The Last Time We Were Us Read Online Free PDF Page A

TRAFFIC, THE rush of the postchurch crowd, families packed into big gas chuggers and shiny German cars, sitting stiffly in their Sunday best, and it takes me a full fifteen minutes to get out of my end of town.
    As I approach West Bonneville, the road widens, new lanes popping up on each side. The buildings are fairly new, and there is, indeed, a Target, but still something’s off. The trees that do exist are young, thin, and wiry, like awkward preteens. There are condos everywhere, but many of the windows peek into empty spaces, homes unsold and waiting, a little desperately, to be adopted by a family of their own.
    Balloon-speckled car dealerships guide the way, until I see the familiar sign of the Gas Xpress. I take the last spot in the front row, close enough to see through the store’s glass but far enough, hopefully, not to be obvious.
    I squint to see a man with dark hair at the counter, and I wonder if it’s Jason, but then a bigger lady walks through the front door, and my line of vision is blocked. I hear a knock knock knock on the passenger window, and I jump, snap my head around. Jason Sullivan stares at me.
    He points down several times, a gesture that’s impossible to mistake. The full weight of what I’m doing settles in, and my body tenses like a boxer on the big night. In spite of the AC I begin to sweat, and I think about all that fight-or-flight stuff from psychology. Flight sounds pretty good right about now.
    But it’s too late. My jittery finger finds the button, and I roll down the window.
    “You scared me,” I say.
    “Sorry. I didn’t mean to.” His voice is familiar and confident, like the two of us chatting in a gas station parking lot is the most natural thing in the world, like the gangly girl he knew is still around, living, breathing, playing with his remote-control helicopter. When he smiles, I notice that a tooth on the right side of his mouth is just the slightest bit chipped. It wasn’t like that when we were kids. He leans down. “What are you doing here?”
    “I was just driving around I guess.” It’s so unconvincing, it doesn’t even count as a lie.
    “You came to see me?” The window frames his lopsided grin. He steps back, takes a last drag of his cigarette, flicks the ash off with his middle finger, pinches it between his thumb and forefinger, and tosses it in the trash. He’s still skinny like he was before, but his shoulders are wider, arms more muscly. He wears a dingy white polo that says “Gas Xpress, How can I help you?” and he looks strangely good in it.
    He grabs the door handle. “Can I come in?”
    “What?”
    “I still have ten minutes left on my break. I’d love to sit.”
    “Okay.”
    And like that, he’s in the seat next to me, two old Frappuccino cups the only things between us.
    “When did you start smoking?” It comes out like an accusation.
    “Take a wild guess.”
    I try to imagine his life in there, but it’s impossible. I can’t see Jason on a stiff cot surrounded by people who do really bad things. I never thought he was that kind of a person, even after he ditched me.
    “It’s bad for you.”
    He gasps in mock surprise. “Really? You know, I didn’t know that. That changes everything. ”
    “I was just saying.”
    “Hold your judgment, please.” He shoves his hand in his pocket and fingers the pack like it’s his security blanket. “I didn’t exactly have a lot of luxuries.”
    I shrug. “Your funeral.”
    He whips his head around. “Did you come here just to criticize me?”
    This is the part where I could say no, tell him I’m sorry, explain that I just wanted to see him again.
    “I’m not criticizing. I’m just stating a fact.”
    He pushes his hands against his knees, and he looks truly pissed. I remind myself that he was locked up for being violent. That he’s sitting in my car. A surge of anger rushes through me, and it’s out before I can stop it. “I saw him last night, you know.”
    “Who?” he asks,