Free The Last Time We Were Us by Leah Konen Page B

apartment is filled with all the things I remember. There’s the tufted sofa. The Oriental rug. The pair of Louis the Something chairs that Mr. Sullivan never let us sit in when we were kids.
    “Have a seat. I’ll get you some tea.”
    I sink into the couch, still wary of messing up the fancy chairs. I feel like I’ve stepped back in time, back to before Jason did what he did, before, even, he ditched me. Like if we both stayed here in this room, it would all be okay.
    “Lizzie!” Mr. Sullivan rushes up to me. I stand up, and he wraps me in a big hug. “Gosh,” he says as he pulls back. “Haven’t you just grown up?”
    “And you look the same.” I laugh. From his perfectly clipped mustache to his bright clothing to his preppy bow tie, he is just the way I remembered him.
    “Come on, dinner’s almost ready.”
    “Oh.” I nod to Jason for help. I specifically told him I couldn’t stay for dinner. “I wasn’t really planning on . . .”
    “Nonsense,” Mr. Sullivan says. I follow him to the kitchen to protest, but I see the table set for three, the nice cloth napkins all laid out. Jason shrugs, a mischievous smile turning up the corners of his mouth.
    Mr. Sullivan lifts the lid on the pot, and the smell rushes around me. His famous chili, just for me.
    “Wow,” I say. “That smells so good.”
    “Your favorite, right? Jason remembered.”
    I look at Jason, give him a hint of a smile. “Yes. My favorite.”
    I END UP staying for dinner.
    I’d like to say it’s because my mother told me never to refuse something offered to me while a guest in someone’s home. I’d like to say that I don’t have any loyalty to the boy who hurt all of us so much.
    But I can’t, because it’s not true. I didn’t stay because of my manners or the cheddar-topped chili or even the familiar image of Mr. Sullivan’s bow tie. I stayed because of Jason, because when he looked at me with eyes wide open and pleading, like all he wanted in the whole world was this tiny scrap of forgiveness, I found I couldn’t say no.
    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