Since We Last Spoke

by Brenda Rufener

  The paperwork preventing Max and me from speaking complicates my life. If only we could talk. In a perfect world, where Dad didn’t check my phone to see if I’d “broken trust” and contacted Max, I could ask Maxwell Granger why the hell he parades girls he barely knows through my driveway and into his house to do God knows what. This new hobby of Max’s, which conveniently started after Max and I were together, reaches far beyond the therapy of running. Why does Max shove his dating life in my face and then follow me to work? The juxtaposition of that boy’s actions makes me want to scream. I quash my feelings for Max, or at least try, but my thoughts meander long enough to imagine what he does with the girls he brings home. Things we used to do.

  Last year, before crash (BC), Max met me on campus and we explored places students weren’t allowed to visit without professors or permission. We found the rooftop weather station together. I knew it existed, somewhere, and I’d asked my mother about it for months, but Max was the one who convinced me to search. Like it was a hidden treasure.

  Max insisted we explore the entire science building until we located the station, and when we did, he said, “This would make the perfect spot . . .”

  “For what?” I asked as his cheeks blazed.

  Max shrugged. “You know.”

  I suppose I did. We’d been discussing it for weeks. Even made a list of pros and cons—mostly pros written by me—and had done some serious planning. The roof turned out to be the backdrop for our first attempt at sex. And by attempt, I mean no matter how much we planned, there was still a lot of poking and jabbing and I’m sorry, I don’t know what I’m doing. All my firsts have been with Max. His firsts with me. Then our world crashed and everything stopped. Our love, frozen in time.

  Five bumpers in front of me I spot Max’s Jeep and his staggered parking job. Either Max is trying to hide his vehicle by parking out of the lines, or the snow conceals boundaries and lines he didn’t see. Since Max’s Jeep is white, he probably thinks it’s camouflaged.

  I cut to the opposite side of the lot to avoid seeing Max again back-flat on the seat. I’m four car lengths from the Jeep when I hear panting, someone struggling for air. I slow my pace, pivot sideways, and crouch behind a car. When the panting stops, I stand and whip to the side of the vehicle as Max darts behind an oak tree. How incredibly cliché.

  Max wearing black running tights, but missing the runner’s legs. Two toothpicks swimming in a sea of basketball shorts.

  Since we were kids, I’ve poked fun at Max in an affectionate way, and right now I want to shout: You should have worn white, Max! Camouflage, even! You stick out in the snow like Pawtrick Swayze’s turds! Instead, I whisper, “I see you, Maxwell Granger. I totally see you.”

  8

  Max

  AGGI DOESN’T SEE ME. HOW could she? I’m fast as a snowshoe hare. I regret wearing all black, though. What was I thinking? My heart pounds as I watch Aggi. Her back is all I see, but my body floats like a bubble, and then, instant heart palpitations. Her head drops forward, hair spills across her ears and face. I can’t lift my eyes from her until I catch myself staring at her ass. I mean, it’s covered beneath her coat, so I can’t actually see it, but I imagine how superb it looks, and then I feel like I shouldn’t be looking.

  The small parking lot, layered with fresh snow, hushes, and Aggi’s voice whispers in the distance. A mumble, incoherent words, but enough of a sound to make me smile. Aggi, always talking to herself. I’d give anything to hear her voice again at my ear. I love you, Max.

  It’s impossible not to think of our last moments together on the rooftop of the science building, kissing, unbuttoning shirts, whispering how much we wanted each other. I tried to act like I knew what I was doing. Mister Experience. But Aggi knew better. All discoveries were made with Aggi next to me. First steps, first bicycle ride, first swim in the lake.

  I lean forward from behind the tree trunk and steal another glance. Aggi’s shutting her car door. The engine hums, but instead of backing out and taking the immediate exit on her right, she whips left and circles the long way around the lot. She’s headed toward me, lights on bright. What the hell is she doing?

  I leap toward the tree, my feet slipping on takeoff before sinking into calf-deep snow. Behind me, perched on top of the powder, sits my damn shoe.

  Aggi’s car creeps through the parking lot. My toes tingle from my soaking sock.

