Page 96 of The Way I Used to Be
“Why, do I sound drunk?”
“Yeah, you do, actually.”
“Well, I’m not, but hey, that’s probably a good idea. I’m just—I don’t know, I’m just so—fucked up!” I laugh. It’s funny. This. This conversation, it’s ridiculous. “So completely fucked up.” I laugh again. “I’m sorry. You can really hang up if you want.”
“No, I don’t want to hang up. I’m really worried, though. You don’t sound right.”
“I’mnotright. I’m really not. I’m not right. I’m wrong—everything I have ever done in my entire life has been wrong.”
“Eden, I don’t understand what you want, what is this about?”
“I used to love the way you said my name, you know, before you hated me.”
“I never hated you.” He sighs.
“Yes, you did. I made you hate me. It’s okay, though, everyone hates me. I would hate me too. I mean, I do. I do hate me. I’m a horrible, horrible person.”
“Eden, please, just—look, what do you need from me? How can I help?”
“You can’t!” I shriek. And then I cover my mouth because I can’t let him hear that I’m crying. “Look, I’ll let you go. I’m sorry,” I gasp. “I shouldn’t have called. I just—” I sniffle, struggling for enough air to finish this. “I just miss you so much sometimes, and I wanted you to know that I cared. I really did. And there wasn’t anyone else. Ever. I hope you’ll believe me.”
“Wait, Eden, don’t hang—” I do, though, I hang up.
I turn the phone off because I don’t want to know if he calls, and even more so, I don’t want to know if he doesn’t call. I just want to sleep. I just want to fall asleep for a very long time, for forever, maybe.
But I do wake up, 5:45 a.m., like every other morning. And like every other morning, I shower. I brush my teeth. I do my makeup, my hair, get dressed, the usual. I pack my bag, pretend to be getting ready for school. All the while I try to convince myself that last night didn’t happen. Hell, that all of yesterday didn’t happen. I didn’t cry and snivel on the phone to Josh. I didn’t pass out while being questioned by Detective Dorian Dodgson. In fact, I don’t even know a Dorian Dodgson. I don’t know an Amanda, either. Kevin Armstrong? Never heard of him. And rape... all I know about rape is that it’s a terrible thing, something that happens to other people. Not me.
I tiptoe through the living room, past Caelin asleep on the couch. “I’m leaving,” I whisper, too quiet for anyone to actually hear. And then I do. I leave. It’s only six thirty. I try to think of somewhere to go—school is out of the question and the library won’t open for another two hours. The streets are empty and silent. A fresh layer of snow absorbs all the sound in the world.
I turn my phone on. Fifteen missed calls, nine new voice mails.
11:10 p.m.: “Eden, it’s Josh. Please just call me back, okay?”
11:27 p.m.: “Eden, I—I don’t know what’s going on, but please call, just to let me know you’re all right.”
12:01 a.m.: “Eden...”
12:22 a.m.: “Damn it, I’m really worried....”
12:34 a.m.: “... (breathing).”
12:45 a.m.: “Eden, I just want you to know that I don’t hate you. I never hated you. Fuck, will you just call? Please.”
1:37 a.m.: “I’m starting to get really scared that you might be doing something stupid and I don’t want—just please don’t, all right. Just call me and we can talk. Please.”
1:56 a.m.: “Look, I don’t know what happened, but it will be okay. It really will. Just please call me, I’m going crazy here.”
2:31 a.m.: “Eden... if you won’t call me... fuck it, I’m coming there.”
End of messages.
Coming there? Here? No, no, no, no. I dial. It doesn’t even ring on my end before he answers.
“Hello, Eden?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“Jesus Christ, I called you like twenty times!”
