The Last Time We Were Us by Leah Konen Page B

with a signature dad chuckle.
    She ignores him.
    I butter a roll and decide to put her out of her misery. “Something wrong, Mom?”
    She sips her water, I sip mine, and I count to five. Wait for it. Wait for it . . .
    Right on cue, she drops her fork on the plate, sits up straight, and leans forward in her chair. “There was a truck at the Sullivans’ today.”
    I freeze, because she’s a mom, and moms don’t miss a thing. I wait for her to tell me that she was awake for all of it, that she saw me go over there, that she knows .
    “Did you see it?” she asks me with genuine, suspicion-free curiosity.
    I shake my head just a bit too fast. Bad move. It gives her pause.
    “It was probably the realtor,” Dad says, shoving more steak in his mouth.
    “It was not the realtor,” she says. “Realtors do not drive trucks. ”
    “Maybe someone’s doing work on the house. It needs it.”
    She ignores him. “Don’t you remember Danny was talking about getting a truck right before he moved, to cart furniture around to clients?”
    He stares at her. “Yeah. So what?”
    “I think it’s his.”
    I eat another bite slowly, watching the volley, thanking my lucky stars that neither of them is hitting the ball over to me.
    “It’s his house,” Dad says. “Doesn’t he have a right to be over there?”
    “And what if it’s his son? Creeping around, fresh out of prison, near our daughter?”
    She looks straight at me, and I wonder if she’s playing a game, seeing if I’ll crack. She used to do it when she knew Lyla was lying to her. When she was out late with Skip or had the slightest tinge of alcohol on her breath, enough for a mom to notice. “He hasn’t tried to contact you, has he, Elizabeth?”
    I blink once, twice, three times. “No,” I say, slow and steady as I can muster.
    “I don’t even understand how he got out,” she says. “Parole.” She rolls her eyes like “parole” is meaningless, a trophy they give out on Field Day in elementary school. “And if he did anything; if he tried to contact you at all, you can tell me.”
    If she knew I’d gone over there, knew I’d seen him this morning, she’d freak.
    “If I see him over here, I’m calling the police.”
    “For what?” I ask.
    “I don’t know. Loitering.”
    “At his own house?”
    She drops her knife this time. “Are you defending him?”
    “Genevieve,” Dad says. “You can’t very well prevent the boy from visiting his own house.”
    “You, too?” She shoots death eyes at Dad. “After what he did to Lyla?”
    He breathes deep, and I can tell he just wants to eat his steak in peace. “Lyla has Benny now. Things happen for a reason.”
    If that’s not the most effed-up logic I’ve ever heard, I don’t know what is.
    “So?” Mom snaps. “Skip was her first love. She could have had . . .” She stops herself, and I wonder if she’s thinking Lyla could have had Skip, or that she could have had Crawford Hall. I wonder if that’s what she’s planning for me now.
    “She still could if she wanted him so bad.”
    Mom gasps, as if the idea of marrying someone maimed is unthinkable.
    “Plus,” I say. “ She’s not the one with the burned face.”
    “Elizabeth!”
    The phone rings. We don’t usually answer during dinner, but Dad leaps for it.
    “Lizzie.” He smiles. “It’s for you.”
    Dad knows not to call me Lizzie anymore; he wouldn’t have said it unless prompted. Mom looks my way, and I curse her for being so perceptive.
    I walk slowly towards the phone and carefully take the receiver.
    “Hello.”
    “It’s Jason.” His voice is heavy, like muddy red clay, the kind that sticks on your shoes for days.
    I want to say “I know,” but I stop myself.
    He clears his throat. “How are you?”
    “Okay.”
    There’s a silence as I wait for him to say something else. Meanwhile, Mom’s gone back to pushing food around her plate, ears pricked.
    “I know you couldn’t stay this morning,” he says. “But I was