The Way I Used to Be (32 page)

“You know, I wouldn't even do the reading for my classes, but I would read all those stupid books cover to cover just so I would have something to talk to you about. And I'd feel like such an idiot because I never understood any of it, but you always did.”

“Wow,” I whisper, looking at the window, not through it, but at the glass, at the mini snowdrifts caught in the corners of the window, the condensation trickling down. It all makes me feel like I could cry. Because, in my heart, I know, I'm not who he thinks I am. Not even close. And he's not who I want him to be, either.

“I'm so glad this is finally happening,” he whispers. “I really want to get to know you now, Edy. For real. I want to know everything. Like . . . what are your interests, what do you like to do, what kind of music do you listen to?”

I shrug.

He says, “Favorite movie?”

I can't do this.

“Okay, how's this: What are you thinking about when you get quiet all the time?”

I have to concentrate all my energy on not allowing myself to cry.

“Edy?” He pulls his arms around me tighter and tighter.

“What?” I finally answer.

He moves my hair and kisses the back of my neck. “Just—I don't know, tell me anything.”

“I can't.” I hear my voice and it sounds so wrong, like that's not what I'm supposed to sound like. I feel my body curl into itself a little more, pulling away from him.

“What is it?” he asks. “What's wrong?”

That's it!

I break out of his arms and turn around. I sit up straight, ready to have a face-off. “Steve, will you please just shut up? God!”

He sits up too, looking so confused it makes me want to slap him.

“I mean, what is wrong with you? Can't we just have fun? You have to ruin it, really?”

It's almost like he flinches, almost like I really have slapped him. Like I hurt him. With just my words. Sadly, sickly, that makes me feel a little better, a little stronger.

“You wanted me to talk, right? Happy now?”

“I—” he starts. But I don't hear the next word out of his mouth because I'm on my feet. I swing his bedroom door open and I run down the stairs. I slip on my boots and my coat. I don't lace or button anything. I just need to get out.

Outside in the cold, I look up and wish on the entire universe of stars that I was anywhere—I close them tight—anywhere but here. But when I open them, I'm staring at the same sky, standing in the same town I've been stuck in forever, the same middle of nowhere, feeling the same as I did before. Only worse.

I light a cigarette but only get in a few deep drags before I hear the door screech open, followed by his footsteps shuffling through the snow. Then his voice, crushing the delicate silence of the frozen air.

“Look, Edy, I don't know what just happened in there.”

I keep my back to him. He places his hands on my shoulders.

“I really have to go,” I tell him, in as even a voice as I can muster. Hooking my shoulders inward, I try to shrug his hands off.

He lets go and steps around in front of me, wearing an expression I've never seen on him before. His standard slouching posture straightens as he puts his hands on his hips. He looks bigger than usual, imposing.

“I honest-to-God don't know what I did,” he says, the words cutting the air. “I'm trying to do the right thing, and you're acting like you hate me or something!” His eyes get wider as he speaks, colder.

I say nothing. He stands there, waiting for me to deny it, getting angrier every second. I fill my lungs with smoke to stall my response. But then he throws his hands up abruptly, letting them fall heavy as they smack down against his thighs. It's like my entire body shudders. My cigarette slips out of my hand and falls to the ground.

“I'm just saying that—” He pauses and looks me once over, assessing my face, my body. I try to recover, try to act like I'm okay. “What do you think,” he says slowly, “I would hit you or something?”

I shake my head no, but my mind isn't sure anymore. Of anything. Or anyone.

“Oh my God, what kind of person do you think I am, Edy?” he says, voice raised. But I don't know what kind of person he is—hell, I don't even know what kind of person I am.

I feel myself backing away.

“I wouldn't,” he says after I don't answer. “I can't believe I have to tell you that. I would never do anything like that.”

“Fine. Yeah, I know.”

“Wait, I'm just trying to explain . . . ,” he continues, stepping closer, but I can't even begin to listen. I nod my head in agreement to whatever it is he might be saying. “So does that make sense?” he finally finishes.

