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

He wakes up as I’m reaching over him to pick up my phone, still turned off. “What are you doing?” he asks me, voice all rough and groggy as he squints against the daylight. “Aww, no. Why’d you take my shirt off?”

“I need to get home,” I whisper.

“It’s Saturday,” he groans, reaching for me. “Why are you dressed already?”

“I have to go,” I tell him again softly.

“No, please don’t go. Stay awhile. Come on, when are we gonna be able to do this again?”

I sit down on the bed next to him and let him pull me close because I don’t know when we’ll do this again. If we’ll do this again. My head is resting on his shoulder; his arm is around me. I close my eyes, and I feel the rise and fall of his chest. It would be easy to stay like this. I almost let myself float back to sleep, but then he inhales deeply and says, “Edy?”

“Mm-hmm?”

“Can we talk about last night?”

I’m not entirely sure which part of last night he wants to talk about—Josh, our fight, or our latest sad and humiliating attempt at intimacy—but I feel like the conclusion is going to be the same no matter what.

“Do we have to?” I ask him.

“Well, kind of,” he says, sitting up, making me sit up along with him. He maneuvers around so that we’re facing each other, and he rubs the sleep out of his eyes. “Right?”

“Probably,” I admit.

He takes my hand and kisses it. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“What for?”

“Everything.”

“Steve, stop, you don’t have to—”

“No, I knew I was pressuring you to come out last night. I just wanted you there. But that was selfish. And I know I was really out of line when I said that stupid shit about you and . . . him.” I guess he can’t bring himself to say Josh’s name. Sometimes I can’t, either, but I’m guessing it’s for a very different reason in Steve’s case.

“Thanks.”

“And then here, in bed,” he begins but pauses, touching his mouth, suppressing the urge to bite a fingernail. “I feel like I really messed up.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I gave you a panic attack, Edy.”

“It really wasn’t your fault,” I try to tell him, but that’s not entirely true.

“Please just tell me what I did so I don’t do it again.”

He’s looking at me so intently, holding his breath, like maybe whatever he’s thinking he did is worse than what actually happened. “It’s not—it wasn’t that bad,” I begin, and he leans in closer. “You just, like, sort of grabbed my arms.”

“Okay,” he says, expecting more from me.

“Pretty hard,” I add.

“Oh,” he breathes, his eyebrows squishing together.

“I mean, you were holding me down. Really hard.”

“Well, but I thought you wanted it like that.” He looks down at the rumpled sheets, the spot where we were lying as if he’s replaying it. “You were enjoying it, I thought?”

“I—I was,” I assure him. “Until then, anyway. I couldn’t move and I got really scared and I was trying to tell you to stop and I felt like you weren’t listening to me.”

“I did, though. I did stop. I stopped right away.”

I don’t remember that. I don’t remember him stopping. But then, I don’t really know what happened between that being-pulled-underwater feeling and jumping up, already mid– anxiety attack. “You did?” I ask.

“Of course,” he insists, taking both of my hands now. “Of course I did. I swear I stopped the second you said stop. You—you believe me, don’t you?”

“I believe you; I just can’t remember,” I admit, and I’m not sure which one of us is more upset by that realization. “It made me think of . . . what happened. I mean, he did that too. Kevin,” I add, because DA Silverman told me I needed to practice saying his name with confidence and stop sounding so uncertain.

“Jesus, I didn’t realize,” Steve says, rubbing his forehead. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know. It’s—”

“But you know I would let you up. I mean, I didn’t even think I was holding you down that hard in the first place. I figured you could get up if you . . .” But his words fade as I shake my head. I think he’s only realizing right now how easily he could overpower me if he wanted to because he leans over my lap and kisses both my wrists in the place where his hands had been. When he sits back up, his eyes are shiny. “You know I wouldn’t hurt you or try to force you—”

“I know, I know that.” At least, my head knows that. My body hasn’t gotten the message though. “But at the moment, that’s not what I was thinking about.”

He nods and clears his throat like he’s about to say something else, but he hesitates before continuing.

“What?”

“I love you,” he says quietly.

I look down at our hands, and I feel this massive pressure climbing up the back of my throat. Last night I didn’t care about love, but this morning I have to care.

“You don’t have to say it back,” he adds. “But I do, I love you.” Every time he says it, I feel like he’s stabbing me in the heart. “I’ve loved you since Yearbook Club ninth grade, hell, probably even since middle school.”

“No, Steve,” I say, and I let go of one of his hands so I can rub the tears collecting at the corners of my eyes. “You don’t.”

“Don’t tell me how I feel,” he argues gently as he reaches up to touch my face.

“Okay, I won’t tell you how you feel, but can I tell you what I think?”

He nods.

“I think you love the person you knew back then, the person you believe I can become again one day. But that’s not the same as loving me the way I am now.”

“Edy, don’t say that. That’s not—”

“No, even that, Steve. Edy. I don’t want to be called ‘Edy,’ and everybody calls me that anyway. But I’m not her.” I can’t hold back now; I can’t do this halfway. “I’m not her and I—I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

“What are you saying?” he asks, biting his lip, like he’s afraid to let the words out. “Are you . . . ? You’re not breaking up with me?”

I nod, and he lets his head fall into his hands. I hate that this isn’t the first time I’ve made Steve cry. “I’m sorry.” I reach out but can’t quite make myself touch him. “I wanted this to work, I swear, I really did.”

He looks up at me with tears in his eyes. “It could if you tried,” he pleads.

“You think I’m not trying?” My voice breaks over the words, but I continue. “Every minute I’m trying. So hard. Too hard.” And now we’re both crying. “Do you hate me?” I ask him. “Please don’t hate me.”

He shakes his head, and now he leans into me, and for the first time ever, I’m the one to hold him. My arm falls asleep, but I don’t move.

“Steve?” I finally say after our breathing slows and there are no more gasps or sniffles.

“Yeah?” he answers, his voice ragged.

“You really are a ten, you know that, right?”

He laughs. “You’re a liar.”

“I am not.”

He looks up at me and smiles.

“Can I tell you something else?”

He nods.

“I’m not coming back to school.”Published by Nôv'elD/rama.Org.

He opens his mouth but then closes it.

“I just can’t handle it there,” I explain. “Too much has happened.”

“I know,” he says, laying his head back on my shoulder. “Can we stay like this just a little longer?” he asks.

“Sure,” I answer.