Us, Again

by Elle Maxwell

  “It really is.” I shake my head then reach up to cup the back of my neck for a second as I think. “I’ll start then … how are Cheryl and Mike?”

  I see her whole body relax slightly at the safe subject of her parents.

  “They’re good. Dad joined a rec league for basketball; he tries to make fun of the whole thing by calling it the ‘old dudes’ team,’ but he secretly loves it.”

  I laugh lightly.

  “I can totally see that. I bet Mike runs circles around the other old guys.”

  “Oh, he does. Mom says it’s like he’s getting to relive the glory days, being the team captain and MVP or whatever.”

  “And Petey?” I loved that Border collie. He never got tired of chasing a ball, and I was his favorite person because of my killer throwing arm.

  “He died a few years ago, actually.”

  “Damn, I’m sorry.”

  She shrugs, and though I can see a little sadness I can tell she’s made her peace with it.

  “He had a great dog life. I guess it was his time. It’s the hardest on Mom; she’s been talking about getting a new puppy soon. Every time I’m home, she and Dad argue about it.”

  “You should just get her one for Christmas—the second he sees that thing he’ll be obsessed and forget why he was against it.”

  Her mouth curves into a small but genuine smile.

  “I might just do that.”

  We talk for over an hour, staying clear of the heavy stuff. She tells me fun stories about her undergraduate escapades with her roommate Marisa, and I ask questions about what she’s studying (I may have done my homework by reading a few articles online so I wouldn’t sound like an idiot). She updates me on her older brother Barrett (who is thankfully deployed overseas—I’m sure he wants to cut my balls off for hurting his baby sister). We talk about the Patriots, and freakish new potato chip flavors, and how Grey’s Anatomy is inexplicably still on the air (she used to love that show, but tells me she stopped watching after they killed off some of her favorite characters).

  We sink into an easy exchange and it’s fun, comfortable, right. The same way that kiss yesterday felt—as though we’ve been apart days rather than years.

  All the ways we fit before are still there, the most important pieces that connected us unchanged. Now I have to make her see it too, and then convince her to give me—us—another chance.

  * * *

  Mackenzie

  We stick to safe topics, and for a while I give in to the comfortable familiarity, pretending I’m simply getting coffee and chatting with my best friend. Because now I’m forced to remember that’s what he used to be—not only my boyfriend but my best friend too. I think I blocked that out of my mind, as I did so many other things from back then, because it made the loss more bearable.

  I’m in the middle of a story from undergrad when the bubble of suspended reality suddenly pops and a wave of sadness hits me.

  “We were supposed to do all of it together.”

  That summer we’d looked at colleges together, prioritizing the ones that had shown interest in recruiting Graham for their football teams. We came up with a list, and in the fall we planned to apply to all the same schools. We didn’t have a clue that Graham’s parents would die not two weeks into our senior year and normal high school things like Homecoming and college applications would fade into the background.

  Graham doesn’t say anything, but I can see in his eyes that he’s on the same page, that he, too, mourns what could have been.

  The mood is solemn now, and I’m finally ready to move on to the reason we’re technically here. I remember all the things I’ve wanted to ask now that we’re past that terrifying initial intensity. But in this moment, there’s only one thing that I truly need to know, the question I need answered more than I’ve needed anything in my entire life.

  “Did you do it?” I ask quietly, my eyes locked directly onto his. “Did you kill that boy, Graham?”

  In the single heartbeat between my last word and his reply, everything stills. The very air around us is strung taut in anticipation. I am suspended in the rare awareness that this will be a critical moment in both of our lives.

  “No.”

  It’s only one word, but the conviction of his voice and the raw honesty in his eyes says so much more. I believe him.

  This new truth slams into me immediately and forcefully. It strikes a place deep inside me with the impact of a missile hit, and a wall crumbles.

  I don’t even have enough warning to excuse myself and get up from the table. The physical reaction is instantaneous and irrepressible.

  I burst into tears.

  Big, loud, ugly sobs erupt out of me from the place they’ve been locked away for over five years. A dam inside me, one that held back more emotion than I even realized, has collapsed and I am swept away by the ensuing deluge.

  I can’t get myself under control, can’t speak, can barely breathe. I rush to my feet and out of the building as quickly as possible, away from the eyes and ears of the coffee shop’s other patrons who have undoubtedly noticed my hysteria.

  * * *

  Graham

  I’m … fucking confused. I thought she’d be happy I’m not a murderer. The way she’s crying is so intense, I stop for a second and think back to make sure I didn’t accidentally say I’m guilty.

  Nope. I’m positive I told her I did not kill that kid.

