Page 30 of The Way I Used to Be
“I’m not upset,” I contest immediately. Although, as I listen to the edge of panic in my voice, I do sound upset, so I add, softer, “Really, I’m not.”
“Why are you acting like this, then?”
“Like what? What am I doing?”
“Nothing,” he says quickly.
“Then why are you getting mad at me?” I feel my heart pumping faster again.
“No, I mean you’re doing nothing.”
“What do you want me to do?” I sit up fast, suddenly aware that he could take something from me that I hadn’t given. And apparently I hadn’t given something he wanted. I grope around the bed frantically for any article of my clothing. “I don’t know what else you want from me, but—” I’m not going to wait around to find out.
Now he sits up too. “Wait, what are you doing? Are you leaving?”
I find my bra. “Yes. Can you turn around?”
“What?” He laughs.
“Can you not watch me get dressed?” My hands are shaking. I can’t get the clasp.
“Are you serious?” he asks, a dumbfounded grin on his mouth.
“Yes. Can you please not watch me?”
“Not watch... what are you talking about? Just wait. Wait a minute, okay?” he says, placing his hand over mine, uncurling my fingers. “Just stop. For just a second. What’s happening?” he asks, his eyes locked on mine.
I can’t say what kind of expression I must be wearing—indifference, smug hatred, maybe.
“It’s time for me to leave,” I say, my voice sounding really flat and unaffected. “Is that all right with you?” I can taste the meanness in my mouth as the words pass across my lips. And I’m not even sure why.
“You’re mad?” he asks in disbelief. “You’re mad at me?”
Am I mad? Maybe, but that’s not all. I’m sad. And still scared. And confused, because I don’t understand why I’m still scared, why I’m still sad, why I’m angry. This was supposed to fix things. This was supposed to help.
“Wow. Well, this is just perfect, isn’t it?” he mutters to himself, smirking, but clearly pissed. “What, are you using this against me or something?”
“What are you talking about? I’m not using anything against you!”
He crosses his arms over his stomach, looking oddly vulnerable; I pull my knees into my chest and wrap my arms around them. “Look, I don’t—I’m not—I don’t know what this is.” He’s stumbling over his words. “I mean, is this like some sick game to you or something? Like some test, or something? Or is this just what you do with guys? Because that’s really fucked up.” He’s short of breath, his voice shaking like he’s actually upset.
“Sick game? No.” Test? Okay, maybe. “I thought I was doing you a favor, okay?” I tell him, even though that’s a total lie.
“Doing me a favor how? By making me feel like I’m forcing you to do something you don’t want to do?” Then he adds, quieter, “It’s more like the other way around, if you really wanna know.”
It takes me a second to untangle the insult. “Wait, so I’m forcing you? Oh my God, I don’t believe this!” It feels like my mind is being turned inside out, this situation getting completely backward.
“That’s not what I’m saying, okay. I just—I mean—you act like—”
“I have somewhere to be,” I lie, interrupting him. I stand up and pull the sheet around me, getting dressed as fast as I can. “I’m not going to sit around for this!”
I pull my shirt on over my head as I step into my shoes. I look down at him, sitting so still and quiet, just watching me. Then he says, not yelling, but almost whispering, “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Nothing’s wrong with me!” I hear the volume of my voice mounting; I feel all my muscles going tense and heavy. “I just don’t like wondering what you’re really thinking, what you really want from me!”
“How the f—” he starts, but then stops. “How do you think I feel?”
“Forget it!” I try to stay calm even though I’m so furious I’m shaking. I head for the door, but turn around to look at him, feeling some kind of pressure building up in my throat—pulsing words wanting to be screamed: “Just fucking forget it!”
