The Way I Am Now (The Way I Used to Be)

It all feels foreign to my body, the laughing, the lightness. It’s making me jittery but in a pleasant, slightly overcaffeinated way. To be with him again, sitting here talking, it feels like I must be making it up—making him up—dreaming or hallucinating or something. Because there’s nothing I needed more tonight than this, with Josh. And God, how I’m not used to getting what I need.

“So, you seem good, Eden,” he says, but his smile is fading.

“Yeah.” I nod, but I can’t quite make myself meet his eyes. “Mm-hmm.” Nodding, nodding.

“You seem good,” he repeats, and I sense it’s more a question than an observation, but I’m not ready to let go of the lightness yet.

“So you’ve said.” I try to keep up this banter that we’re so good at, but he studies me, squinting like he’s trying to see something in the distance, except he’s looking into my eyes. I focus on my hands and not him.

“Come on,” he says softly.

“What?”

“Are you good, though?” he finally asks.

I shrug. “I mean, sure. I—I’m doing better, I think. I’m not doing a bunch of crazy shit anymore, so there’s that.” And I hope he knows that by “crazy shit,” I mean I’m not getting trashed and sleeping around with strangers anymore. “Oh, and I quit smoking,” I add.

“Really?” He smiles. “Congratulations. I’m impressed.”

“Thank you. It sucks.”

“That’s not really what I meant, though,” he says. “I meant, how are you? Like, are you okay?”

“It’s not like I really have a choice to not be okay. But I’m trying to be b-better,” I stutter. Jesus. It’s not a hard question, but I can’t seem to answer it.

“Yeah, but how are you actually doing?”

He’s going to make me say it.

“What? I’m not okay, Josh,” I blurt out, almost yelling, but then I rein it in. “Sorry. But yeah, I’m not. Okay?”

“Okay,” he says gently. “No, I’m not trying to argue. It’s just that you know you don’t ever have to pretend with me. That’s all I’m saying.”

“I’m not pretending anything with you,” I tell him. “You’re the only person I don’t pretend with, so . . .” Not finishing that sentence.

He opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something more, but then he suddenly shifts toward me. I think, for a fraction of a second, he’s leaning in to kiss me. My heart starts racing. But then he reaches to take his phone out of his back pocket. As he looks at the screen, all I can think is that I would’ve kissed him back—again, always. Even with Steve just inside. Even with Josh’s girlfriend existing somewhere. I would have.

“Someone missing you?” I ask, really hoping that someone is not the girlfriend—that he’s not about to leave me to go be with her instead, even though he should. “Do you need to go?”

Please say no.

He glances up at me while he taps out a message. “No. I’m just letting my friend know I’m out here.” He sets his phone facedown on the table now and looks at me with those eyes that have held me captive since I fell into them in a stupid study hall on my first day of tenth grade and have never quite managed to climb my way out. “What about you?”

“What about me?” I ask, unable to even remember what we were talking about.

“Is someone missing you in there?”

“I highly doubt it.” I tilt my phone toward me so I can see the screen. Nothing yet. I set it facedown next to Josh’s phone. “I told them I needed some air. It was getting kind of claustrophobic in there, and the music was giving me a headache.” I decide to leave out the part about spotting Jock Guy. It would be too tempting to tell him the whole story of what happened that day, and I need to focus right now—focus on right now—soak in as much of this as I can, while I can. “I’m not much fun these days, I guess,” I conclude with a shrug.

He keeps watching me as I talk and then reaches out. “Here, can I see?” he asks, gesturing to my hand.

I let him cradle my hand in his, carefully positioning his thumb and forefinger where my thumb and forefinger meet, pinching that fleshy part.

“It’s a pressure-point thing,” he explains, pressing down harder. “Supposed to help with headaches. My mom used to do this for me when I was a kid.”

I close my eyes because this suddenly feels too intense, too much intimacy and realness, too much everything. I can’t take it. I feel my throat closing up, my eyes burning. I could cry right now if I let myself, and I’m not even sure why. But I won’t. I won’t.