  I spin on one foot, shift sideways, suck in my stomach, and deflate my chest. The latter is impossible, of course.

  The car engine purrs, and I can’t tell if Aggi’s stopped or is backing up. I wonder if she saw me. A head-check can’t hurt.

  Gripping the tree trunk with both arms, I slide my upper body to one side, then shoot my neck out like a turtle for a quick glance. The engine revs. My eyes widen. Aggi hits the gas and chunks of snow and slush launch in my direction. A dollop whacks my forehead as I grapple with the tree, cursing my fingerless gloves. My hands slip, face splats against the trunk. My arms, weak from hanging on the retaining wall, refuse to hold and I fall backward. Instant snow angel.

  Snow caves around my silhouette as I lift my head and back, and climb to my feet. Aggi’s car fishtails out of the parking lot and onto the road. She couldn’t have seen me. My body moved before my mind caught up, but that spinout seemed on cue. As if Aggi knew I was hiding behind the tree. I pat my pants. The Aggi I know would never do something like that on purpose. An avalanche of feelings slams into me I don’t know Aggi anymore. It’s been months since we last spoke.

  9

  Aggi

  MAX SUCKS AT STALKING. AND that fall? Oh my God. For a split second, the urge to stop the car and help him out of the snow overwhelmed me, but now I think of Grace no longer living at home, of Dr. Nelson insisting Dad will one day blame himself and not me, and of Max bringing girls to his house nearly every week. I slap the steering wheel. Max doesn’t follow me because he still cares about us; he’s gathering information to use against my family. My stomach aches at the thought of Max reporting my actions back to his dad, then feeding information to their attorney. Sending Max a message was the right thing, the only thing, to do.

  I punch a playlist titled “Happy Shit” with my gloved finger and amp up the volume as loud as my ears will tolerate joy. What I’d give for a video of Max tipping over backward into the snow. I’d turn it into a GIF and hit replay a million times. Caption reading: I’m Max. Ex-girlfriend stalker. Oh, no! Shit! Oops! Splat.

  A lady next to me at the red light stares in my direction, her eyebrows scrunched and full of worry. I salute her. She has a sticker on the rear passenger-side window advertising her perfect stick-figure family complete with one dog and one cat. Animals who probably share the same pet bed. I roll my window down and shout, “That sticker belongs on the back!”

  Her window cracks an inch. “What?”

  “Your stick-figure art! It goes on the back of your SUV, not the side window!”

  She scowls and swats her hand. I crank my music and laugh, flashing a toothy grin while slamming the gas pedal as the light shifts to green. My tires squeal.

  Max, head to toe in his black running gear. What was he thinking stalking me in the snow? Even his black hair was recognizable. I sigh, shuffle the songs. The heater blasts as a slow, piano-heavy ballad starts, and my thoughts turn to Max’s face. His nose and cheeks pink from the cold air. Chin and cheekbones I used to frame with the palms of my hands and watch as his eyes searched for answers somewhere deep inside me. We could stare at each other for minutes without speaking. His dark eyes, seeking secrets I hadn’t shared, not stopping until he understood them. I mute the music and push back into my seat.

  At Cal’s funeral, Max stopped seeking my eyes. At the cemetery, he quit looking at me altogether. Now Max searches for me, but he’s not hunting for my eyes or my heart anymore. He has to be fact-finding, following his dad’s orders, doing what he’s told. Dad warned me to stay away from Max. He said, “He’s just like his father—out to
hurt us.” Maybe Dad’s right and Max is gathering information that will help his family win their wrongful death case against us. Would Max really do that? It seems out of character for Max. But I don’t know him anymore.

  My head hurts thinking about Dad and Max. I’m sandwiched between them. Nothing makes sense anymore. My dad hasn’t thought clearly since the accident. Every day he changes into someone I don’t recognize, and as hard as I try to muffle his words, they penetrate and hook me. Dad has become a wrecking ball that swings at me, at Mom, at Grace, and no matter how quickly we duck and dive, it’s breaking off hunks of who we once were. One more swing and I’ll be nothing but debris.

  And Max. The guy I once loved. Now a pawn sent to follow Aggi. Find Aggi. Keep a watchful eye on Aggi. Is that what you’re doing, Max?

