Page 33 of The Way I Used to Be
“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 The couch’s matching pillows are on the floor and have been replaced by two pillows from his bed, positioned at TV-watching angles.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.”
