The Way I Used to Be

I RING THE DOORBELL at Steve’s house. I don’t know yet what it is I really want from him. I only know that I couldn’t stand to be in my house another minute.

“Hey!” He answers the door with that warm, shy smile that never fails to make me feel bad for not being nicer to him. I look at him and wish, for just a second, that I could be the kind of girl who could like him, really like him. Sometimes I wonder how hard it would be to pretend. “Come in, come in,” he tells me.

I take my coat and my boots off in the entryway of his house. Everything’s neat and clean and quiet. The house is laid out the exact same way as Josh’s house was, just in reverse. But, then again, most of the houses in our neighborhood are exactly the same. There are only about three or four different versions.

“Can you believe we actually got a snow day?” he says. “It looks like they’re probably going to close tomorrow too, my father said. He just called from work. He said the roads aren’t cleared yet at all, so . . .” He drifts off. “Anyway, I’m so glad you called. We can go up to my room. I’ll show you my photo stuff. I mean, if you’re really interested.”

“Yeah, definitely,” I lie.

I follow him up the stairs to his room the way I used to follow Josh up the stairs to his room. Then down the familiar hallway, a familiar floor under my feet.

“So this is it,” he says, holding his arms out as we stand in the middle of his bedroom. Except all I can see is Josh’s bedroom when I look around.

And instantly Josh is there, again, in my mind, taking up all the space, consuming all the thoughts, making my heart go wild. I can hardly breathe. I find myself, for once, not wishing that I were the one who was different, that I were someone else, but that Steve were someone else. That Steve was Josh. That Josh was here instead of Steve, but feeling the way Steve feels about me.

But that’s not what’s real. That’s not what’s happening. In fact, nothing is happening.

And I realize, abruptly, that is the problem. I need something to happen. Need to make something happen. Anything. Now.

I close his door behind us and turn around to face him. “What—” Steve asks, looking at me, alarmed, confused, as I walk toward him. “What are you doing?”

“Come here,” I say, reaching out for him.

“What?” he says slowly.

“It’s okay, just come here.” Cautiously, his hands reach out to meet mine, but he still looks uncertain. And then something passes over his face—he just got it. He moves in to kiss me, but stops, like he needs permission. “It’s okay, I promise,” I whisper. So I close my eyes, focus everything in my mind and my body on pretending that the boy I’m kissing is Josh, and that I am some better version of myself—the girl I used to be, the one that Josh once felt the need to say “I love you” to.

I kiss him, pull him toward me. He kisses back. I pour myself into it, but I don’t feel any different. I need more to happen. More, damn it. I back him up to his bed and he pulls me on top of him. But this isn’t enough. I start to move my hands down his chest and stomach, but he grabs my hands as my fingers touch his belt. He stops kissing me altogether. “Wait, wait, wait. Edy,” he whispers, holding my hands in his. “What are we doing?” he asks, with his eyes darting back and forth between mine, searching melodramatically.

“It’s okay, I promise. I really, really want this to happen.” But that’s such a lie. I feel like I’m close to pleading.

“Well, me too,” he whispers, “but let’s go slow. We have time, right?” He smiles.

I nod, but I barely even understand him. Time? Time for what? This is urgent. There’s no time at all. We need to do this right now. He doesn’t get it—he doesn’t get anything!

He kisses me and touches my hair and my face like he means it; in fact, he doesn’t touch me anywhere else at all. It feels like this goes on forever. And with every second that passes, the less I can pretend, the more real this becomes, the less like Josh I can make him. I get a sick, churning sensation in my stomach. Because I’m using him, using him bad.

Between kisses he whispers all kinds of things to me, in my ear, like, romantic, sweet things. “I’ve never known anybody like you, Edy. You just don’t care what people think—that’s so amazing, that’s so cool.”

But the more he talks, the more I’m just thinking of ways I can get out of this. How can I get out, how can I get out? I repeat in my mind, over and over.

