Free The Last Time We Were Us by Leah Konen

“It’ll be fun. Mother-daughter date.”
    “All right . . . I mean, if you really want.”
    “It’ll be fun .” This time it comes off more like a command. I bet she read this in a magazine, a checklist of Mother-of-the-Bride duties. Don’t ignore your younger daughter—take her on a date to show you care! Either that or she thinks my half-chipped nails will distract from the decor at the bridal shower.
    She obviously has an appointment, and two ladies lead us to matching pink chairs. I set my bag on the floor next to mine, slip off my flip-flops, and dip my feet in the bubbling pool of water.
    Mom strongly encourages me to stay in the red or pink color family when I try to go for purple, so I pick a coral, and she gets a classic red. I look up at the ceiling and try to calm myself down as the woman starts to scrub my feet. I remind myself that an unsolicited what’s up isn’t grounds for a breakup, or even a non-breakup; plus, if he does still have feelings for Alexis, it’s all moot anyway.
    “So who were you texting?” I can tell she’s trying to sound casual, confiding and friend-like, but she sounds questioning, like a mom.
    “MacKenzie.”
    “Oh.” There’s a brief note of relief, but then true to form, once one worry is taken care of, she’s on to the next. “I thought maybe it was Innis.”
    The lady switches to my other foot, and I think about telling her I texted him , made a move, broke the rules, just to rock her world a bit. But before I can, I hear the ding ding sound of an incoming text, and I can’t help but grin, lift my chin a little higher, because I know it’s him. I just know it is.
    “Actually, I was texting him, too.”
    She beams at the lady scrubbing her feet with pride, like everyone must know about the famed Innis Taylor.
    “We’re friends,” I remind her.
    “Whatever you say.”
    We spend the next forty minutes in mani-pedi bliss. They coat our nails, and I feel fresh and clean and like maybe this Lyla-fest isn’t a bad thing after all. So far it has yielded yummy lunches and a manicure I’d never pay for myself.
    Mom leaves a big tip, and we head to the car. It’s only then that I reach for my phone and see that it’s not from Innis, that Innis hasn’t answered in over an hour.
    That Innis will probably never answer.
it’s jason, i want to see you again
    T HERE ARE A fixed number of phone calls you can ignore from a best friend, even a former one. For me, apparently, that number is three.
    Because when Jason calls for the fourth time that evening, I can’t help myself. “You are relentless.”
    I shut my bedroom door tight so my mom won’t know what’s up, sit back on my bed, and wait for him to tell me whatever it is that’s so dire.
    “Nice to talk to you, too.” For a second, I hear his childhood voice. The essence of it hasn’t changed that much, only deepened.
    “One word from me about you calling incessantly, and all of Bonneville will be up in arms.”
    “I’m sure they will be, as they will be no matter what I do. Didn’t Shakespeare say, ‘Guilty for a minute, guilty for life’?”
    “I’m pretty sure Shakespeare didn’t say that.”
    “Oh, must’ve been someone on the internet.”
    And—Lord help me—I laugh.
    He does, too, but instantly I remember the box under my bed. “I’m sure your probation officer or whoever wouldn’t be too happy about it, either.” My voice comes out half chiding, half serious.
    Jason ignores my tone. “I actually met with her yesterday. Nice woman, if a little quiet. Believe it or not, ‘Calling Lizzie Grant’ was not on a special list of things I’m not allowed to do.”
    I suddenly feel ridiculous. Of course he’s allowed to call me. What Mom and the neighbors think is appropriate and what’s legal are two very different things. “Why did you call?”
    “Straight to the point. You always were direct, even when we were kids.”
    “Please don’t talk like you know me. You don’t