Page 116 of The Way I Am Now
“You okay?”
I shrug. “Ish.”
“Okay-ish?”
“Yeah,” I answer. “You?”
“Well, other than apparently looking like shit, I’m okayish too.”
I start laughing, and so does he.
“Dude,” he says, taking a sip from the bottle. “We really put the ‘fun’ in dysfunctional, don’t we?”
“Pretty much,” I agree. “Also, did you just call me ‘dude’?”
“I’ve had a lot to drink,” he says with a laugh, shaking his head.
“Hey, should you maybe slow down a little with that?” I ask, nodding toward the bottle between his hands. It’s like we swapped places at some point. Now he’s the screwup, and I’m supposed to be the good one, but I don’t think he realizes I’m not done being the screwup yet. Our parents must be so proud.
“Yeah, I know,” he says, brushing me off. “I will.”
“When?”
“When that motherfucker’s behind bars,” he answers, and takes another mouthful.
“Well, but what if that doesn’t happen?” I ask. “Then what?”
“Don’t even say that,” he tells me. “Don’t even put that out there.” He swings his arm toward the sky,out there, at the universe, and the wine spills all over both of us. “Sorry,” he says. “Sorry.”
“It’s all right,” I tell him, shaking the wine off the sleeve of my coat.
He sets the bottle down on the ground against the leg of the swing set and pulls a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. Lights one up and offers it to me.
“Tempting,” I admit. “But no thanks.”
“Good,” he says. “That’s really good.” He inhales, and the red tip of the cigarette burns bright in the darkness. He leans backward and exhales the smoke away from me. Then he holds the cigarette out in front of him and stares at it for a moment before depositing it into the wine bottle, where it sizzles and hisses. He looks at me for approval, and I hold my hand out for a little fist bump, which he returns.
“Hey, I bet you’re sorry Josh couldn’t make it for our lovely family gathering tonight?” he says, grinning. “Does he know we’re crazy?”
“Oh, yeah.” I can’t help but laugh. “He definitely knowsI’mcrazy, anyway. Um, we broke up, actually,” I say out loud for the first time.
“Oh no,” he says, his voice softening with genuine concern. “Why?”
“Guess my craziness got to be a little much for the poor guy,” I try to joke, but it’s not funny, not even to me.
“You need me to go kick his ass again?” he asks. “I will.”
“No, it’s my fault.” I look down and drag my foot through the patch of dirt under the swing. “I did something pretty messed up that really hurt him, and . . .” I shrug and sniffle, trying to hold back the tears. “I just don’t know how we move on, really.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, but thankfully, he doesn’t press for details about what I did that was so messed up.
“Yeah, me too.”
Now if only I could figure out how to tell Josh that I’m sorry.
The next day, I’m with Mara in her car, eating drive-through tacos. She tells me about Thanksgiving with her dad and his fiancée and how they had the meal catered.
“It was really yummy,” she admits. “But I didn’t tell them that. It’s still cheating to cater, even if it tastes better than the nasty turkey my mom always made. That dryness spells family.” She tears open a packet of hot sauce and squeezes it into the cheese dip we’re about to share, then asks me the question I’ve been dreading: “So, how are things going with you?”