“You’re so pretty and interesting . . . and smart—”

“Steve, please.” I have to stop him there. “I am not.” Smart girls don’t get themselves into mess after mess after mess.

“Ye—” he starts again, but I stop him.

“I’m not any of those things, okay?” I tell him, more firmly.

“Yes, you are.” Pulling me closer, he doesn’t seem nervous anymore, not scared. “I’ve liked you since we were in ninth grade, with the Columbus project, and then the library thing, remember?”

“Lunch-Break,” I mumble absently, maneuvering myself so that my back is facing him. At least this way I don’t have to look him in the eye while I calculate my exit strategy. He reaches his arms around me from behind, his hands crisscrossing over my stomach. My skin wants to crawl off my body.

“You know, I wouldn’t even do the reading for my classes, but I would read all those stupid books cover to cover just so I would have something to talk to you about. And I’d feel like such an idiot because I never understood any of it, but you always did.”

“Wow,” I whisper, looking at the window, not through it, but at the glass, at the mini snowdrifts caught in the corners of the window, the condensation trickling down. It all makes me feel like I could cry. Because, in my heart, I know, I’m not who he thinks I am. Not even close. And he’s not who I want him to be, either.

“I’m so glad this is finally happening,” he whispers. “I really want to get to know you now, Edy. For real. I want to know everything. Like . . . what are your interests, what do you like to do, what kind of music do you listen to?”

I shrug.

He says, “Favorite movie?”

I can’t do this.

“Okay, how’s this: What are you thinking about when you get quiet all the time?”

I have to concentrate all my energy on not allowing myself to cry.

“Edy?” He pulls his arms around me tighter and tighter.

“What?” I finally answer.

He moves my hair and kisses the back of my neck. “Just—I don’t know, tell me anything.”

“I can’t.” I hear my voice and it sounds so wrong, like that’s not what I’m supposed to sound like. I feel my body curl into itself a little more, pulling away from him.

“What is it?” he asks. “What’s wrong?”

That’s it!

I break out of his arms and turn around. I sit up straight, ready to have a face-off. “Steve, will you please just shut up? God!”

He sits up too, looking so confused it makes me want to slap him.

“I mean, what is wrong with you? Can’t we just have fun? You have to ruin it, really?”

It’s almost like he flinches, almost like I really have slapped him. Like I hurt him. With just my words. Sadly, sickly, that makes me feel a little better, a little stronger.

“You wanted me to talk, right? Happy now?”

“I—” he starts. But I don’t hear the next word out of his mouth because I’m on my feet. I swing his bedroom door open and I run down the stairs. I slip on my boots and my coat. I don’t lace or button anything. I just need to get out.

Outside in the cold, I look up and wish on the entire universe of stars that I was anywhere—I close them tight—anywhere but here. But when I open them, I’m staring at the same sky, standing in the same town I’ve been stuck in forever, the same middle of nowhere, feeling the same as I did before. Only worse.

I light a cigarette but only get in a few deep drags before I hear the door screech open, followed by his footsteps shuffling through the snow. Then his voice, crushing the delicate silence of the frozen air.

“Look, Edy, I don’t know what just happened in there.”

I keep my back to him. He places his hands on my shoulders.

“I really have to go,” I tell him, in as even a voice as I can muster. Hooking my shoulders inward, I try to shrug his hands off.

He lets go and steps around in front of me, wearing an expression I’ve never seen on him before. His standard slouching posture straightens as he puts his hands on his hips. He looks bigger than usual, imposing.

“I honest-to-God don’t know what I did,” he says, the words cutting the air. “I’m trying to do the right thing, and you’re acting like you hate me or something!” His eyes get wider as he speaks, colder.

I say nothing. He stands there, waiting for me to deny it, getting angrier every second. I fill my lungs with smoke to stall my response. But then he throws his hands up abruptly, letting them fall heavy as they smack down against his thighs. It’s like my entire body shudders. My cigarette slips out of my hand and falls to the ground.

