stove, and I scoop some grits onto a plate, grab two Advil. I park on the couch next to her. She’s watching a black-and-white movie with lots of tap dancing.

After the credits roll and the old guy on the TV introduces the next classic movie, Lucy paws at my mother, eager for her morning walk.

“I can take her,” I say.

“It’s all right.” Mom slowly hoists herself up and grabs the leash, Lucy hot on her heels. “Some fresh air will do me good.”

Dad folds the paper, takes his dish to the sink. “I guess I should start setting the grill up. We don’t want any of the neighbors to take the best sidewalk spot. Gen, have you seen the mesquite chips? They weren’t out back.”

“They’re in the garage somewhere,” Mom says. “I put them in last time it rained.”

“On it,” Dad says with a wink and a laugh. He’s enjoying this way too much.

They aren’t gone five minutes when I hear a knock on the back door. I’m willing to bet Mom forgot the dog bags, and I pull myself away from the impeccably dressed woman on-screen.

My pulse quickens as I see the face through the back door.

I whip it open as fast as I can. “What are you doing here?”

“I was cleaning up the rest of the paint stuff, and I saw your mom go out and your dad head to the garage,” he says. “And you’re pretty much hit or miss with texts.”

“My dad’s like, right there.” I press my hand to Jason’s chest, pushing him back. “And Lyla’s upstairs. It’s the Fourth of July. Everyone’s out.”

He backs up, and I follow him, not bothering to put shoes on, from my yard to his and through the back door and into his house before anyone can see.

He’s got this big grin, and I swear he’s about to laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“You always were afraid of getting in trouble,” he says. “Always averse to risk.”

The kitchen smells like paint, but it looks finished, beige and boring just like he wanted. I cross my arms in front of me. “With good reason. If anyone sees you, I will seriously be hearing about it from my family for the next week, at least.”

“Relax. No one will know.” He used to say that same stupid thing when we were kids, when we pawed through my father’s off-limits desk, stealing binder clips and manila folders so we could play office.

“Whatever,” I say. “Like it matters to you.”

He looks at me and reaches a hand to my cheek, pinching it at the fleshiest part. “When you’re mad, you look like you did when you were a kid. Chipmunk cheeks and all.”

I push his hand away. “Stop it. I’ve always hated my chubby cheeks.”

“What?” he asks. “They’re a good thing. Youthful effervescence.”

“They make me look like a little girl with pigtails and bubblegum.”

He changes the subject. “If I can’t come to your house, then you’re going to have to come to mine.”

I stare at him.

“You said you wanted to be friends.”

“I know. But I was tipsy. It was during my sister’s bridal shower. I didn’t really think it through.”

He shifts his weight, tilts his head towards me. “I wanted to tell you, I’m happy for her.”

I want to tell him that he shouldn’t talk about my sister, that he broke her in a way that is unfixable, but I can tell by the look in his eyes that he means it, that what he did to Lyla is something he lives with to this day.

That’s the thing about old friends—you learn to read their looks, trust your own judgment.

When I don’t say anything, he shoves his hands in his pockets, shrugs. “Come by for a bit. You wouldn’t have texted me if you didn’t want to see me.”

He’s right. In spite of everything, I like being around him, having him back in my life. When we’re together, I’m totally me. All the things that divide us—how much people hate him, how he hurt me in middle school—seem so superficial. Maybe it’s because I was there when his mom left, or because Lyla and I were so different as kids. Maybe it’s the marathon nature of our friendship, the countless seconds we’ve spent together, all of those seconds adding up to something that’s impossible to break. All I know is that when I’m with him, I feel comfortable, safe. Is that actually so wrong?

I would never ask Innis or Skip or even Lyla to forgive him, but does that mean that I can’t?

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll come over. When?”

His face brightens. “How about now?”

“There’s the block party,” I say. “And I thought you were working on the house.”

“If I remember correctly, it doesn’t start until two at the earliest. And that’s if you want to be one of the awkward first ones there. Plus, I need a break.”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on,” he says. “We used to spend every Fourth together. What’s one more?”

Chapter 18

B
ACK AT THE HOUSE,
I
PULL NEW CLOTHES OUT AND
hop in the shower.

When I’m out and dressed again, I leave a note for my mother—
running to Target for sparklers, be back later—
and head to Jason’s. It doesn’t take long to get to his complex, and I park next to his truck, head slowly up the three flights of stairs.

“You didn’t change your mind,” Jason says as he opens the door.

I raise my eyebrows. “Should I have?”

He shakes his head, and I follow him inside.

“Is your dad here?” I ask.

“He’s working. The flower shop pays time and a half on holidays.”

“Oh,” I say. “Good.” Not that many years ago, Mr. Sullivan would have been perfecting his famous vinegar barbecue sauce, a must-have accompaniment to Dad’s ribs.

“I’ll give you the proper tour,” Jason says, leading the way. “Here’s the kitchen.” He gestures to the right. “And here’s the
great
room”—he gestures to the left—“we like to think of it as the living room, family room, and dining room all rolled into one.” He walks down the hall.

