The Last Time We Were Us (18 page)

I almost wish Innis would ask me to dance, but it’s for the best, I guess. The only dance moves I know are booty shaking and this fake tango Lyla and I used to do when we were kids with silk flowers clenched in our teeth. There’s certainly no bumping and grinding going on here, and I’m guessing most people know how to do the actual tango.

Instead, Skip and Innis and I walk past the dance floor and around to the side of the house, through a door that goes to the kitchen, where people scuttle around, refilling champagne glasses and swearing loudly.

Skip and I hover on the edge of the kitchen, while Innis heads inside, on the hunt for a six-pack.

Skip turns to me. “You having fun?”

“Yeah.” I lean against the side of the house, look up at the stars, feel the humidity that hangs in the air. “This is awesome.”

He smiles genuinely. “Your sister loved this. It was her favorite night of the year.”

I turn to him, but he looks away. “She did,” I say. “I remember her getting ready. One year, she had this black dress with actual pieces of mirror on it that I thought was pretty much the coolest thing ever.”

Skip still doesn’t look at me. “I remember that dress.”

Innis comes back out then, two six-packs in his hands. “Bingo!” he says. “Who’s a pro?”

Skip instantly changes his tone, rolls his eyes at his brother. “Don’t act like such a hotshot. You didn’t even get an opener.”

Innis pulls the monogrammed knife out of his pocket. “This’ll do.”

We sit along the side of the house, away from the crowd, just a hint of the music wafting our way, surrounding us like the humidity. Innis snakes his arm around my back, and Skip sits on his other side.

“Dad’ll be drunk within the hour, guaranteed,” Skip says, as he takes a gulp of beer.

“So will you,” Innis laughs.

Skip tips the beer back, empties it, opens another. “Yeah,” he says. “But people expect it of me.”

We sit there for a while, the two of them talking a lot about their mom and all the people they know at the party and all the parties that came before. It’s kind of like I’m not there, which is okay. Skip talks more than I’ve heard him talk since Jason attacked him, like he can actually be himself when it’s just him and his brother.

After Skip finishes his second beer and opens a third, he gets up, says he’s going to start watering down Mr. Taylor’s whiskey drinks.

Innis nods at him like it’s not a joke anymore, like this is something they actually do to keep up appearances. I can’t help but feel a tug at my heart as Skip walks away. He’s a good guy, I think. He could have been a good husband to Lyla. He could have been a lot of things if Jason would have let him.

I wait until Skip is out of earshot before I ask Innis what I’ve wanted to ask him for a long time. “Do you think it’s weird, you know, you and I hanging out together?”

Innis’s eyes scrunch up, and in that second, I can see that he cares about me, that my words have thrown him, even scared him a little. “What do you mean?”

“That your brother was with my sister, and then it didn’t work out. And now . . .”

“Oh,” he says. “That.” His voice shows his relief. He shrugs. “Some things just work out that way.”

“Okay,” I say. And then before I can stop myself: “So you’re not only into me because I’m Lyla’s little sister, right?”

Innis actually laughs out loud. He nudges me with his elbow. “I’m into you because of you, got it?”

I nod. “Got it.”

“
And
because of that dress, if you really want me to be honest.”

“You really like it?”

He turns to face me. “I more than like it.
Believe me
.”

I look down, run my fingers over the back of my chignon. “All of this is new to me. I’m not used to dressing up and going to galas and eating fancy French food.”

Innis just smiles. “You might want to get used to it.”

And I smile back, lean in to kiss him.

Because I
could
get used to this. Lord knows I could.

Chapter 17

I
T TAKES
M
OM,
S
UZANNE, AND ME TWO FULL HOURS
to get the house ready for the “best bridal shower ever,” as Mom has taken to calling it.

I’m a bit groggy as we run through all our tasks: covering a foldout table with a big white cloth, hanging feathery paper lanterns and tissue paper flowers, tying pink ribbons to the back of every chair and tacking up signs with witticisms like “The Future Mrs.” and “He Popped the Question!,” setting up the pinboard full of photos beneath the “Lyla + Benny” print Mom got made special at the stationery shop.

