The Way I Am Now (The Way I Used to Be)

I wake up to the click of my lamp being turned on. It’s dark outside my window. I hear the door latch shut, then his light footsteps behind me. The quiet swish of sneakers being removed. He doesn’t need to say a word for me to know it’s him. The sigh in his breath might as well be a fingerprint.

The bed sinks as he climbs in softly. He moves my hair and touches my waist as he eases in beside me, bending his knees into mine, fitting himself around me like a missing puzzle piece. He slowly moves his arm so that it’s resting on top of mine.

“Hey,” I breathe, pulling his arm around me tighter.

“Sorry,” he whispers, kissing the back of my neck. “I was trying not to wake you.”

“No, it’s okay,” I say, my voice still worn and raspy. “What time is it?”

“It’s, like, almost eight.”

“Mm.” I stretch out a little and clear my throat. “I’ve been asleep all afternoon.”

With his face in my hair, he breathes in and says, “God, I missed you.” He grips my sweater in handfuls, pulling me so close. There’s something about it, the way he’s holding me like he’s scared I’m going to float away, that makes me nervous.

“Josh?” I turn around to face him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He touches my face and smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Nothing’s wrong,” he repeats, this sadness in his voice. “I just really missed you.”

I kiss him. “I missed you too.”

He wraps both arms around me, pressing me to his body, kissing my hair, my forehead, my cheeks.

“Wait, let me look at you.” I pull away from him enough to see him more clearly and take his face in my hands. “Aw, your beard is back.”

“Stubble,” he corrects, and finally he gives me a small but real smile.

“Okay, fine, stubble,” I repeat. “I like it.”

“College-era me, right?” he asks, the slightest laugh in his voice.

“More like sexy-era you,” I tease, though I’m really not joking at all.

He buries his face in my neck and laughs.

“I love when you get all shy.”

“Shy?” he repeats slowly, letting his head rest on my chest, like he’s trying to remember what the word means, whether it’s a good or bad thing.

“It’s very cute.”

“Okay,” he says quietly.

“Hey, are you really all right?” I ask him.

“Yeah.” He raises his head to look at me then. “I’m more concerned about how you are.”

“You just seem kinda sad.”

“No, I’m fine. I just didn’t sleep much while you were gone and, I don’t know, I was worried when I didn’t hear from you earlier.”

“Oh. Sorry, my phone—” I glance over toward my dresser. “It’s under there. I forgot to pick it up. Sorry.”

“No, don’t be sorry.” He takes my rebandaged hand in his and kisses it—examines my haphazard placement of Band-Aids for a moment but doesn’t comment on it. “I’m glad you were resting.”

“I’m glad you came,” I tell him, running my other hand over his face.

“So, how are you feeling?” he asks.

“Okay.” I prop myself up so I can kiss him. He nods like he wants more from me. “Better now that you’re here.”

He kisses me softly, quickly, like he’s consciously not wanting it to get too steamy.

“You don’t want to kiss me,” I say. “What, do I have bad breath or something?”

He scoffs. “No, come on.”

He rolls onto his back, and I try to tell myself he’s not moving away from me; he’s making room for me, inviting me in. So I kiss him. I kiss him deeper and deeper. He holds on to me, his hands on my hips, but he’s not giving me much.

I push his shirt up and kiss his stomach—that spot that always makes him squirm. He at least lets out a little sigh, a deep breath in, a small groan. I move on top of him and sit up, one knee on either side of his hips, and pull my sweater off. The T-shirt I wore underneath starts to come off with it, but he reaches out and pulls it down, his fingers barely grazing my skin as he covers my stomach back up.

He gazes at me and opens his mouth like he wants to say something.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He places his hands on my thighs, watches as I take my T-shirt off.

He sits up now, with me in his lap, and kisses me once, lets his forehead rest against the center of my chest. I reach around behind me to unfasten my bra, but his hand catches mine and brings it back around the front, holding it in his.

“Eden.” He breathes my name out slowly. “Hold on, don’t you wanna talk?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, just to catch up, you know?” he says so gently. “You’ve been gone.”

“Oh,” I say. “My God, am I being like a horny teenage boy right now or something?”

He cracks a smile and shakes his head. “I mean . . . I wouldn’t say it like that.”

“I’m sorry, okay,” I tell him, scooting so I’m sitting a bit farther back on his thighs instead of right up against him. “Yeah, please. Talk to me.”

“No, I meant I want you to talk to me.”

“What about?”

He turns his head, sort of tips his hands open toward the ceiling. “Everything. What happened while you were gone, with the hearing and all? How it was being home. I mean, do you know what happens next? You haven’t really told me anything.”

I climb off him now.

“Eden, don’t—”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t shut me out,” he says, reaching for me.

“I feel like you’re the one shutting me out right now,” I tell him.

He squints at me. “How am I shutting you out?”

“You, like, clearly aren’t interested in having sex with me,” I mumble as I pull my sweater back on over my head and shove my arms through the sleeves. “What, am I too sad and pathetic?”

“No, who said anything like that?”This is the property of Nô-velDrama.Org.

“Too damaged? Too messed up?” I continue, gaining steam. “What, tainted?”

“Hey!” he says, his voice stern. “You know that’s not what I think.” He pauses, his chest moving in and out as he breathes heavier. “Don’t put words into my mouth—that’s not what we—we don’t do that.”

“Well, I feel like you’re rejecting me or something.”

I climb over him to get out of the bed. I walk to my dresser, have the urge to take one of my pills. Then I have the greater urge to open up the top drawer and sweep them all inside, close it up tight.

“I’m not rejecting you; I’m just not going to have sex with you when I have no idea where your head’s at right now. I’m worried about you, okay?”

I look over at him, sitting there, so in control of his emotions, so perfectly rational all the time, always doing the right thing. I sit down in my desk chair, try to slow my racing thoughts, try to calm myself, try to feel the chair under me, feel my feet on the floor.

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he says, moving to the edge of the bed, reaching for my hands. “I just feel like I’m in the dark here.”

“I don’t want to talk about the hearing.”

“Okay.” He reaches for the arms of the chair now and pulls me toward him so we’re facing each other. “That’s fine, just tell me how you’re feeling, then?”

“I feel . . . ,” I begin, closing my eyes, letting him take my hands again. “I feel like . . .” I search my brain for anything, a concrete thought, a fleeting image. “A pumpkin,” I tell him. That’s stupid.

“A pumpkin?” he asks. He draws his eyebrows together like he’s not sure if I’m being serious or joking. I don’t really know at this point either.

“No, not a pumpkin, but like a jack-o’-lantern. You know?”

“Okay,” he says, nodding.

“Like someone drew a face on me and carved it into my skin. Scooped out my insides. Just hollowed out, everything scraped clean. And then lit a fire in me and left me out in the cold. And I just . . .” I stop because I’m hearing myself and I feel my mouth twitching, like I could either start bawling or laughing, and I don’t know which. Because I don’t know if I’m being ridiculous or if this is actually the perfect sloppy metaphor for the way I feel right now.

“And you what?” he asks, giving my good hand a tiny squeeze.

“And I just, I don’t know, want to feel human again,” I finish. “As soon as possible.”

His eyes get really deep as he watches me. And then his beautiful mouth just sort of collapses at the corners. He stands and pulls me up out of the chair too. Holds me close, pressing my face against his chest, kissing my hair.