Page 81 of The Way I Used to Be
I take my coat and my boots off in the entryway of his house. Everything’s neat and clean and quiet. The house is laid out the exact same way as Josh’s house was, just in reverse. But, then again, most of the houses in our neighborhood are exactly the same. There are only about three or four different versions.
“Can you believe we actually got a snow day?” he says. “It looks like they’re probably going to close tomorrow too, my father said. He just called from work. He said the roads aren’t cleared yet at all, so...” He drifts off. “Anyway, I’m so glad you called. We can go up to my room. I’ll show you my photo stuff. I mean, if you’re really interested.”
“Yeah, definitely,” I lie.
I follow him up the stairs to his room the way I used to follow Josh up the stairs to his room. Then down the familiar hallway, a familiar floor under my feet.
“So this is it,” he says, holding his arms out as we stand in the middle of his bedroom. Except all I can see is Josh’s bedroom when I look around.
And instantly Josh is there, again, in my mind, taking up all the space, consuming all the thoughts, making my heart go wild. I can hardly breathe. I find myself, for once, not wishing that I were the one who was different, that I were someone else, but thatStevewere someone else. That Steve was Josh. That Josh was here instead of Steve, but feeling the way Steve feels about me.
But that’s not what’s real. That’s not what’s happening. In fact, nothing is happening.
And I realize, abruptly, that is the problem. I need something to happen. Need to make something happen. Anything. Now.
I close his door behind us and turn around to face him. “What—” Steve asks, looking at me, alarmed, confused, as I walk toward him. “What are you doing?”
“Come here,” I say, reaching out for him.
“What?” he says slowly.
“It’s okay, just come here.” Cautiously, his hands reach out to meet mine, but he still looks uncertain. And then something passes over his face—he just got it. He moves in to kiss me, but stops, like he needs permission. “It’s okay, I promise,” I whisper. So I close my eyes, focus everything in my mind and my body on pretending that the boy I’m kissing is Josh, and that I am some better version of myself—the girl I used to be, the one that Josh once felt the need to say “I love you” to.
I kiss him, pull him toward me. He kisses back. I pour myself into it, but I don’t feel any different. I need more to happen. More, damn it. I back him up to his bed and he pulls me on top of him. But this isn’t enough. I start to move my hands down his chest and stomach, but he grabs my hands as my fingers touch his belt. He stops kissing me altogether. “Wait, wait, wait. Edy,” he whispers, holding my hands in his. “What are we doing?” he asks, with his eyes darting back and forth between mine, searching melodramatically.
“It’s okay, I promise. I really, really want this to happen.” But that’s such a lie. I feel like I’m close to pleading.
“Well, me too,” he whispers, “but let’s go slow. We have time, right?” He smiles.
I nod, but I barely even understand him. Time? Time for what? This is urgent. There’s no time at all. We need to do this right now. He doesn’t get it—he doesn’t get anything!
He kisses me and touches my hair and my face like he means it; in fact, he doesn’t touch me anywhere else at all. It feels like this goes on forever. And with every second that passes, the less I can pretend, the more real this becomes, the less like Josh I can make him. I get a sick, churning sensation in my stomach. Because I’m using him, using him bad.
Between kisses he whispers all kinds of things to me, in my ear, like, romantic, sweet things. “I’ve never known anybody like you, Edy. You just don’t care what people think—that’s so amazing, that’s so cool.”
But the more he talks, the more I’m just thinking of ways I can get out of this.How can I get out, how can I get out?I repeat in my mind, over and over.
“You’re so pretty and interesting... and smart—”
“Steve, please.” I have to stop him there. “I am not.” Smart girls don’t get themselves into mess after mess after mess.
“Ye—” he starts again, but I stop him.
“I’m not any of those things, okay?” I tell him, more firmly.
“Yes, you are.” Pulling me closer, he doesn’t seem nervous anymore, not scared. “I’ve liked you since we were in ninth grade, with the Columbus project, and then the library thing, remember?”
“Lunch-Break,” I mumble absently, maneuvering myself so that my back is facing him. At least this way I don’t have to look him in the eye while I calculate my exit strategy. He reaches his arms around me from behind, his hands crisscrossing over my stomach. My skin wants to crawl off my body.
“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?”
