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

“Have you lost weight?” my mom asks while I’m helping her in the kitchen, putting all the side dishes into separate serving bowls and trying to rummage around the drawers for matching silverware.

I look down at my body quickly. I have no idea if I’ve lost weight, gained weight, still have all my appendages. I’ve been avoiding looking into mirrors as much as possible. Because every time I do, I’m just looking into my own eyes, invariably thinking, This is you, this is you, this is you, and wishing I could disappear on command for once.

“Uh, I don’t think so,” I tell her so she won’t worry.

She asks about Josh, if he’s having dinner with his family tonight.

“Mm-hmm,” I tell her, not wanting to lie but also not able to tell the truth. My grandparents will be here soon, and if I burst into tears now, I won’t have time to de-puff my eyes and look normal again before they arrive. At least, that’s the reason I give myself for not telling her we broke up.

“Well, did you at least remember to ask him if he could join us a little later, for dessert?” she tries.

“Probably not,” I tell her. “I think they’re doing a whole big thing over there, so . . .” Still, not a lie, exactly.

“Oh, too bad,” she sighs. “Well, ask him if he has time over the weekend to stop by.”

I close myself in the bathroom and hold on to the sink. Try not to look in the mirror as I open the medicine cabinet for my pills. I’d already taken one earlier, but I guess it was no match for Josh talk. I take another now. And then I inhale and count to five, exhale to five, inhale, exhale, over and over. I don’t come out until I hear my grandparents arrive. At least they don’t know anything about what’s going on with the trial, so that part should make things easier.

“Hi, Gma,” I say, taking turns giving them each a hug. “Hey, Gpa.”

My grandma holds my arm out and scans me, up and down, like she’s cataloging everything wrong with me in her mind. “Good Lord, Eden Anne,” she says, middle-naming me. “You look terrible.”

“Oh” is all I can say. I try to laugh, but I don’t do a very good job of pretending I’m not hurt by her bluntness.

Gpa just shrugs and shakes his head. “Well, you look lovely as ever to me, for what it’s worth.”

“Thanks,” I say, forcing a smile.

“Yes, lovely,” Gma agrees, batting her hand through the air. “But, honey, you’re clearly not well.”

I clear my throat. “I guess I’ve just been so busy, not really getting enough sleep.”

“Vanessa!” Gma yells. “Look at Eden.”

“Please, let’s not.” I turn to Caelin, who’s been lingering behind me. “Caelin,” I prompt, mumbling to him, “a little help?”

“Hey, Grandma.” He hugs her, and then our grandpa reaches out to shake his hand instead of accepting a hug. I check Caelin’s face, but he doesn’t seem surprised—I wonder when that changed. Like, what age was Caelin when Gpa decided it was no longer acceptable to hug him? I hadn’t noticed.

“Oh my God,” Gma gasps, pulling on Caelin’s arm so that he’s in front of her again. “And look at you.” She places her hand against his cheek. “What’s going on around here? You look awful, too.”

We share a look and start laughing.

“No, it’s not funny,” she says to us. “Where are your parents, hiding from me, I assume?”

“We’re right here, Ma,” Dad says, coming into the room holding two wineglasses—one red for Gpa, one white for Gma. Mom behind him, fake smile plastered on her face.

We all sit at the table, and mine and Caelin’s appearances are the first order of conversation. “What are you feeding them, Vanessa?” she asks. “They need balanced diets. My God, they’re just . . .” She pauses and casts her hand across the table in our direction. “Languishing,” she finishes.

I can’t quite locate the precise definition of the word “languishing” in my vocabulary at the moment, but I make a mental note to look it up, because something tells me it’s an appropriate word to describe our current state.

Mom says under her breath, “I knew it was going to be my fault somehow.”

“I didn’t say that,” Gma insists. “Conner, what are you feeding them?” she directs, pointedly, at my dad now, always the equal-opportunist insulter.

“Will you let it go?” Dad finally says. “They’re college students, for God’s sake; they’re just worn out.”

So I guess the trial isn’t the only secret we’re keeping from them. The part about Caelin not going back for his last semester must’ve never entered one of Dad’s weekly Sunday-evening phone calls with Gma over the past year.

I look at Caelin, and he sighs. “Actually,” he begins, but Dad tosses him a stern look that shuts him right down. Caelin shakes his head and pours himself a generous glass of wine, takes a big sip, then fills it up again. No one seems to notice. He sets it between us and tips his head toward me, gives me a small nod. I gladly take a giant sip, which, also, no one seems to notice.

Gpa asks about Dad’s work, and that takes the focus off us for now. Mom busies herself with bringing dishes to the kitchen and refilling them with food. I pick at my mashed potatoes just so I’m not drinking on an empty stomach, but nothing really appeals to me with all these lies filling in the gaps between us.

