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

It takes all my willpower to drag myself out of Josh’s bed the next morning. I pull my dress back on and gather my purse and sweater and shoes. He’s lying on his stomach with his arms around his pillow. I sit on the edge of his bed, allowing myself this rare moment of quiet to admire him. I run my hand along his back and lean over to kiss his shoulder, but he’s so tired he doesn’t wake up.

Downstairs, Parker is in the kitchen, stretching, with her earbuds still in—she’s already been out for a run this morning— drinking one of her healthy green smoothies, looking all glowy and vibrant, compared to me. Dull and exhausted in yesterday’s makeup and messy hair, the zipper of my dress inching down my back with every move I make.

She pulls her earbuds out and laughs when she sees me. “Hey, roomie,” she says. “I see you’re embracing that stride of pride this morning.”

“The what?” I mumble, setting my purse down on the counter and letting my shoes clatter to the floor.

“You know, the trek of triumph, the sultry saunter, the booty-call boun—”

“Are you just making these up right now?” I ask with a laugh.

“You need to get your nose out of the so-called important lit-tra-ture,” she says, in what I think is supposed to be a British accent. “Pick up a magazine every once in a while, woman.”

“For your information,” I tell her as I pour myself some water from the fridge. “We had a very nice snuggle sesh last night.”

“Snuggles, sure,” she says, lunging forward into a stretch. “You want a smoothie?”

“Ugh, gross. No. I’ll get some coffee at work.”

“Ah, yes. Coffee and no food, the breakfast of champions.”

I open the cabinet and pull out a granola bar. “Happy?”

She brings one arm across her chest and then the other, saying, “I guess.”

“Do you need to get in there?” I ask, gesturing to the bathroom. “I have to get ready.”

“All yours,” she says as she starts to jog off toward her bedroom. “I’m about to hit the pool anyway.”

“Hey, Parker, um, can I . . . ?” I start, not really knowing how to finish.

Turning around, hands poised near her head, about to put her earbuds back in, she looks at me. “What?”

“It’s not a big deal or anything, but I wanted to tell you I’m going to be gone for a few days next week. I just have to go home for something.”

“Oh.” She lets her hands drop and takes a step toward me. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s just—” I could tell her. Right now I could tell her the truth, but something stops me, like always. “Everything’s fine, I’m just letting you know.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.” I nod and smile and start pulling back the wrapper of my granola bar. She watches me for a few seconds, until I take a bite and chew and swallow. “Really, that’s all.”NôvelDrama.Org: owner of this content.

“Okay,” she says slowly, then finally turns to go into her room.

I eat the rest of my granola bar and get into the shower. By the time I get out, Parker’s gone and I’ve worked myself up into a panic just thinking about what’s going to happen this week. My heart is racing and I’m breathing heavy. I walk into the kitchen in a towel, dripping water everywhere, dumping the contents of my entire purse out onto the counter so I can find my pills. I take two. I don’t have time for a fucking anxiety attack right now.

I clock in at 12:02, and Captain Douchebag is standing there at the lockers, waiting to tell me that this is the third time I’ve been late and that I should consider this my verbal warning.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

“Don’t be sorry,” he snaps at me. “Just get here on time. It’s not that hard.”

He walks away, and as I’m putting my things in my locker, pulling out my apron to tie around my waist, I realize one of the cooks, Perry, has just caught me rolling my eyes at our manager. But he just nods and laughs silently, thankfully understanding. I sort of shrug and smile in return.

Halfway through my shift, at four o’clock, there’s a girl in line, a little older than me. She’s staring at me. When it’s her turn, she steps up to the counter and smiles in this strange way. Like I should know her, but I don’t.

“Hi,” she says hesitantly, eyes flashing down to read my name tag. “Eden.”

I smile back. “What can I get started for you?”

“Oh, um . . .” She looks all around, confused, as if she suddenly found herself inside a coffeehouse by chance and wasn’t prepared to be asked this question. “Can I just order a . . . ? Oh, I don’t know, what’s your favorite drink?”

“My favorite?” I repeat. “Huh, nobody’s ever asked me that. I guess you can’t go wrong with the pumpkin pie latte. Sometimes I add a little vanilla to it, which I love, but—”

“That sounds great,” she says, her eyes fixed on me so intently I have to look away.

