The Way I Used to Be (14 page)

“Wait, I don't understand. Why were you just sitting there? I was waiting for you—well, I mean, I stopped waiting a couple of hours ago.”

“I didn't know if you still wanted me to come, so I just . . .” My eyes drift to the TV. Then I look around. He's turned the living room into shambles. The afghan that's usually on the back of the couch is pulled down and twisted, stuck in the crevices between the cushions. The couch's matching pillows are on the floor and have been replaced by two pillows from his bed, positioned at TV-watching angles. The coffee table is covered with stuff: a slightly ajar pizza box, multiple cans of soda, a plate with half a pizza crust left on it, three different remote controls.

“Eden?” he says slowly.

I focus my attention back on him.

“What's going on?” he asks, looking at me suspiciously. “Are you . . . high?”

“No.” I don't get high. “Why would you say that?”

“Your eyes . . .” He holds my face in his hands, inspecting me. “They're all glassy and bloodshot, like—”

I move my face so that I don't have to look at him while I admit it. “No, I was just—” But I stop before I can say the word. Because maybe I would rather him think I was high than crying.

“Look,” he begins, “I'm glad you came—you'll probably think this is really lame, okay—but if you're on something right now, I really don't want you here. I'm not trying to be mean. I'm just not into that stuff, okay?”

“Well, I'm not either! And I'm not on anything, I swear.” He doesn't believe me, obviously. “God, what do you think, I'm just, like, this screwed-up, horrible person or something?”

“No.” He sighs. “But are you high, Eden? Really, just be honest.”

“I'm not high! I was just”—I clear my throat—“crying.” I try to mumble it into only one syllable, as quietly as possible. “Earlier. Okay?”

“Oh.” I guess he doesn't know what to say to that. His face wavers between skepticism and pity, both equally undesirable. “Um . . .”

“If you want me to leave—” I start.

“No, stay. Really. You can stay.” He takes the backpack from my shoulder and sets it on the floor.

Looking down at my feet, I fidget with the zipper of my jacket, feeling shy and uncomfortable—vulnerable—now that he's seen yet another chink in my armor.

“So, what do you wanna do?” I let my arm swing forward so that my fingers touch his fingers. It's a rhetorical question. I know what he wants to do. Why else would he ask me to stay?

“I don't care,” he says, taking my hand. “Come here.” He pulls me toward him and just hugs me. He smells like soap and dryer sheets and deodorant.

I pull away too soon because, damn it, I just can't seem to get these things right. I feel dizzy when he lets go, like we'd been spinning in circles, but we were just standing still.

“Are you hungry? There's pizza.” He gestures to the square, grease-stained cardboard pizza box sitting on the coffee table. “Or there's other stuff too, if you want something else.”

I open my mouth. I'm about to say no, by default, but there's this pang inside of me. I am hungry. I know I'm not supposed to need anything. Not supposed to want. But I hadn't really eaten since that granola bar at lunch. I clear my throat. “Maybe. I mean, pizza kinda sounds good. I mean, only if you were going to have some. Were you?”

He smiles. “Sure.”

And I'm thinking:
He's nice, really nice.
I think I smile too as he takes the pizza box into the kitchen. I hear some dishes clanging and then random beeps as he presses buttons on the microwave, and the familiar buzzing moan. He steps into the doorway between the kitchen and living room, leaning against the wall. Just looks at me from across the room. He's a little blurry without my glasses. I can't tell what he's thinking, but for once, not knowing doesn't seem so frightening. We don't speak. It feels okay.
BeepBeepBeep.
“Be right back,” he whispers. I say okay, but I don't think he hears me.

He comes back into the room, balancing two mismatched plates in his hands while switching off the kitchen light with his elbow. Setting the plates down on the coffee table, he sits next to me and asks, “You wanna watch something?”

I nod. “Sure.”

He flips through tons of channels, without even waiting to see what's on before switching. That's something Caelin does all the time. It annoys the shit of me, but not now, not with Josh. “Nothing's really on, sorry.” He sighs. “How's this?”

