Page 65 of The Way I Am Now
I finish my lunch and check my phone. I forgot my dad texted when I was in line at the sandwich shop.
Your mom and I are looking forward to
seeing you for your bday next week. The
big 21! Tuesday still good? Can’t wait
to meet Eden.
Except I haven’t exactly told Eden that my parents will be here or that they want to take us out for dinner, get to know her. I haven’t wanted to stress her out or put any extra pressure on her. But I’m going to have to. Tonight. I’ll tell her tonight.
EDEN
I sit in the back of the lecture hall so I can slip out a few minutes early without drawing too much attention. I’ve come early to each of my classes this week to explain why, so soon in the semester, I’d have to be out next week. I got the time off cleared with the library and sort of cleared with Captain Douchebag at the café. I traded shifts with someone, but he said he still needed to approve it.
At this point, let him fire me. There are at least five more coffee places in a ten-minute radius of campus. I’m sure at least one of them is hiring.
I walk to my next class, fast, on a mission. This is the last formal explanation I’d need to give.I’m a witness in a court case in my hometown; I have to appear at a hearing next week, so I’ll need to miss class. That was the statement it took me and my therapist the better part of my last fifty-minute phone session to figure out. And that was what I told every one of my professors. Each time, it went over pretty well. No real follow-up questions or concerns. No emotional outpourings on my part.
I have my lines memorized.
I make my way down the steps to the lecture hall floor, where my professor’s standing at the podium trying to connect her laptop to the projector, muttering, “Goddamn thing!” And there’s something so human about her, all frustrated, that reminds me of my mom.
“Um, hi—sorry,” I say as I approach.
She looks up at me and brings her glasses down from the top of her head, puts them on before speaking. “Hello, what can I do for you?”
“My name’s Eden McCrorey. I’m in your World History section this afternoon.”
She nods and glances back down at her laptop, not quite paying attention. “Okay . . . and?” she mumbles, distracted. Again reminding me of my mom.
I take a deep breath. “It’s just that I’m going to have to miss class next week.”
She removes her glasses now and stares at me, as if to say,Oh, really?
I open my mouth to continue, but I realize I’ve already messed up the order of my lines.
“I mean,” I try to start over, “I have to appear as a witness in a trial in my hometown. Or, not a trial.” I stumble and fall over the words. “Yet, anyway. It’s actually just a hearing.” But then I have my therapist’s voice in my head, saying,Don’t minimize, don’t apologize. “Well, not that it’sjusta hearing,” I add.
She takes a step toward me and turns her head slightly, like she’s having trouble understanding me. I’m not explaining this right. This wasn’t what I was supposed to say.
“It—it’s just a preliminary hearing,” I stutter. “To see if there’s going to even be a trial.”
I take a breath and pinch the bridge of my nose. Hard. Trying to drive back the tears I’m feeling working their way through my skull. “Um . . . sorry, I just—”
My lungs are suddenly out of air, and I’m having a hard time refilling them.
“Oh,” she coos. “It’s Eden, right?”
I nod, unable to answer her for some reason. And then she’s taking a step toward me, her arms outstretched. I don’t understand. She’s hugging me before I even realize I’ve started crying.
“Oh, sorry,” I sniffle through her poofy hair in my face.
“It’s okay,” she says, and sort of rocks me back and forth. I feel my cheek collapse into her shoulder, I let my weight fall against her. “It’s okay,” she repeats.
Out of nowhere, I’m sobbing like a child in this total stranger’s arms—she’s smaller than me, and I can actually feel my body shaking hers as I clutch the sharp bones of her shoulders. But I can’t stop myself. “Oh my God, I’m really sorry,” I blather, pulling away from her. I pull my sleeves down over my hands and wipe my eyes. But it’s ugly crying, all snotty and gross.
She turns around and goes to her briefcase, rummaging around for a moment before pulling out a tiny rectangular package of tissues. “Here,” she says, pulling one out and handing it to me.