“That doesn’t hurt too much, does it?” he asks, easing up for a moment.

I shake my head, but I can’t open my eyes yet.

“You sure?”

I nod.

He presses down again, silently.

It’s the opposite of disappearing. Like I’m more here than I’ve ever been anywhere at any time in my whole life. It’s all the rest of it that’s disappearing now, not me. After several more seconds, he lets go. Takes my other hand and does the same thing. As he releases the pressure, I take a deep breath, open my eyes, and look at him again. He’s still watching me so closely.

“How does your head feel now?”

Do I even have a head anymore? I think. Because all I feel is the spot where his hands are touching mine. And this is exactly why I never texted you back, I want to tell him. But that wouldn’t be fair, considering all the very unfair things I’ve already done to him. It’s not his fault he makes the pain go away or the world disappear.

“Better,” I tell him. “Thank you.”

We’re sort of lazily gazing into each other’s eyes, and as I feel myself kind of swaying to the muffled music on the other side of this wall and I wonder if we’re both not saying the same thing, one of our phones vibrates.

“Is that you or me?” he asks, picking up his phone, and I’m grateful for the disruption. “Must be yours.”

Steve: do u need me?

I write back, no, I’m good

He texts back right away: u sure?

Yes.

“Everything cool?” Josh asks. “I don’t want to keep you—well, I mean, I do, actually. But I won’t. If you have to get back.”

“No. I’m not going back in.” I set my phone down again and tug at my wristband. “I didn’t really want to come in the first place . . . but I’m glad I did.” I don’t think I’m flirting; I’m just being honest. I think.

“So am I.”

“Are you sure you don’t have to get back to your friends?” I ask him.

“I honestly keep forgetting the reason I was here to begin with. But I guess you kind of have that effect on me in general.”

But he might be flirting.

“I don’t know how to take that,” I say. “I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”

He shrugs. “Feels good to me.”

The way he’s looking at me, my God, I can’t breathe. I laugh involuntarily because it’s the only way I’m going to be able to get air in my lungs.

“Why are you laughing?” he asks, but he’s almost laughing too. “I’m being serious.”

“I know,” I tell him. “I am too.”

He nods and seems to understand this is getting to be too much for me because he clears his throat and sits up a little straighter, changing the subject, if there was one. “So, you’re almost to graduation?”

“Yeah. Um, sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“I mean, yes, I’m graduating, but I’m actually not in school right now. Physically, I mean. I’ve been doing everything online.”

But I don’t tell him why I’m not physically in school. How I had a total meltdown my first week back from winter break— some kid ran into me in the cafeteria line, only I didn’t realize that was all that was happening. It felt like more. It felt like I was being attacked. And I just reacted, kicked him in the shin and threw my tray of food at him. Of all the things to spontaneously do, I don’t know why I did that. But I did. And then I ran, backed myself into the corner of the cafeteria, sank to the floor, and started hyperventilating in front of everyone. Even the teachers seemed too afraid to approach me. But Steve was there. He helped me to the nurse’s office, waited with me until my mom came to pick me up.

My eyes refocus now. On Josh staring at me, concern creasing his forehead the longer I go without speaking.

I shake my head, shake off the memory, keep talking as if I didn’t just space out. “Um, I’m thinking about not going back for the rest of the year, maybe getting a jump start on community college while I finish up. Try to, I don’t know, figure out what I’m going to do with my life.”

“No pressure or anything,” he says, that crooked smile of his making an appearance.

“Right?” I try to laugh, but it sounds hollow. He nods in this understanding way, like he gets why none of the colleges I applied to have accepted me. “I really fucked up my grades these past couple of years,” I explain anyway.

“That’s not really your fault.”

I shrug. “It kind of is. I barely studied for the SATs. And then I made a mad rush to submit a bunch of crappy applications to random colleges right before the deadline in February. Hail Mary sort of thing. But . . .”RêAd lat𝙚St chapters at Novel(D)ra/ma.Org Only

“Haven’t heard anything yet?” he asks.