I have no idea what this is, some sitcom with a laugh track. Stupid. Perfect. “Doesn't matter. This is fine.” I do know that I feel more normal right now—sitting on his couch eating rubbery reheated pizza, him in his shabby pajamas, me with no makeup, hair a mess, watching something mindless on TV—than I've felt in a long time.

He finishes his slice in, like, forty-five seconds flat. I've never understood how boys can eat like that. Don't they feel like pigs? I guess not, because he just leans back into the pillows and alternates between watching me and the TV, grinning.

“What?” I finally ask him.

“Feeling better?”

I nod, “Mm-hmm.”

“Good. Do you always eat this slowly, or is it just 'cause I'm here?” He smirks.

“It's called tasting, maybe you've heard of it?” I must be feeling better, good enough to be a smart-ass, anyway.

“I've never seen you eat before. You look cute.” He laughs—it sounds so real it makes me want to laugh too.

I stick the last bite in my mouth, thinking this was maybe the best pizza I've ever had in my life. “When I'm shoving food into my face?” I say with my mouth full.

He nods his head yes. “You have, uh, like, sauce”—he touches the corner of his mouth—“right there.”

“Eww, stop watching me eat!” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Did I get it?”

“Uh-uh, come here, I'll get it.” I lean in, still wiping my face. “Closer,” he says, “let me see.” I'm practically on top of him by the time I realize he's messing with me. He grins as he moves in to kiss my mouth. “Got it.”

I shove his arm gently and lean against him. And he puts his arm around my shoulder. On the TV a man is walking down a city street wearing some ridiculous bunny costume.

“What the hell are we watching?” he laughs.

“I have no idea.”

He reaches for the remote and turns it off, sinks down into the couch and tugs the afghan out from under us, pulling it up around my shoulder so that I'm lying with my head on his chest. “So, why were you crying?” he finally asks.

“I don't know,” I breathe.

“Was it because of me, 'cause of last night, I mean?”

“No. No, it wasn't anything to do with you.” I feel him exhale beneath me. “I'm sorry about all that, by the way. I don't even know what happened.” It amazes me how the apology just slips out, so easy.

“I'm sorry too.”

We breathe against each other, and with every exhale I feel like I'm getting lighter, cleaner, like the residue from all those old, stagnant emotions is working its way out of me. I start drawing these invisible lines on his forearm, connecting the constellations of tiny, sparse freckles. “I got in this big fight with my mom,” I volunteer.

“How come?”

I take a breath and start to tell him about the stupid fight. But then I keep on talking; I tell him about how things have been bad with my parents in general, especially since Caelin has been gone. How they think I'm at Mara's house. How sometimes I feel like Mara isn't really my friend at all. How I think I am beginning to truly hate my brother. Words, so many words.

I have an image of the Tin Man stuck in my head. Dorothy and Scarecrow finding him rusted solid in the woods, oiling his mouth and jaws, and then, magically, squeak, squeak, squeak, much like a mouse, he says “M-m-m-m-my goodness, I can talk again.” It is like that. Cathartic. I feel like I might never shut up again.

He listens patiently as the words flow out effortlessly, offering up mm-hmms and yeahs at the appropriate times.

“Sometimes”—I'm not sure if I should say something this terrible out loud—“sometimes, I don't think I believe in God.” Because what kind of God lets bad things happen to people who so desperately try to be good? “I know I used to, but now—I'm just not sure. That's really bad, isn't it?”

“No. Everybody has that thought,” he answers casually.

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. I think that too. It's hard not to when you look at the way things are. How fucked up the world is, I mean.”

“Mm, yeah,” I agree. But the truth is that right now, in this moment, the world feels pretty amazing to me.

“We all think things we're not supposed to think sometimes,” he continues. “Like how sometimes I don't even like basketball.”

“I thought you
lived
for basketball?”

