Page 7 of The Way I Am Now
It all feels foreign to my body, the laughing, the lightness. It’s making me jittery but in a pleasant, slightly overcaffeinated way. To be with him again, sitting here talking, it feels like I must be making it up—makinghimup—dreaming or hallucinating or something. Because there’s nothing I needed more tonight than this, with Josh. And God, how I’m not used to getting what I need.
“So, you seem good, Eden,” he says, but his smile is fading.
“Yeah.” I nod, but I can’t quite make myself meet his eyes. “Mm-hmm.” Nodding, nodding.
“Youseemgood,” he repeats, and I sense it’s more a question than an observation, but I’m not ready to let go of the lightness yet.
“So you’ve said.” I try to keep up this banter that we’re so good at, but he studies me, squinting like he’s trying to see something in the distance, except he’s looking into my eyes. I focus on my hands and not him.
“Come on,” he says softly.
“What?”
“Are you good, though?” he finally asks.
I shrug. “I mean, sure. I—I’m doing better, I think. I’m not doing a bunch of crazy shit anymore, so there’s that.” And I hope he knows that by “crazy shit,” I mean I’m not getting trashed and sleeping around with strangers anymore. “Oh, and I quit smoking,” I add.
“Really?” He smiles. “Congratulations. I’m impressed.”
“Thank you. It sucks.”
“That’s not really what I meant, though,” he says. “I meant, how areyou? Like, are you okay?”
“It’s not like I really have a choice to not be okay. But I’m trying to be b-better,” I stutter. Jesus. It’s not a hard question, but I can’t seem to answer it.
“Yeah, but how are youactuallydoing?”
He’s going to make me say it.
“What? I’m not okay, Josh,” I blurt out, almost yelling, but then I rein it in. “Sorry. But yeah, I’m not. Okay?”
“Okay,” he says gently. “No, I’m not trying to argue. It’s just that you know you don’t ever have to pretend with me. That’s all I’m saying.”
“I’m not pretending anything with you,” I tell him. “You’re the only person I don’t pretend with, so . . .” Not finishing that sentence.
He opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something more, but then he suddenly shifts toward me. I think, for a fraction of a second, he’s leaning in to kiss me. My heart starts racing. But then he reaches to take his phone out of his back pocket. As he looks at the screen, all I can think is that I would’ve kissed him back—again, always. Even with Steve just inside. Even with Josh’s girlfriend existing somewhere. I would have.
“Someone missing you?” I ask, really hoping that someone is not the girlfriend—that he’s not about to leave me to go be with her instead, even though he should. “Do you need to go?”
Please say no.
He glances up at me while he taps out a message. “No. I’m just letting my friend know I’m out here.” He sets his phone facedown on the table now and looks at me with those eyes that have held me captive since I fell into them in a stupid study hall on my first day of tenth grade and have never quite managed to climb my way out. “What about you?”
“What about me?” I ask, unable to even remember what we were talking about.
“Is someone missing you in there?”
“I highly doubt it.” I tilt my phone toward me so I can see the screen. Nothing yet. I set it facedown next to Josh’s phone. “I told them I needed some air. It was getting kind of claustrophobic in there, and the music was giving me a headache.” I decide to leave out the part about spotting Jock Guy. It would be too tempting to tell him the whole story of what happened that day, and I need to focus right now—focusonright now—soak in as much of this as I can, while I can. “I’m not much fun these days, I guess,” I conclude with a shrug.
He keeps watching me as I talk and then reaches out. “Here, can I see?” he asks, gesturing to my hand.
I let him cradle my hand in his, carefully positioning his thumb and forefinger where my thumb and forefinger meet, pinching that fleshy part.
“It’s a pressure-point thing,” he explains, pressing down harder. “Supposed to help with headaches. My mom used to do this for me when I was a kid.”
I close my eyes because this suddenly feels too intense, too much intimacy and realness, too much everything. I can’t take it. I feel my throat closing up, my eyes burning. I could cry right now if I let myself, and I’m not even sure why. But I won’t. I won’t.
“That doesn’t hurt too much, does it?” he asks, easing up for a moment.