  Before I have a chance to get over my shock at her reaction, she stands up from her chair and bolts out the door. That wakes me up. I quickly gather her stuff, throw our empty cups away, and go after her.

  It’s fucking freezing outside, and I curse under my breath as I think about her out in this without her coat. I’m already half frozen because in my effort not to waste any time, I just grabbed my coat and carried it along with hers. Luckily, she didn’t go far. I find her against the back of the building, bent over nearly double as her body shakes with the force of her sobs. I reach her in a couple of strides.

  “Go away!” she wails, hands coming up to cover her face.

  “Not happening.”

  I drape her coat over her shoulders then gather her into my arms.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” I ask as she cries into my chest.

  “It’s … I can’t …” She breaks down without completing the thought.

  I guess I don’t need to understand why she’s crying, not right now. All that matters is my girl is upset, and for the first time in years, I’m right where I’m supposed to be. Here to support her.

  “Shh, baby. It’s gonna be alright.” I hold her and try to sound soothing.

  Minutes pass as she keeps crying in my arms. When she shows no signs of stopping, it occurs to me that we might freeze to death if I try to wait it out until she settles down. My balls are icicles, and I’m seriously hoping there wasn’t a real-life scenario that inspired the phrase “freezing my balls off.” I need to get us both out of the cold now.

  “It’s too cold out here, Kenz. Let’s go inside.”

  “Not y-yet.” She leans further into me.

  “Baby, I’ll hold you as long as you want. I’ll hold you for-fucking-ever. Just let me get you someplace warm first.”

  As though reluctantly, she nods against my chest and steps out of my hold. Before we can walk anywhere, her eyes zero in on my thin thermal shirt.

  “You’re not wearing a coat.”

  I hold up the black lump of fabric still draped over one of my arms.

  “GRAHAM! PUT YOUR COAT ON!”

  When a woman orders you to do something while bawling her eyes out, you do the damn thing. I suppose I’m lucky she didn’t tell me to jump off a bridge or wear a tutu, because at the moment I’d do anything if it had a chance of calming her down.

  “Where’s your car?” I ask once I’ve pulled the zipper up to my chin.

  “Why?”

  “I’m gonna drive you home. You’re done with classes for the day, right?”

&
nbsp; She nods and points toward another building on campus.

  “In a parking lot over there.”

  I wrap one arm around her back and we walk together, neither of us talking. The only sound is her crying, which has now died down to quiet sniffling.

  We reach the car, and she hands over her keys. She doesn’t argue about me driving but simply folds herself into the passenger seat, seeming to be in a daze.

  I start the engine and turn the heat up then look over at her before pulling out of the parking spot. I run my eyes over her puffy waterlogged face. Still so damn beautiful.

  “You did hear me, right? When I said I’m not a murderer?”

  She lets out a little sound that’s half sob, half laugh.

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re … disappointed?” I prod.

  She laughs a little harder this time and shakes her head.

  “Of course not. I’m so relieved! I’m sorry, I don’t know why I can’t stop crying!”

  I bite back a smile at how cute her tearful frustration is.

  “It’s okay, babe. Just relax and let’s get you home.”

  11. JUST FOUR WORDS … BABE

  Graham

  We stay quiet the whole drive to her house. When she unlocks the front door she waits, silently holding it open in invitation.

  We take off our boots and coats, and she sits down on the big plushy couch almost immediately, pulling a giant throw blanket over herself (she has to be tired after all that crying). I remain standing in the middle of the room, looking around.

  I wasn’t sure I’d ever see the inside of this place. It fits her perfectly, matching her sophisticated academic side with just a touch of the edgier vibe she’s developed in the past five years. The space is bright with white walls (or cream or something) and colorful artwork hanging all over. There are plants everywhere and shelves with books … tons and tons of books everywhere, even on the coffee table. The living room is a big open space right next to the kitchen, with only a counter and some stools separating them from each other. The couch is tan, and it has a bunch of mismatched pillows and throw blankets all over it. I smirk when I see one pillow has a design on the front showing the outline of a hand holding up its middle finger. All peach and white and girly and then … badass. Yep. One hundred percent Mackenzie.

  After I’ve done my visual sweep, I make my way over to the couch. She pats the space next to her, so I sit down.

  And immediately face an onslaught of her little hands slapping me over and over—on my face, my chest, my shoulders—not hard enough to genuinely hurt, but not exactly soft either.

  “The fuck, Kenz?” I grunt, trying to shield myself.

  “You let me think you were a murderer all this time?!” she shrieks.

  “I mean, I wasn’t sure that’s what you thought …”

  “But you knew it was a possibility! Four words, Graham. In five years, you couldn’t even write and give me that? Four. Freaking. Words.”