“No, I’ve heard.”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with community college, you know?”

“I know.” I sigh. “So anyway, that’s the plan, at least for the moment. Finish up online and hope my friends forgive me for not coming back. I mean, it’s just easier this way.”

“Which part?”

“School, I guess. It’s easy doing school online and it’s . . .” I realize I haven’t actually articulated what the problem is, not out loud, to anyone else, anyway. “It’s hard there. It’s hard to be there. I think some people kind of know something’s going on with the whole arrest and trial thing and that somehow I’m involved. They’re not supposed to know about me and Mandy. Amanda, I mean. That’s his sister. But fucking small stupid town. People talk. It’s just hard, you know?” I can hear my voice trembling, and now he looks at me like I’m going to break or something. I shrug like I can shake it all off.

“Yeah.” He nods. “That makes sense.”

“Thank you.”

“Why are you thanking me?”

“I don’t know, sometimes I doubt myself. And I think maybe I should be better, grateful, over it, or something. Like, I don’t think my friends really get it. I don’t think it makes sense to them, so it’s just . . . validating,” I say, pulling out one of my therapist’s favorite words.

“Well, they know, right?” he asks. “Your friends know what happened to you?”

That lump in my throat is instantly there again. I swallow hard. “They do; it’s just I’m not sure they get why I’m still not . . .” Jesus, I can’t complete a goddamn sentence.

“Okay?” he finishes for me.

I nod, and now there’s no hiding it. I feel my cheeks getting red and my eyes getting full and my blood getting hot under my skin. He reaches out and touches my shoulder, then my cheek, and that pushes me right over the edge.

“Josh,” I groan, pushing his hand away from my face. “I don’t want to be messy tonight.” But I’m folding myself into his open arms anyway. I’m wrapping one hand around his shoulder, the other pressed to his chest. It’s like he said earlier, a reflex. A habit, a good habit I so want to fall back into. I’m closing my eyes, cheek against his neck, feeling his voice vibrating.

“It’s all right,” he’s saying. “You can be messy. I don’t mind.”

In this tiny, delicate space between us, I realize the wild rattling of my heart isn’t because it’s shattering. It’s because this is the best, the strongest, my heart has felt in months. As I open my mouth to tell him that, my lips brush against his collarbone, and I let them linger there a second too long. I hope he doesn’t feel my open mouth on his skin. But he must, because then his hand is on my cheek again, trailing down my neck, and if I open my eyes, I won’t stop myself and I don’t think he will, either, and God, why does it always come to this, why is it never the right time for us?

“I’m fine,” I say as I pull away. “I’m fine. Really.” I don’t know if I’m trying to convince myself or him.

“Okay,” he whispers, letting me float out of his reach.

“I’m really not as fragile as I seem right now, I want you to know. I’m not sure why I’m being so emotional.” I finally dare myself to look at him again now that I’m back in my spot across from him, my side of the invisible line I’ve just drawn on the table, arm’s distance between us. “I mean, I sort of do,” I say before I can stop myself.

“You do what?”

“Know why I’m emotional,” I answer, but even as the words come out of my mouth, I’m not sure what I’m going to tell him, how much of which truth.

“Why?” he asks, then quickly adds, “Not that you need a reason or anything.”

You. You’re the reason.

But I don’t say that.

“We heard from the DA earlier this week,” I begin, instead. “Me and Amanda and Gen—Gennifer, I guess, is her name. His girlfriend. Or ex-girlfriend. Gennifer with a G, that’s pretty much all I know about her, but . . .” I ramble, stumbling through the words, not sure I really want to be talking about this with him.

“So there’s news about the trial, or . . . ?” he asks hesitantly.

“Yes and no,” I tell him. “This hearing thing we were supposed to have this spring just got pushed back, so now it might not happen until the summer or fall, even.” I still have the text from DA Silverman sitting there on my phone, unanswered, along with the voice mail from our court-appointed advocate from the women’s center, Lane, telling me she was available if I needed to talk about it. I look up at him, realizing I’ve stopped in the middle of the story.