  When I trace his steps, how he runs where I work, eats bagels where I eat muffins, slurps coffee where I sip tea, it’s obvious. Ever since Max’s family attorney sent a stack of papers the size of a small mountain, Max pops up unannounced.

  My father insists Max’s mission is to find something on me that will help his family win their case. Max’s parents blame Kate for killing Cal, and my parents blame Max’s family for killing Kate. Dad says, “Guilt kills quicker than a gun.” Though Dad’s words confuse me. Kate was suffering, as we all were. Max’s parents had lost their oldest son and they were grieving. Everything happened so fast. Cal was here and then gone in seconds.

  Kate didn’t know the storm was whirling their way. She didn’t know she’d hit sheets of black ice and skid down a ravine. She had no idea the car would roll three times and she’d live with the pain and guilt of killing her best friend while walking away bruise-free. My sister did not kill herself. Suffering ended her life. We ignored her cries for help. We lost sight of her as we mourned for Cal. Then the hushed voices at night in the kitchen turned to shouts in the driveway. Our fathers, preoccupied with pain and anger, even revenge. If I could rewind the clock, crawl into bed with my sister, wrap her in my arms, and tell her nothing was her fault, I would. I should have warned her about the ice storm. I had tinkered with the weather station earlier in the day but was still learning what the readings meant. Had I known what I know now about weather and predictability, I might have been able to save Cal and Kate.

  But Max had met me on the roof of the science building, and within minutes we were laughing and kissing, ripping off each other’s clothes. There was a goddamn weather station with alerts and indicators warning that Kate shouldn’t drive, but all I cared about was telling Max how hot I was getting by the furnace—a convenient excuse to take off my shirt, bra, pants. Had I checked my phone messages. Had I checked the weather station. Had I called my dad and demanded he pick Kate and Cal up from the concert or make them stay in a hotel overnight instead of driving sixty miles home in the dark while the sky shot needles of ice. I should have stopped Kate from driving.

  I roll down my car window and tilt my head into the wind. There is not enough air in this world for me to catch my breath. My head pounds, and I pull over at the last crossroad before reaching the narrow pine-lined road toward the lake. I snatch my phone from my purse and frantically type a message to Kate: How do I make them understand it wasn’t anyone’s fault? But even as I type, the guilt cloud hovers.

  As I sink into the seat, my eyes close, and I draw deep breaths. In my head, a ping sounds. Kate, texting me back. I tap the phone screen and imagine her message. Everyone’s processing things the only way they know how. Doesn’t make it right, I know, but please be patient.

  I press my forehead against the glass as gears grind behind me. My eyes pop open as Max bulldozes around the turn, gray slush slopping against the side of my car. His brakes tap three times, and the Jeep fishtails. He must have seen me. Will he stop? I sit up in my seat, wondering how close Max will get before we’re both caught. I wonder if he ever feels like risking it all.

  10

  Max

  I SWERVE TO AVOID HITTING Aggi’s car. Did she break down? Should I stop and make sure she’s okay? But I can’t. It’s against the rules. The lawsuit. Whatever you want to call that damn order that’s ruining our lives.

  After the episode in the parking lot, I’m unsure what Aggi might do if I turn around and ask if she needs assistance. Throw a snowball at my face? I gear the Jeep down. She probably pulled over to talk to Umé. Besides, Aggi’s lived in these woods since she was a kid. She’s more aware of safety and survival than me. But what if her tire was flat? I rack my brain trying to remember if I’ve ever seen Aggi change a tire. I feel it’s something about her I’d remember. Did her tire look flat? Did I even look at her tires? Shit. What if she’s out of gas?

  I’ll call Umé. If something’s wrong with Aggi, Umé will know. My fingers hover over the phone screen. The last time I asked Umé about Aggi, she warned me to leave Aggi alone or her father would blast me into the afterlife with my brother. She almost made me cry. Umé can be alarmingly blunt, especially where her duties as Aggi’s protector are concerned. But she is Aggi’s best friend, and I’ve known and loved her like a sister my entire life.

  My phone vibrates in my hand, and Henry’s name lights up.