He reaches out to touch my face, my hair maybe, I don't know—I can't help but flinch away from him. “Jesus, Edy, you're not—you're not scared of me, are you?”

“Yes.” I hear the word exit my mouth and my heart freezes. Because it's the truth. His mouth drops open. “I mean no.” I try to fix it, try, I try but it's too late. I'm shaking, my fingers fucking tremble. Christ. “I meant no. I'm not scared, I'm just”—I'm trying but I can't breathe, like I have bricks on my chest—“just so . . . ,” and suddenly, “so . . . fucking . . . ,” and I'm crying, “tired.” There's no way to hide it. “I'm just tired, okay?” I blather. “So. Fucking. Tired. And I don't feel like having some big fucking conversation, that's all!” I cry out, near screaming, near hysterical.

He says nothing. I cover my eyes. I'm crying with my whole body and all I want to do is disappear. I feel his hand hesitate, hovering over my back, then rubbing awkward circles, and then his fingers in my hair. If he's saying anything, I don't hear. All can I hear is my blood rushing and my heart drumming in my ears. A pulsing in my throat, like there's a big jumbled ball of words stuck in there dying to get out. He puts both arms around me. But I feel suffocated. Don't want to be held. Don't want to be touched. Not by anyone ever again in my entire life.

I crunch my teeth together to keep myself from screaming. Screaming in general, screaming at him to get his hands off me, screaming for help, screaming because I can't make sense out of anything that is happening, has happened, will happen. Screaming because I still feel like I'm back there, always back there, in my heart I'm still that girl. I clench my fists tight and tell myself:
No more tears, stupid fucking baby.
On three, go. One, two,
push
. Push my body. Push him. Push, just push. Three. I break out of his arms like an explosion. He stumbles backward. But I'm free.

I'm walking away.

He grabs the sleeve of my coat. “Edy, come on.”

I snatch my arm away from him the second I feel his hand on me. “Don't touch me!” I only realize I've screamed it as my words echo back at me, reverberating against the trees and the dark and the cold. He looks around, panicked, thinking maybe the neighbors are going to hear.

“Don't be mad,” he says, reaching for me again.

“I'm not mad, just don't—don't touch me, okay?” My words shake as they hit the air, my mouth never having demanded such things before.

He holds his palms out in front of his chest. “Fine, fine, I'm not.”

We stand there, staring at each other.

“So what happens now?” he asks.

“You go in. I leave.” I try to be stoic about it, try to pretend I didn't just have a total meltdown in front of him.

“I mean what happens with us?” Us. God. I can't answer that question, and I think he knows it too because he changes his face, his tone, and asks instead, “Look, are you okay?”

“I really have to go, Steve,” I say impatiently, careful not to look him in the eye.

“Okay. So we're okay—we'll talk tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

“Okay. I'll call you tomorrow.” He tries to smile.

I try to smile back.

“Wait—I want you to know, Edy, I would never hurt you.” He leans in slowly and brushes his lips against my cheek softly.

“Okay,” I whisper, terrified—more terrified than I've been in a long time, of anything or anyone.

“Okay,” he says. “Well, good night.”

“Good night,” I repeat, moving away from him.

“EDEN?” MOM KNOCKS ON
my door, tries to turn the knob. I open my eyes; pray it's all been a dream. I fumble for my phone. One forty-three p.m. I've been asleep for fifteen hours. Ten missed calls.

“Yeah?” I moan, trying to scroll down the list: Mara, Mara, Mara, Steve, Cameron, Steve, Cameron, Steve, Steve, Steve. Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Eden!” she calls again.

“I said yeah!” I shout. Don't make me get up, Vanessa. Please.

“I'm not going to holler through the door!” she hollers through the door.

I drag myself up, dust myself off, whatever, shove the sleeping bag under the bed and throw my pillow on top. Unlock my door.

“You have a visitor,” Vanessa whispers, tight-lipped, “some freaky-looking guy.”

“What?”

“Cameron something or other, do you know this boy?” She tilts her head so I can see him standing in the center of our living room, opening and closing his mouth. He's playing with his tongue ring, another stupid, annoying thing about him that I hate.

“Shit,” I breathe.

