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

It rings too many times before she answers, my head already swirling with all kinds of terrible scenarios, too much adrenaline racing through my body.

“Hey,” she says quietly.

“Hi. What’s wrong?”

She laughs, saying, “Okay, why is ‘what’s wrong’ the first thing you say to me?”

I try to analyze her voice. “Sorry. It’s just in all the years I’ve known you, you’ve only ever called me when something’s wrong.”

“Is that true?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I mumble, not wanting her to feel bad, not wanting to think about that phone call again.

“Well, nothing’s wrong, I just”—she inhales deeply and breathes out slowly—“wanted to talk to you. Is that okay?”

“Of course. I told you, call me anytime.”

“I know you said that, but—okay, thank you.” She pauses. “Um, is your girlfriend there?”

I never did get around to telling her that we’d broken up. There never seemed to be a time when it wouldn’t come out like I don’t have some ulterior motive of trying to get her to be with me.

“Will she get upset that I’m calling so late?”

“Well, I called you, so . . .” I switch the phone to my other ear, like that might help me think better. “Why, would your boyfriend be upset?” I ask her instead.

“Yeah, probably.” She laughs that perfect laugh of hers—her real one. “If he were still my boyfriend.”

“Oh,” I breathe.

She laughs again, waiting for me to join her, but I can’t.

“Wait, is that true?” I ask before my heart gets too carried away. “You’re not together anymore?”

“Yeah,” she answers. “I mean, yes, it’s true. No, we’re not together anymore.”

“Oh,” I repeat.

“Josh?”

“Sorry. Um, no, the only one who’d be upset we’re talking right now is Harley.” Now it’s my turn to wait for her to laugh, but she doesn’t. “You know, my cat . . . Harley Quinn? Never mind. I’m, uh, actually home right now.”

“Home like at your parents’?” she asks.

“Yeah, just for the weekend.”

“You weren’t gonna tell me?”

“Oh, it’s just a short trip.”

“But . . . were you going to tell me?”

“Well, I wasn’t sure I’d have the time to see you, so . . .” I drift off, hoping she’ll say something, because how am I supposed to tell her the truth? I’m not sure I trust myself to be around you.

“Eden?”

“Yeah, no, I’m here,” she says gently.

“What if . . . ?”

“What if what?”

“What if we talked in person instead?” I ask her. “Could I come over?”

I hold my breath through the silence on the other end of the line. She’s never let me come over before. I don’t know why I even asked. I should’ve just invited her here.

“It’s okay if you don’t—” I start, but she interrupts.

“Come over.”

I changed my T-shirt and brushed my teeth, and less than ten minutes later, I’m pulling up outside her house. In all the time I’ve known her, I never once picked her up or dropped her off here, never went inside. Her house is really dark, but as I’m pocketing my car keys and walking up the driveway, the front porch light turns on.

She opens the door as I approach, stepping outside in bare feet. She smiles and steps down to meet me just as I’m stepping up, and we kind of awkwardly hug on the stairs, both of us falling into each other and wobbling.

“Hi,” she murmurs as she pulls away and steps aside. “Sorry, I went in for that hug a little too ambitiously, I guess.”

“I don’t mind ambitious hugs if they’re from you.”

That was literally one of the stupidest things I’ve ever said in my life, but she’s wearing shorts again—this time soft pajama-type shorts, and I can see there’s a matching tank top, which she’s wearing underneath an oversize hoodie and I’m having a hard time thinking of anything but that. I follow her inside, trying to conjure up some modicum of chill.

There are shoes lined up in the entryway, so I take the cue and remove mine.

“Thanks,” she says quietly as she stands there shifting her weight from foot to foot, scratching her thigh, looking over her shoulder. She seems oddly, tangibly uncomfortable in her own house. Or maybe she can tell that I’m nervous, and it’s making her nervous too. “My parents are upstairs,” she adds, not quite whispering but letting me know we need to be relatively quiet.

“Oh, okay,” I say, nodding.