“Actually, sometimes I fucking hate basketball,” he says with a laugh. “You know, if you think about it, it's just stupid—pointless, really. It's not like you're actually doing anything or helping anyone. It's basically just a big waste of everyone's time. I hate that just because you happen to be good at something, people automatically think that's what makes you happy, but it's not really like that, you know? It's not that simple.”

“Yeah,” I agree, kind of in awe. I knew he was smart, as in he got good grades, but I had no idea he actually thought this deeply about things, that he was maybe more complex than I imagined, more than just a nice guy with killer eyes.

“You know, I got this basketball scholarship, and I don't even really want to go to college. I want to take a year off. Travel or something. I don't even know what I want to go to school for, but my parents won't hear me. They want me to be something big. Like a doctor or a lawyer or a CEO, or something. Not that they would have any clue what's involved—neither of them even went to college.” He laughs, and then says, “My parents.” That's it.

“What about them?” I ask.

“They're just—” he starts, but stops. “You know, they're not really at my cousin's wedding. They just think that's where I think they are.” He stifles another laugh so it's just a short burst of air. “My mom doesn't know how to clear her browser history, that's how I know where they really are. . . .”

“Well, where are they really?”

“They're at this retreat—I guess you could call it a counseling thing.”

“Like for couples, you mean?” I ask, just to clarify.

“Like rehab,” he says flatly. We both pause, neither of us knowing exactly how the air suddenly became so thick and heavy. I notice my hand has stopped touching his arm. His fingers stopped running along my back. He holds his breath. I can hear his heart through his shirt, feel its beat accelerating. “My dad,” he says uncertainly, answering the question I was silently asking. “He's been in and out of rehab for—well, forever, really—my whole life, anyway.”

I raise my head to look up at his face. He stares at the ceiling, his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows once, not looking at me.

“He just can't stay clean.” He goes on like he's having a conversation with someone else that only he can hear. “I don't understand why. Things will be going really good for a while, sometimes for even a year or so, but then he just goes back to it. Nothing works, this won't work either.”

“Rehab,” I say, like a moron morbidly unprepared for the realness this conversation requires of me. “What for?” I ask.

“I'm not sure. He's gotten into drugs before—nothing illegal—like prescription stuff. I mean, not that it's actually prescribed to him or anything.” He laughs bitterly. “But drinking is always the biggest, you know, problem.”

“Oh,” I breathe.

“I remember this one time when I was a little kid, my dad was supposedly on a business trip, and he had been gone for what seemed like a really long time.” He pauses, like he's remembering it all over again right now. “But then I overheard my mom on the phone with my one aunt, saying something about how my dad was at a halfway house.” He laughs again. “And I thought it was like, half a house, or something. So, I remember I drew this picture of my dad sitting in this house that was like, sawed in half, right down the middle,” he tells me, his hand dividing the air in front of his face. “And when I showed my mom, I remember she started crying and I didn't know why. I guess that was when I first understood—in some really vague way, anyway—that something was wrong with him.”

I wish—wish to God—I knew what to say right now. I open my mouth, but there's nothing in my brain, so I just touch his face, his hair, try to help him relax.

“I was cleaning the leaves out of the gutters the other day,” he continues, “and I found five bottles in the gutters, like, just sitting there. Full. I don't get it, I really don't. I mean, when? Why? When did he even do that? Why the gutters? Who does that?”

“Oh God, I don't know,” I whisper. Except I think I might—they were there, just in case—and it scares me that I might kind of understand.

“I knew it had to be bad this time, so I told my mom and the next thing I know they're going out of town for a wedding. I just wish they would tell me the truth, it's not like I'm a kid anymore. It's not like I don't already know what's going on.” He repositions his body against me, and while I'm listening to him, I am also acutely aware of the fact that I have never felt so completely unthreatened in my life. “When I busted my knee sophomore year, I got a script for painkillers, and my mom made me hide them from him. My own dad.”

I open my mouth. I'm about to say something useless, like
I'm sorry
, or
That really sucks
, but thankfully he just keeps talking.