  She’s stopped slapping at me, and now we’re on opposite sides of the couch with our bodies turned to face each other. She isn’t crying anymore, but her face is flushed with frustration and the exertion of the attack she just waged against me.

  “I – didn’t – kill – him,” she says, counting the words out on her outstretched fingers for emphasis. “I’m – not – a – murderer.”

  I drag my palm over my face and up through my hair. Well, when she puts it like that, I do kind of feel like an asshole.

  “Not guilty of murder.”

  The smallest quirk appears at the corner of one side of her lips. She’s still serious about this, but she’s also clearly dragging it out to fuck with me.

  “Did not commit homicide,” she continues sassily. “Death not my fault.”

  I find myself on the verge of a smile too.

  “Gun not mine … babe.” We both laugh at my lame attempt.

  I stare at her even more intently and decide to keep going.

  “Wrong place, wrong time.”

  “Just there to buy drugs.” Then I curse. “Fuck, that’s five words.”

  But Mackenzie doesn’t laugh or give me grief for breaking the rules. Her blue-green eyes are a million miles deep, an ocean of sadness.

  “Why?” The single syllable is filled with heartbreak. I know she doesn’t only mean that night—she’s asking why I did any of it, all of it.

  “I wish I had a good answer for you—I was an idiot, Kenz. I was fucked up. I was drowning, and I chose a shitty way to escape.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Thinking, I run a palm over the scruff on one side of my jaw, back and forth as the stubble abrades my skin like sandpaper. I decide to take the conversation on a little detour so I have more time to formulate my answer.

  “Is that what the, uh …”

  I wave my hand in the general direction of her tear-ravaged face, which is red and swollen.

  “Crying fit?” she fills in with a tiny self-deprecating laugh.

  “Yeah. Was that about me not telling you?”

  “It was … everything,” she says softly. “I’ve spent a lot of time not thinking about it, and when you told me you didn’t do it, I guess it all came back at once.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

  “Are you okay now?” she asks, searching my eyes like she can do a psychic drug test.

  I open my mouth to answer but don’t get a chance because the front door bangs open and her roommate enters. She’s calling out loudly from the second the door is open.

  “Okay, chica! Tell me all about coffee with Señor McFuckHot. Do I need to start baking brownies, take a baseball bat to his cojones, or should we pop a bottle of wine so you can tell me all the explicit details about how he fucked you into next Tuesday in the coffee shop bathroom?”

  She yells all of this while bustling around, hanging up her coat and putting away some things from a paper grocery bag.

  When she stops talking, she finally notices us on the couch.

  “Oh,” she says. She doesn’t seem embarrassed in the slightest that I overheard—she simply pops one hip out, throws a hand on it, and eyes me up and down.

  “Nice to meet you, Señor McF.”

  “Hey. Name’s Graham. Please don’t attack my cojones.”

  “Marisa. And that depends why my girl’s face looks like she’s been crying for a week.”

  Mackenzie makes a little sound of horror at the mention of her face, and her hands shoot up to try and hide the evidence, even though we’ve both already seen it.

  “I’ll get you some ice and cucumbers,” Marisa reassures her in a softer tone before zeroing back in on me.

  “So … did you make her cry? She’s one tough bitch. I’ve never seen her cry enough to look like that.” She throws a hand out, dramatically pointing to Mackenzie’s face, making her cringe in embarrassment once more. “Sorry, honey. So, what did you do?”

  “Uh … I told her I’m not a murderer?” It comes out as a question because, shit, I still don’t completely understand her reaction. I’m not complaining about the result, though, because it got me here—and having her in my arms, even crying, is the best thing that’s happened to me in a long goddamn time.

  Marisa blinks, shocked enough that the attitude subsides for a second. She turns to Mackenzie.

  “YOU THOUGHT HE WAS A MURDERER?! And you HAD COFFEE WITH HIM?!” She’s shouting again.

  Mackenzie shoots me a dirty look.

  I mean, how was I supposed to know that was classified info? It’s not exactly a secret—she could learn all about me within two seconds on Google.

  “Well, I’m not a murderer, so …”

  She ignores me completely and speaks to Kenz.

  “Should I go stay with my sister so you guys can have a reunion fuckfest?”

  My girl blushes up to the roots of her hair. I can’t help but chuckle.

  “We’re not there … yet,” I tell Marisa. “I’ve got m
ore groveling to do.”

  * * *

  Mackenzie

  I use Marisa’s arrival as an excuse to send Graham home. We have a lot more we need to talk about, but now that I’m on the other end of my massive emotional release—or “crying for weeks” as Marisa put it—I’m drained and my head is pounding.