“I’m this way.” She leads me into the living room and down a hallway where I can hear muffled TV sounds coming from one of the rooms, a thin line of light under the door. “My brother,” she explains. I momentarily flash back to the New Year’s party my senior year. Rumors had been flying about Eden, and I was trying, unsuccessfully, since I was drunk—the first time in my life I ever drank—to explain that those rumors were just lies. Looking back, I’m sure I only made it worse. So then, when her brother confronted me later that night, I tried to tell him that she wasn’t just some hookup to me, but before I could fully explain that I really loved her, he’d already knocked me to the ground. My first fight. My first black eye. My first hangover.

She closes the door behind us, and I try to take a quick look around without being too obvious. Everything’s very minimal and sparse, more like a showroom than a real room. “So, this is it, my bedroom.”

“It’s different than I thought it would be, somehow.”

She looks around like she’s seeing it for the first time as well.

“I mean, it’s nice,” I backpedal.

“No,” she says. “I know it’s weird. There’s not much of me in here anymore.”

I’m not sure what that means, and I guess it shows on my face because she explains.

“My mom, like, went on this IKEA spree and just totally got rid of everything that had been here before. Repainted and made everything very . . . gray. I guess I haven’t really spent much time putting my own touches back in. Except for my lamp,” she says, moving toward her desk to turn on this small stained-glass lamp, which is the only source of color in the entire room. “I found this at a thrift store. I’m very proud of it. But I’m rambling. Sorry. I guess I’m nervous.”

“It’s okay, I might be a little nervous too.” I pause. “Being here for the first time makes me feel like I’m in high school again.”

She releases a short laugh. Then she reaches around me to turn off the light switch at the wall. The overhead light goes out, and her desk lamp casts a kind of yellow glow around the room. “There, that’s better,” she says. “Not so bright.”

“Yeah,” I agree, watching her as she stands in front of me in the dim light now, looking even more . . . captivating, is the word that keeps flashing through my mind.

“I’ve never had anyone in here. I mean, Mara, obviously. But I’ve never had a boy,” she whispers through cupped hands, “in my room like this. Before.” She inhales deeply and says, “Sorry, that was supposed to be cute or funny or something.”

“No, it was,” I tell her, but really, I’m thinking about Steve. Was he really never here, and what does that mean?

“Um. Do you wanna sit or, oh, do you want something to drink?”

“I’m fine,” I tell her. “It’s okay.”

She says, “Okay,” but she’s still twirling her fingers around the drawstrings of her hoodie, which she clearly threw on over her pajamas right before I got here. And something about that sends my mind off in the wrong direction again. I have to look away.

“Should we start over?” I ask. “Proper hug?”

She nods.

“Yeah? Okay. Come here.” I hold my hands out, and she takes them, moves toward me, and clasps her arms around my waist. I let my arms fold around her and rest my chin on top of her hair, which smells amazing as usual. She presses her face against my chest and holds on so tight. She keeps taking these slow, deliberately deep breaths like she’s trying to calm down. Part of me wants to ask if she’s okay, but it’s pretty clear she isn’t, so I try to breathe with her, try to calm myself down too. Gradually, her grip loosens, and we back away from each other.

“Sorry, I’ve just been—it’s just been a lot lately, but I’m glad you’re here. I always like talking to you in person better.”

She hadn’t mentioned anything in our texts being a lot lately, but I guess I haven’t exactly been forthcoming about my stuff either. We sit on her bed, facing each other, the same way we’d sat on that picnic table.

“So, what did you want to talk about?” I’m asking, just as she’s saying, “Why are you home?” As usual, we talk over each other.

“Sorry, you first,” I tell her.

“Okay, so why are you home right now?” she repeats.

“It’s my dad. He’s six months sober this weekend. There’s a ceremony, and then we’re doing a family celebration sort of thing.”

“Oh. Wow, six months. That’s a big deal, right?”

I nod. “Yeah. I mean, I’ve seen him get his six-month chip quite a few times before, but . . .”

“But what?”

“I’ll probably regret saying this, but something does feel a little different with him this time.”

“Good,” she says, with this slow blink, like she really means it.

“I don’t know, I’m being cautiously optimistic, I guess.”

“I’m really glad, Josh. You deserve that.”

“I do?” I ask.