“Great,” I repeat. “For here or to go?”

“Here,” she says, but then quickly adds, “No, actually, to go. I think. Yes, to go.”

“All right, can I get a name?” I ask, marker in hand, tip already pressed against the cup.

“It’s Gen,” she says quietly. “With a G.”

My heart struggles to race, weighted down under the double dose of meds still working through my body. I look at her more closely now, the way she’s been looking at me. I’d searched for her online months ago. In my mind she’s been existing as just a static image on the screen. I recognize her now, but it’s different seeing her in person. “You’re Gennifer?” I breathe. “Gen,” I correct.

She nods, smiles again—I realize she has a very pretty smile, the kind that can cover up all sorts of terrible things. “You wouldn’t be able to take a quick break or anything, would you?”

Perry covers the counter for me while I sit down across from her at a table in the corner.

“Sorry,” she begins. “I was just passing through on my way back for the hearing and I knew you worked here. Your brother mentioned it—I promise I haven’t been cyber-stalking you or anything.” She pauses and sort of laughs. “I can definitely see the family resemblance.”

“Oh” is all I manage to say. I don’t know why I seem to have forgotten that my brother knows her—they were friends, he’d told me that. They still are, it seems.

“I guess I just didn’t want the first time we met to be in a courthouse. I don’t know, is that weird?” she asks, taking a sip of her latte. “This is really good, by the way.”

“No, it’s not weird,” I tell her.

“I know we’re not supposed to talk, but . . .” She looks through the window, her smile fading. “Do you ever wonder why? Why he would do this—” She starts but stops. “Like, that’s the part I’m stuck on. I even tried to ask him. The next day. I went home that night and told my roommate what happened, and she took me to the hospital. Got the rape kit done and it was so horrible, but I didn’t want to report it right then because I thought for sure there had to be a reason. Do you know what I mean?”

“I . . . Yeah, I think so,” I tell her, because even though I know we shouldn’t be doing this, talking, I desperately want to hear what she has to say.

She sits up a little straighter. “I wanted to believe that he somehow must not have realized or it was some kind of, like, mental break or . . . but it just turned out that I—” She stops abruptly, taking another sip of her latte. “I just didn’t know him. At all.”

It’s strange, this realization slithering through my brain, as I listen to her. I don’t think I’ve ever wondered why. Because deep down, in that place beyond logical thinking, I thought I knew. He did what he did because I had done something to make it happen. I could never quite put my finger on what it was, whether it was just one thing or a combination of things. My head could disagree all day, tell me it wasn’t my fault, but my heart knew, always, it was me.

Until now, maybe.

“I really thought I did—I thought I knew him,” she repeats. “I genuinely trusted him.”

“Me too,” I hear myself say.

She looks at me and tries to smile again, but it doesn’t fool me this time. “Sorry I’m dumping this on you.”

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “I mean, I get it.”

“Yeah,” she says softly. “I thought you might.”

I can only nod because there are too many things I want to say, but none of them are things I’m allowed to tell her.

“I know you have to get back to work; I hope I haven’t ruined your whole day or made you feel—”

“No, you didn’t. I’m glad we got to meet. Like this, instead.”

“I guess I just wanted to tell you face-to-face that I’m really . . .” She pauses, tracing a circle around her cup as she finds whatever word it is she’s looking for. “Thankful. To not have to be doing this all by myself.”

“I am too,” I tell her. “If it weren’t for you and Amanda, I couldn’t have . . .” I shake my head—I can’t even finish the sentence.

“I have a feeling you could have,” she tells me, as she reaches across the table, sliding her latte receipt toward me, her number already written on it. “For when this is all over, if you want?”

As I watch her leave and get in her car and drive away, I realize there is a version of this where Gen never says anything. She lets it go and just keeps wondering why. Where Amanda stays scared and angry and hurt and continues to blame me for everything. It’s the version where I lose myself forever and never find my way back. And for the first time, I think I understand—in my head and my heart—why we’re really doing this.

For us.

We’re doing this for us. Somehow that makes this all so much more real, more frightening.