  “Can you call Aggi?” I shout into the phone.

  “Hello to you, too,” Henry says in complete monotone.

  My words fly. “Seriously, Henry. I just passed her car on the side of the road. She might need help. Can you call her? Will you call her? You know I can’t call her.”

  Henry huffs. I possibly detect a moan, but then he says, “Yeah. Sure. But then I’m calling you right back. Important stuff to discuss, so be ready.”

  Henry hangs up as I’m turning onto the road to the lake. I slow down and glance in my rearview mirror, wishing Aggi would appear behind me so I know for sure she’s okay.

  Aggi and I used to race each other home from school when we weren’t riding in the same car. As soon as I’d turn onto the road leading to the lake, she’d be right on my tail. I’d ease up on the gas, act like I was reaching for something on the seat or dash, and let her whiz around me while she shouted from her window, “I win!” I grin just thinking about the happiness on her face. I’d jump naked in the lake, get chased by a wild turkey, or collapse face-first in the snow if it meant Aggi would smile like that again.

  My phone beeps as I’m circling the driveway we share with the Franks.

  I slam the Jeep into park. “Is she okay?” I shout into the phone.

  “She’s fine.” Henry’s using his dad voice. “Nothing’s wrong. Relax, Max. Aggi’s fine.”

  “Is that what she said?” My voice has become that of a worried grandmother.

  “I said it, Max.”

  “But you talked to her? You heard her voice? What’d she sound like?”

  “All good. No worries. Like I said, Aggi’s fine.”

  I exhale. “Thanks, buddy.”

  “Now, about this evening.” Henry leans on his survival skills—like abrupt topic changes—that hold us together as friends even after Aggi and I stopped seeing each other. Okay, after Aggi and I just stopped. For the record, we never broke up. At my brother’s funeral, I had a difficult time looking anywhere beyond my feet. Aggi tried to talk to me, but I distanced myself. I regret those actions now. Had I let her take my hand when she reached for it, things might be different. But I’d heard words—like “wrongful death”—my dad murmured to my mom, and everything began spinning out of control. But even then, I believe—eventually—I’d have found my way back to Aggi if her father had not threatened me. That night on the roof of the science building, as our hands found each other’s bodies, our love felt eternal. I fight to remember the feelings I had right before the calls came. But guilt fights, too, and is much stronger than me. Maybe Aggi and I would have survived if we hadn’t been having sex the moment my brother was killed. Maybe Kate and Cal would be alive if Aggi and I had never been together.

  “This evening?” I repeat back to Henry.

  “Join me
at Connor’s. Lake-kid party. That’s what Connor called it.”

  A groan unleashes. I’m not big on parties, especially those thrown by Connor.

  Surprisingly, Henry wants to go. Since I’ve known Henry, he’s tried desperately to change his image, what people think about him and where he’s from—the backwoods of North Carolina—so a party with lake kids doesn’t exactly suit him. Of course, it depends which side of the lake we’re talking about.

  But then the possibility hits me. “Do you know who’s going to be there?” I force myself to sound less eager, more nonchalant. If Henry picks up on an inflection, he’ll assume I’m hoping Aggi will be there, which is spot-on.

  “Everyone,” Henry says. “Connor invited the entire lake.”

  My initial reaction was to decline the invite, but now I’m intrigued by the likelihood of Aggi being there. Perhaps Aggi waved when I passed her on the side of the road. There were seconds when my eyes were somewhere other than my rearview mirror, and seconds are all it takes to miss a wave. I mean, she totally could have lifted her hand and I didn’t see. It would be plain rude of me not to go to Connor’s party and at least present a second chance at a wave.

  Henry clears his throat.

  “What time?” I ask, again with the nonchalant monotone.

  “I’ll find out and call you back,” Henry says. “But remember to bring a swimsuit and towel.”

  “No way! Connor’s polar-bear plunges are fucking ridiculous.”

  Henry laughs. “Hot-tubbing. No one in their right mind’s going into that lake. It’s supposed to snow tonight.”

  I chuckle, nervously.

  “So I’ll call you back. I want to see if Connor invited any girls from town. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if a girl who wasn’t from Walabash Woods showed?”