“Yeah, you deserve to have your dad healthy and . . . and there for you. I mean, I know how much this has hurt you over the years.” She reaches out and takes my hand, inching closer to me, and I catch this sheen falling over her eyes. “I just”—she pauses to close her eyes for a moment—“I want it to be different for you this time too.”

I reach out and take her other hand now, thinking I may finally understand something important about her that I’m not sure I’ve fully realized before. She spent so much of our relationship hiding her emotions because this is how she feels things—deeply, completely. That and this: she really has always cared.

“Eden,” I begin, but I don’t have anything else to say, so I settle on “thank you.”

“I’m sorry about the phone call,” she says. “I was just surprised that you didn’t mention you’d be here. It’s not like you have to tell me every time you’re going to be in town.”

“No, I wanted to tell you.” I move a little closer to her now too. “But things have felt . . .” I try to find the right word. “Strained. Since last time. Or maybe it’s just me, I don’t know.”

“It’s not just you.”

There’s a silence that I feel it’s my turn to fill.

“I’ve gotta be honest, it was hard to see you with another guy. But more than that—I just felt like maybe I should try to leave you alone.”

“No,” she says, squeezing my hands in hers. “I would never want you to leave me alone.”

“Well, I thought, if you’ve moved on, I should try to do the same, and maybe that would make things easier or—”

“If I’ve moved on,” she repeats, her voice turning harder now as she lets go of my hands. “You’re the one who has a serious girlfriend.”

I shake my head as she speaks. “No, I don’t. That’s not—it’s been over for a while.”

“What?”NôvelDrama.Org owns this text.

“It’s over,” I repeat.

“Since when?”

“Since I came to see you that night. In December. She wasn’t actually okay with it.”

“You lied to me?”

“Yes,” I admit. She nods slowly, and I watch as she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and then looks at her hands in her lap, her hair hanging down over her face. I angle my head to try to see her expression, but she brings her hand up to her forehead like she’s shielding her eyes from the sun. “Eden?” I reach out and raise her chin until I can see her face . . . smiling.

“Oh, don’t look so broken up about it,” I joke.

She looks up now and covers her mouth. “No, I’m sorry. I’m not smiling,” she says, but she’s losing her voice as she muffles a laugh.

“No, you’re laughing!” Which only makes me start laughing too because it’s so absurd. “What’s so funny?”

“No, nothing—I’m sorry!” She bats her hand at my arm. “Stop it,” she demands, but then she cracks up all over again.

“You stop.” Her laugh is a drug. “You’re the one laughing at me.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m laughing. I’m sorry,” she repeats. “I’m not laughing at you, I promise.”

“No, don’t worry. It’s okay,” I tease. “It’s just my heart.”

“Oh my God,” she sighs, pulling herself together. “I’m the worst.”

I nod, pretending to agree, stopping myself from saying, No, you’re the best.

When we finally stop laughing, we’ve somehow drawn even closer to each other. “It’s just that I’ve been obsessing about you and this, like, dream girl, and now . . .” She shakes her head for a moment and then looks at me so intensely, her cheeks flushed.

“What?” I ask her.

“I do care about your heart, you know.” She reaches out and lets her hand hover over the center of my chest, her fingers barely touching my shirt. “A lot, actually.”

I cover her hand with mine, pressing it flat against my chest. We’re so close now, and I wonder if she can feel my heart pounding through my shirt. She inches toward me and touches my face with her other hand, the way she had the night of the concert, so softly. I turn my head and kiss her palm, and as her hand moves down to my neck, she pulls herself closer to me. She leans in and presses her lips to my cheek for a moment before pulling back to look at me. Her other hand tightens around the fabric of my shirt, and her eyes dip down to focus on my mouth. I watch as she takes this tiny sip of air—God, I don’t know how I could’ve forgotten this detail. It used to get me every time, the way she’d always take that little breath right before she kissed me. I close my eyes, and I can feel the warmth of her mouth, our lips nearly touching.

I can barely catch my breath—because this is happening— but then, as I wait for her to close this impossibly small distance between us, her hand loosens its grip on my shirt and presses against my chest now. I open my eyes to see her backing away.