“I’m sorry,” he says, like he really means it.

“I guess Kev—” But my mouth won’t let me finish; I have to clear my throat before continuing. “He has this fancy new legal team that’s representing him now.” I take a breath, look down at my lap, trying to squeeze the wristband over my hand.

He reaches out and places his hand over mine. “That doesn’t change what he did,” he says, and I stop messing with the stupid wristband and take his hand; I know I’m holding on too tightly, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“I’m just starting to wonder if any of this is ever going to happen.” I glance up at him. “If this was all even worth it.”

“Don’t say that. It’s worth it,” he insists, giving my hand this small, reassuring squeeze.

I nod, but I make myself let go of his hand because I’m going to have to sooner or later.

There’s a brief silence between us. He looks down, then out at the parking lot, like he’s trying to think of something to say. “Where did he get money for a fancy lawyer, anyway?” he finally says. “Not his parents—they wouldn’t, not with his sister being . . .” He trails off, not finishing, but some part of me really wants to know what he was going to say.

Not with his sister being . . . what, his victim? Is that what he was going to say? I wonder. Does he think of Gennifer as his victim too? Do I? And what about me—am I his victim?

“No, not his parents,” I finally answer—now’s not the time to try to navigate that ongoing victim-slash-survivor tennis match that’s constantly bouncing from one side of my brain to the other. Their parents are on Amanda’s side, which still seems pretty miraculous to me, knowing the gravitational pull of Kevin.

“It’s some rich university alumni guy—or guys—who are backing him, just waiting to induct him into some kind of Look What We Can Get Away with Hall of Fame.” I try to laugh at my bad joke, pause to catch my breath, to reel in my emotions a little. “I don’t really know. It all has something to do with fucking basketball and—” But I stop myself, immediately place my hand over my mouth. Sometimes I forget he’s part of that whole world too. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t, you’re right,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “No, I get it. Fucking basketball,” he repeats, somehow with more contempt and bitterness in his voice than even I had.

“I didn’t mean, like, all of basketball is bad. Or that sports are evil or anything. Just . . . just this part.”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice tight, narrowing his eyes as he stares off. “The part where they can’t have their team’s name tarnished. Their legacy, their image,” he scoffs, air-quoting with his fingers, like he’s heard these phrases too many times before. “I’m sorry, this shit just makes me . . .” But he doesn’t finish that sentence either. He sighs and rubs the back of his neck, like he might be just as emotional about this whole thing as I am.

“Okay, let’s talk about that instead. Let’s talk about you. Please, really. Please.”

“Me?” he asks, lifting his shoulder in a half shrug, shaking his head. “No, I don’t want to talk about me.”

“You always let me talk about myself way too much.”

“Well, there’s nothing going on with me.”

“Yes, there is.”

He looks at me like I’ve startled him. “Why do you say that?”

I’m not really sure why I said that, but his response tells me I’m right. We’re interrupted before I can try to answer. People suddenly pour out the doors in droves, shouting and stampeding and disrupting all this sensitive air protecting us in the bubble we’ve created.

“It can’t be over, already,” Josh says, picking up his phone to look at the time.

I look at mine too. “How is it after eleven?”

And then I see the series of texts sitting there.

Steve: hey r u coming back?

Mara: are you ok

Steve: getting worried now. you OK?

Steve: will u pls respond

Mara: steve is freaking out

Mara: I kinda am too btw

Steve: where are you???

“Shit, they’re looking for me,” I tell Josh as I type out a message but then delete it, unable to decide who will be more understanding, Mara or Steve. “I’m sorry; I wanted to keep talking.”

“No, it’s okay,” he says, squinting at his phone for a moment before pocketing it again. “I think I’m in trouble with my friends too.”

“You can blame me,” I tell him.

He just smiles, shakes his head. “Never.”

People are beginning to congregate around our table now, edging us out. “I guess we should go,” Josh says as he hops off the table and holds his hand out for me to take.

I step down from the bench onto the pavement, still holding his hand as I turn and walk right into Steve.