“Eden,” she scolds. I stare at the straight line of her mouth. “Well,” she says, resigned, “your father's out and I was just leaving to go to the store, but do you want me to stay? I just—I don't like the look of him,” she murmurs, casting a glare over her shoulder. “Is he—will you be—he's not dangerous, right? He's your friend?” The thought of her being worried about leaving me alone in the house with a dangerous boy is just so laughable, I could throw up.

“It's fine,” I mumble, my tongue and lips dry as paper. Or maybe it wouldn't be fine, but I don't need witnesses for whatever is about to go down. “Would you just tell him I'll be out in a second?”

I slip past her, locking myself in the bathroom. My heart starts beating erratically. I will not cry. “You will
not
cry,” I whisper to myself. I wash my face and brush my teeth, try to tug a brush through my hair, which is in knots. I hear muttered good-byes and the front door closing. I pull my hair tight into a ponytail. No. Looks like I care what I look like, looks like I'm trying; I take it out and carefully pull it into a sloppy bun.

“You can't pick up a phone?” he blurts out while I'm still shuffling into the living room.

“I can—I mean, I'm capable, if that's what you're asking.”

“Oh, okay. You just won't?” he says, all jittery from trying to restrain himself.

I cross my arms, shrug, absently pulling at a loose thread on my sleeve, a subtle signal that I can barely even be bothered to have this conversation.

“You're unbelievable. He doesn't deserve this. I mean, you do know that, don't you?”

I roll my eyes.

“You know, I told him a girl like you would just destroy him. Because girls like you—”

“Girls like me?” I laugh. Where have I heard this speech before?

“I don't know what the hell he ever saw in you, I really don't.”

“Come on, it's pretty obvious what he saw. What he wanted. He had his chance, right? And he kinda blew it, sorry to say.”

“Bullshit!” He spits the word before I've even finished my sentence. “Don't pretend you actually believe that. Unless you really are that heartless. Are you? I mean, are you really?” There's this vein in his forehead that throbs every time he raises his voice.

Stone-faced, I mumble, “Guess so.”

“Yeah?” he asks, vein bulging, fists clenched at his sides. “'Cause you're so tough, is that right? You're just so tough?”

I grin, let out a sigh. What a dick. He's not getting to me, he's not. He takes a step toward me. I resist the instinct that tells me to back up, to run. But I do some quick physics in my head—mass, volume, density—I could maybe take him. Sure, he's taller, but scrawny. We'd have to weigh about the same. Yeah, if push came to shove, I could take him.

“So, that's why you were crying? Because you're, what,
tough
?” he asks, with this cool smirk. Or maybe he could take me.

I inhale a breath of something that doesn't feel like air, and then can't seem to remember how to exhale. My eyes can't hold their stare; they look down, the stupid cowards.

“Yeah, he told me about that,” he continues. “He told me everything. He said that he was trying to be nice and you were being a bitch—” He pauses, letting the word cut through the air. “Well, I'm paraphrasing here 'cause you know Steve wouldn't actually call you a bitch, even if you are one, even if that's what he was thinking. Yeah, he said you started crying, crying like a little—”

Oh, I'm back. “Just shut the fuck up, Cameron! You don't know—you just don't even know, so stay out of it!” I can hardly take in enough breath to keep myself speaking. “You wanna talk about pretending to be tough? Take a look in the mirror! You think you intimidate people, the way you look? You think you're tough?”

“No. I never said I was. I hope I don't intimidate people, but that's the difference between you and me, isn't it? You want to take people down, you want to hurt people, but you know what?” He sneers, inching toward me.

I swear to God I'll hit him right in the face if he comes any closer. “What?” The word comes out strangled—not tough, not fierce—not the way I meant it to.

“Nobody's afraid of you,” he says quietly, reserved, restrained, and suddenly in complete control of his emotions.

I swallow hard. I'm losing my shit here. Because I know he's right. I know it's true.

“You're so weak and scared, it's pathetic.” He smiles, cocks his head to one side. “What?” He pauses, cruelty dripping off the silence. “You don't think people can see that?”