Even though my parents picked me up at ten o’clock sharp last night, even though I made myself stop texting Innis at midnight and get into bed, it still took me forever to actually get to sleep. There was too much to think about, classical music and expensive champagne and Innis’s sweet words, dancing around in my head like glitter in a snow globe.

At eleven thirty on the dot, Mom sends me up to get dressed, with a reminder to go easy on the eye makeup. I’m in the middle of adding extra eyeliner, just to piss her off, when Innis calls.

My hands throb with excitement as I pick up the phone. It’s the second time this week that Innis has called me, and it feels so old-fashioned, so chivalrous somehow. I don’t even think Payton calls MacKenzie, and they’ve had sex. Before Innis, Jason was the only boy who ever called me.

“Hey.” I sink back into bed and stare at the ceiling.

“I didn’t wake you, did I?” His voice sounds warm and polished, like the rich mahogany desk in my dad’s office.

“No.” It comes out breathless. I try again, stronger, more pulled together. “No, you didn’t. I had to get up early. It’s my sister’s bridal shower today.”

“I remember,” he says. “But I wanted to ask you to hang out tomorrow.”

I sigh. “We have this big neighborhood Fourth of July thing. I’m a required attendee. Unless you wanted to come over here?”

He laughs. “I’m a required attendee on my end as well. The day after?”

“Totally.”

“We can go to the movies. Like a real date.”

It doesn’t get much more real than our dinner at the French place, but I love that he’s calling it out now, treating me like a girlfriend.

“I’d love that.”

“Text me from the bridal shower—I want to know how drunk everyone gets.”

“Will do.”

A
COUPLE HOURS
in, and the bridal shower is a total success, possibly because, as Innis predicted, everyone’s drunk. Everyone but me, that is.

“Ooh, me, me,” Erica says, as I make another round with a bottle of champagne, her mouth half-f of shrimp and grits, of which I may have had three bowls while avoiding the painfully awkward lingerie exchange.

I fill her glass extra high until her eyes light up, pleased, but when I try to move on, she grabs my arm, pulls me close to her.

“How’s Jason?” she asks.

“Excuse me?”

“Your sister thinks you’re still talking to him.”

I pull away, aghast at the nerve of her. “I’m not.” I don’t care that it’s a lie. It’s none of her freaking business.

“Don’t hurt your sister,” she says.

Not that long ago, Erica was my ally. Lyla’s snapped at her on more than one occasion, stormed out of the room, and left me to patch things up. And now I’m suddenly the enemy?

“I won’t.”

“I’m only
saying
.” Her words are slurred.

“I know what you’re saying,” I say quickly, before moving on with my champagne, carefully filling Benny’s mom’s glass, face hot with anger, not like anyone is sober enough to notice.

Whatever Erica’s intention was, it didn’t work. Her words just make me furious. I’ve been practically running the Lyla Show for the last two hours, and all she can think about is this one thing that has nothing to do with her.

When I’m done topping off drinks, I let myself sit down, flit my eyes to Erica, who’s face-deep in her glass and doesn’t seem to realize how much she’s pissed me off. I glance to Lyla, instead. Christina, a girl she’s known since high school and one of the other bridesmaids, is leaning in close, talking drunkenly about marriage: “There is no one better to build a life with than Benny,” she says adamantly as Benny’s mom sits there and beams between sips of champagne. “He’s got his
shit
together. Everyone thinks it’s all about passion, but it’s about finding a good man who’s
got his shit together
.”

I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn to see Mom, holding a mimosa. “I’m glad to see you’ve finally sat down,” she says.

“You should take a break, too,” I say.

“I’m about to.” She pushes the mimosa at me. “One won’t hurt. It is your only sister’s bridal shower, after all.”

“Seriously?”

“I made it OJ heavy. So don’t get too excited.”

I take the glass, and she rubs my shoulder. “You know, one of these days it will be your turn to be the bride. It’s going to sneak up on me, I just know it.”

“Don’t, Mom.”

“Okay, okay. I’m just saying.” And she walks away to refill her own glass, wiping the moisture from her eyes when she thinks I’m not looking.