“I’m just saying that—” He pauses and looks me once over, assessing my face, my body. I try to recover, try to act like I’m okay. “What do you think,” he says slowly, “I would hit you or something?”

I shake my head no, but my mind isn’t sure anymore. Of anything. Or anyone.

“Oh my God, what kind of person do you think I am, Edy?” he says, voice raised. But I don’t know what kind of person he is—hell, I don’t even know what kind of person I am.

I feel myself backing away.

“I wouldn’t,” he says after I don’t answer. “I can’t believe I have to tell you that. I would never do anything like that.”

“Fine. Yeah, I know.”

“Wait, I’m just trying to explain . . . ,” he continues, stepping closer, but I can’t even begin to listen. I nod my head in agreement to whatever it is he might be saying. “So does that make sense?” he finally finishes.

He reaches out to touch my face, my hair maybe, I don’t know—I can’t help but flinch away from him. “Jesus, Edy, you’re not—you’re not scared of me, are you?”

“Yes.” I hear the word exit my mouth and my heart freezes. Because it’s the truth. His mouth drops open. “I mean no.” I try to fix it, try, I try but it’s too late. I’m shaking, my fingers fucking tremble. Christ. “I meant no. I’m not scared, I’m just”—I’m trying but I can’t breathe, like I have bricks on my chest—“just so . . . ,” and suddenly, “so . . . fucking . . . ,” and I’m crying, “tired.” There’s no way to hide it. “I’m just tired, okay?” I blather. “So. Fucking. Tired. And I don’t feel like having some big fucking conversation, that’s all!” I cry out, near screaming, near hysterical.

He says nothing. I cover my eyes. I’m crying with my whole body and all I want to do is disappear. I feel his hand hesitate, hovering over my back, then rubbing awkward circles, and then his fingers in my hair. If he’s saying anything, I don’t hear. All can I hear is my blood rushing and my heart drumming in my ears. A pulsing in my throat, like there’s a big jumbled ball of words stuck in there dying to get out. He puts both arms around me. But I feel suffocated. Don’t want to be held. Don’t want to be touched. Not by anyone ever again in my entire life.

I crunch my teeth together to keep myself from screaming. Screaming in general, screaming at him to get his hands off me, screaming for help, screaming because I can’t make sense out of anything that is happening, has happened, will happen. Screaming because I still feel like I’m back there, always back there, in my heart I’m still that girl. I clench my fists tight and tell myself: No more tears, stupid fucking baby. On three, go. One, two, push. Push my body. Push him. Push, just push. Three. I break out of his arms like an explosion. He stumbles backward. But I’m free.

I’m walking away.

He grabs the sleeve of my coat. “Edy, come on.”

I snatch my arm away from him the second I feel his hand on me. “Don’t touch me!” I only realize I’ve screamed it as my words echo back at me, reverberating against the trees and the dark and the cold. He looks around, panicked, thinking maybe the neighbors are going to hear.

“Don’t be mad,” he says, reaching for me again.

“I’m not mad, just don’t—don’t touch me, okay?” My words shake as they hit the air, my mouth never having demanded such things before.

He holds his palms out in front of his chest. “Fine, fine, I’m not.”

We stand there, staring at each other.

“So what happens now?” he asks.

“You go in. I leave.” I try to be stoic about it, try to pretend I didn’t just have a total meltdown in front of him.

“I mean what happens with us?” Us. God. I can’t answer that question, and I think he knows it too because he changes his face, his tone, and asks instead, “Look, are you okay?”

“I really have to go, Steve,” I say impatiently, careful not to look him in the eye.

“Okay. So we’re okay—we’ll talk tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

“Okay. I’ll call you tomorrow.” He tries to smile.

I try to smile back.

“Wait—I want you to know, Edy, I would never hurt you.” He leans in slowly and brushes his lips against my cheek softly.

“Okay,” I whisper, terrified—more terrified than I’ve been in a long time, of anything or anyone.

“Okay,” he says. “Well, good night.”

“Good night,” I repeat, moving away from him.