Page 98 of The Way I Used to Be
“Sure, yeah, I get it.” Be cool. Eat. Be normal. And for the love of God, don’t say anything else. “Does she know you’re here right now?” I mumble into my mug. It echoes.
He nods, taking a sip of his coffee.
“What did you tell her, you had to go talk some crazy, lying, stalker girl down off the ledge?” I smile. My face cracks.
“No.” He grins uncomfortably, just slightly. “Not like that anyway. I told her that you were an ex-girlfriend, and I know, I know that’s not how you thought of it, but that’s what I told her, just for the sake of simplicity. And I told her I thought you might be in trouble and I wanted to see you and make sure you were all right.”
“Wow,” I whisper. I don’t know which is harder to believe: the fact that he actually told her the truth, or that after he told her the truth, she let him come anyway. If he were mine, really mine, I wouldn’t let him anywhere near someone like me. “And she was okay with that?” I ask in disbelief.
“Yeah.” He shrugs and finally starts eating. Then he looks up at me for just a moment and says, “Soareyou?”
“Am I what?”
“In trouble?”
Just as I’m trying to figure out how to even begin answering that question, the waitress is back, asking “How is everything, guys? Need a topper there?”
“This is really good, huh?” I say after she leaves, pointing at the pancakes with my fork. “Or am I just that hungry?”
“Eden, are you gonna tell me?” he asks impatiently.
“Tell you what?”
“I don’t know.” He waves his hand in my direction. “You tell me. Whatever it is you called to say—you don’t call that many times unless you have something to say.”
I nod. I do have something to say, many things to say. Too many. “I think I mostly just wanted to tell you how sorry I am,” I admit. “I know it doesn’t change what happened. I know it doesn’t change anything, but I wanted you to know anyway.”
He takes a bite of pancake. Takes his time chewing. And swallowing. And just when it looks like he’s going to say something, he takes another bite. Finally he looks at me, like he’s choosing between saying something mean and saying something nice.
“Eden,” he begins, taking a breath. “Look, I knew things weren’t exactly how they seemed. I guess I sort of understood that you had issues, or whatever. No, that’s a lie,” he corrects right away. “I didn’t understand, actually. Not at all. Not back then, anyway, but I do now.” He flashes me a sad smile before going back to his food. “I thought about you a lot, you know, worried about you a lot,” he says with his mouth full, not looking at me.
“Why?” I whisper, afraid that if I speak too loudly, I’ll wake myself up from this dream.
“Because you were always so—you just never really seemed okay.”
“I guess I wasn’t okay.” I tie my straw wrapper in knots, over and over. “But now?” I laugh. “Now I’m so far past not okay, I don’t even know how I got here. You must think I’m out of my mind. I might be.”
“You keep saying that, why? Did something actually happen?” he asks. I watch him watching me squirm, and I know there’s no way to get out of this now, not without actually telling him. The truth. He deserves the truth, after all.
I had been waiting for three years for somebody, anybody, to say those magic words. And I’ve already let the opportunity pass me by once—when it really mattered—I can’t do it again. My whole body goes tingly. I panic that I might pass out again.
And I hear my voice, smaller than usual, “Yes. Something really bad happened.”
He’s waiting, watching, and looking more and more concerned with every second that passes. “What?” he finally asks. He sets his fork down and leans in toward me.
I look down at my plate, at the puddle of syrup, crumbs of wet pancake. My hands are shaking; I put them in my lap. I open my mouth. “I was...”
“Yeah?” he prompts.
I try again. But nothing comes.
“Eden, what?”
I look around. My eyes set on those crayons again. Then back on him, waiting for me to say a word I just cannot say.
“What?” he repeats.
I reach across the table and pull the cup of crayons toward me. I pull out a broken red. I peel the paper back and rip off a corner of my place mat. My hand wants to break as I press the waxy crayon against the paper.R, I start to write it neatly, but an ugly word need not look pretty. MyAbecomes a shaky triangle.Pis jagged. And theEandDcome fast and furious. I look at the word “RAPED” for just a moment before I fold it in half and slide it away from me, across the table, past my plate and his coffee cup. Careful not to let it touch the few stray drops of syrup that have dripped down the side of the bottle, I move it toward him, along with every last shred of trust and faith and hope I have. He pulls the tiny piece of paper out from under my fingers and all I can do is sit there, staring at my lap, my trembling hands digging into the edge of the seat.