It doesn’t take me long to finish my first mimosa. I manage to top off my drink several times when Mom isn’t looking, and the party kind of blends together after that. Mom gets properly tipsy—she even starts hiccupping at one point—Lyla turns one of the gift bows into a hat, Benny’s mom keeps going on about how
thrilled
she is to have Lyla as a daughter-in-law, Suzanne breaks into the Peach Schnapps in one of the upper cabinets, and everyone takes a million pictures. We play a stupid game where we cover Lyla in toilet paper like it’s her wedding dress, Erica and Christina running around my sister like she’s a Maypole. At one point, Lyla corners me in the kitchen, her eyes wet and mascara drippy, and hugs me tight as she says I’m the best sister ever, and she means it and she’s sorry if she’s been a little crazy lately, but it’s her only wedding, and she loves Benny so much, and she wants it to be perfect, and she couldn’t do anything without me by her side. I’m her everything, she says, and then she repeats it. My
everything.

My spelling gets progressively worse as I text Innis throughout the afternoon. I tell him I’m a little tipsy and that Lyla is crying. He says that he’d expect nothing less and can’t wait for our date. I don’t tell him that a member of the bridal party has practically staged a champagne-fueled intervention with me.

The girls begin to peter out around six, many of them abandoning their cars, their husbands and fiancés and boyfriends playing designated driver for the night. Mom goes upstairs to lie down, leaving a huge mess, which is completely unlike her, and I take a little too much delight in the fact that she’s so drunk.

Dad, who spent the day with his Fantasy NASCAR buddies, comes home shortly after, just in time to see Lyla climb the stairs to her old room with errant pieces of toilet paper still hanging from her clothes and the bow secured haphazardly to her head.

Back in my room, I stumble out of my dress and into normal clothes. I stare at myself in the mirror, and I try to remember if my one mimosa had three or four top-offs.

I count backwards from ten until I think I’m at least somewhat presentable for Dad, and then I head back downstairs to help him clean up.

“You guys had quite the rager, eh?” He tosses two bottles of champagne into the recycling bin, and the clanking makes my head ache. “Looks like you had a little something, too.”

“Mom made me a mimosa. Just one.”

He gives me a questioning look, then shrugs. “I guess it is a special occasion.”

“Can I help?”

“I don’t know, can you?”

I’m not too drunk to know the answer he wants. “I’d like to help. May I?”

He smiles, having succeeded in the great Dad battle.

“Want to start taking some of the decorations down?” He gestures to the pinboard. “I’m not sure where all these photos go.”

“No problem.”

I pull down the signs Mom made, careful not to bend or rip them, and I take the pinboard back to the photo album shelf in the living room. I file Lyla’s baby pictures, the only time she was ever chubby, and the ones of her as a toddler, blond ringlets framing her face. I see her at five, arm around little Erica, both of them holding up shakily cut paper hearts.

The photo on the last page surprises me. It’s Jason and me, posed on our bikes, ready to cause mischief. I removed all the photos of Jason a couple of years ago, tucked them in my box just in case Mom decided to delete him from our family history, but I must have missed this one.

Mom still doesn’t know what we did that day. That we rode fifteen miles to the next town, blew almost all of Jason’s birthday money at this big arcade that had just opened. We drank so much soda and ate so much funnel cake that Jason actually puked, and a soccer mom asked us if we wanted her to call our parents. Thinking back, Mom probably would have driven us to the arcade if we’d only asked, but we knew we weren’t allowed to bike on the highway. It was the danger of it that made it so fun.

I wonder what clandestine trips Lyla and Erica went on—they must have their secrets, everyone does. I wonder if they ever reminisce about the stuff they did when they were kids.

Lyla still has Erica. Going to her bridal fittings, wrapping her up in toilet paper, watching her live her Lyla life, butting in where she doesn’t belong.

Does Erica even realize that the same dedication she feels to Lyla, the kind that allows her to drunkenly confront me, is the kind I feel to Jason, even now? That when you’ve known someone so long, it’s hard not to stick up for them?

When I’m done putting all the photos back, I head into the kitchen, my head still buzzing with champagne. Dad’s popping the last of the bottles into the bin. I set the pinboard on the table.

“I’ve got the rest of this,” he says. “Relax.”

But I stand in front of the table, tugging on the hem of my shirt.

“What is it?” he asks.

“I just wondered . . .” My voice drops off.