“And here.” He heads through an open door. “Is my room.”

I follow him in slowly, cautiously, because being alone with him in his room feels somehow dangerous, illicit.

The room itself doesn’t look like much more than a prison cell, especially compared to the rest of the apartment, which got an ample dose of Mr. Sullivan’s good taste. There’s a dresser and a bookcase, a small desk in the corner, a box of photos sitting on top. Worn jeans spill out of a hamper mixed with T-shirts and checkered boxers. It feels way too intimate to see his laundry, even though when I was little, I must have seen him naked a hundred times.

The walls are lined with the same movie posters he used to have, but they remind me of a time before, when he didn’t want to be my friend anymore, so I scan the bookshelf instead. What I see is a veritable library of impressive books—
A Clockwork Orange
,
To the Lighthouse
, even
Crime and Punishment
.

“You’ve got a lot of books.” I try not to sound too surprised.

“They let people send as many books as they want,” he says. “The library was a little limited, so my dad started shopping all the bargain bins.”

“Dostoevsky?” I ask. “Don’t tell me you actually got through
Crime and Punishment
?” Because I didn’t. Neither did Veronica. I don’t think either of us made it more than one hundred pages in.

He pulls it out, weighs it in his hands, puts it back. “It’s actually fairly easy to get through when you have a lot of time. Plus, the subject matter made it pretty apt.”

“Wait. You still
have
this?” I whip the book off the shelf:
Seamus Sheridan and the Case of the Missing Moped,
a chapter book with illustrations and enough clues to figure out the mystery on your own. Once we had it all worked out, we spent many afternoons going through the book, reenacting our favorite scenes.

“Hold on.” He moves for the closet. “You’ll love this.”

He reaches to the top, pulls down an old shoebox. He opens the lid and starts flipping through. “I was looking at my old papers and stuff and I found these.”

He hands me a roll of stickers.
Seamus Sheridan’s Private Eye Club.

“Oh man, I can’t believe you kept these.” We’d completed an online mystery game and given out way too much of our personal information to earn these puppies.

“Pretty funny, huh? They were a big deal back then.”

“They were.” I hand the stickers back to him and he drops them in the box.

“Remember when we biked to the arcade in Greendale?”

“I remember puking my guts out,” he says with a laugh. “Why?”

“I found a photo from that day. We took all these pictures out for Lyla’s bridal shower, and I was putting them back in the albums, and there we were, on our bikes.”

“Man, I loved that bike,” he says.

“I still have mine. It’s in the garage. My mom can’t bear to get rid of stuff like that.”

“My dad’s the opposite.” He sits down on the bed. “Got rid of almost everything when he moved here, except for nineteenth-century furniture, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Why did your dad move anyway?” I sit down next to him. “He never said anything to me, you know. The sign was just up and the moving truck was out front all of a sudden.”

Jason leans back on his hands. “Let’s just say there wasn’t anything left for him on Dogwood Street.”

“You mean because everyone instantly shunned him?” I feel shame and guilt, even though it’s only mine by proxy. “My mom wouldn’t even let him finish decorating our house.”

Jason’s laugh sounds forced. “You don’t feel bad about that, do you? I didn’t even know about that.”

I stare at the opposite wall. “I don’t know. I don’t think it was her greatest moment.”

Jason rests his hands on his knees. “He did lose a lot of clients, I know that from repeated asking. But it was more that he couldn’t handle the notoriety. He’d always been the star of the town, and then it was like either they saw him as some kind of archnemesis of the people who fund the library and the high school and everything, or they wanted some kind of tabloid-y insight on how someone could lose it all.”

“That sounds pretty awful,” I say.

“It was,” he says. “And I have to live with the fact that it was all my fault.”

I want, so very badly, to scoot closer to Jason, wrap an arm around him, tell him all the things you’re supposed to say when everything goes to hell—that it’s not his fault, that these kinds of things just happen, that there was no way he could have prevented it—but it wouldn’t be true, would it?

Jason picks up the roll, fingers a Seamus Sheridan sticker, peeling it back and resticking it. “You know my dad gave me a lot of crap when I stopped hanging out with you.” He leans closer to me. “He said that friends are really important, and you can’t take them for granted, and I said that I was tired of spending all my time with a girl I’d known forever.”

I wince, because even though I’ve wanted us to talk about this, even though the fact that it was
never
talked about drove me crazy for a while, the thought of it all still hurts, right in my gut. “Is this the start of an apology?”

“I’m trying to explain. He said that you wouldn’t just stick around if I didn’t make some effort.”

Veronica comes instantly to mind, how I needed to hear that advice, too.

“But you’re here,” he continues. “After everything that happened, you’re here, giving me another chance. And that makes me the luckiest guy on earth.”

I look down at my hands, embarrassed. As sweet as Innis is, this is the kind of thing he’d never say, because everyone knows that in that pairing, I’m the lucky one, not him.