“Oh,” Gma says, holding her index finger up as if she just remembered something. “Caelin, we were reading in the paper about Kevin Armstrong. Tell me this isn’t that little boy who was always hanging around here?” she says, shaking her head, already in disbelief. “Your roommate?”

Caelin wipes his mouth on his napkin before answering. “It is, actually,” he answers. “The same one.”

“Oh my,” Gma breathes. “He’s in a world of trouble from what I gather.”

Caelin nods and takes a sip of wine. “Yeah, I hope so.”

And then, out of nowhere, Dad slams his hand down on the table. Everyone flinches, the silverware jumps off the plates. “Dammit,” he yells. “Can we just have a decent family dinner for once and not dredge up all this garbage?”

I take in a sharp breath of air and hold it, unable to let it go.

“Conner!” my mom shouts.

“What’s all this about?” Gma asks, looking around the table. “What did I say?”

Then everyone’s suddenly yelling at each other. I don’t even know what they’re saying anymore or who’s on what side of which problem. Gma is still looking around, waiting for someone to tell her what’s going on. I stand from the table and walk around to give her a kiss on the cheek. I do the same to Gpa. And then I continue through the kitchen, grab my coat from the hook by the back door, slide on my shoes, and go outside. The cold damp night air rushes into my lungs, and it’s such a relief to breathe again that I laugh.

I sit down on the wooden seat of our ancient swing set and let my feet dangle beneath me, let my body rock back and forth in the wind. I lean all the way back and look at the stars, studying the white clouds of my breath, counting again, slowly this time. From one to five, in and out, over and over.

I hear the back door open and close. I sit upright and see my brother walking toward me, carrying the remainder of a bottle of wine.

“Well, they left,” he says as he sits down in the seat next to me, offering me the bottle.

I shake my head. “Thanks, I think I’ve had enough.”

“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 knows I’m crazy, 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?”

I tell her what happened with Josh, but she interrupts me before I can tell her the worst part. “Oh my God, Edy, are you telling me you’re pregnant, is that why you—”

“What? No! God, no. I got the morning-after pill—well, actually, Josh got it for me—wait, is that why I what?” I ask. “What were you gonna say?”

“Oh. Nothing. You just look a little . . .” She pauses, squinting as she stares at me. “A little rough. That’s all.”

“Yeah, that seems to be the consensus.”

“Sorry, keep going,” she says, dipping a tortilla chip into the queso and offering it to me. “How did this lead to you breaking up?”

“I knew I’d missed too many days, like I knew it was risky. But I let him . . . you know, come, anyway.”

“Oh,” she murmurs. “Um. Why?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know anymore; I just did. And he’s really pissed. I’ve never seen him so angry. And then I got angry that he was angry, and the next thing I know, he’s telling me what a fuckup I am, and then we’re taking a break and I’m throwing a water bottle at him.” I pause, trying to recall whether I left anything out. “Yeah, that’s pretty much what happened.”

“You threw a water bottle at him?”

“It missed.”

She nods, seeming to think about this detail for longer than feels necessary. “But wait, he really called you a fuckup? That doesn’t sound like him.”

“Well, okay, he didn’t use the word ‘fuckup,’ but that’s what he meant. And he was right,” I continue. “I am a fuckup.”

“Edy, don’t say that.”

“No, I am. What I did? That was fucked up—you think so too.”

“Okay, but one fuckup doesn’t make you a fuckup,” she argues.

“I just keep thinking, if I hadn’t told him and just dealt with it on my own . . .” I venture back into the loop my thoughts have kept getting stuck on these past few weeks. “But I guess that’s not the point,” I say, more to myself.

“Yeah,” Mara agrees. “Can I say something to try to make you feel better that I also happen to believe is true?”

“Okay.”

“I think you did the right thing telling him. I think that’s actually you fucking up less, because you were honest. And I think you guys can work it out.” She takes my hand. “Actually, I know you can.”

I squeeze her hand in thanks, but it just reminds me of how that was our thing—me and Josh—the hand-squeeze private Morse code thing.

“Oh,” I add. “And, of course, there’s that whole little trial thing happening in January. So, I basically have a month to pull myself together and get ready to go through that whole fucking mess all over again.”

She squeezes my hands even harder now. “You can do it.”

I breathe in deeply through my nose and try to absorb some of the tears back into my body before they can make it out of me. “All right, I can’t start crying again—I’ve been crying for three weeks straight. I can’t physically cry again right now or I’m afraid I’m going to cause permanent damage to my body.”

Mara’s eyes light up. “Okay, that gives me an idea.” She wraps up all our food and sticks it back in the carryout bag by my feet, then starts the car—all with this wild smirk across her face.

“Okay, why am I scared right now?” I ask her as she shifts the car into drive.

“Buckle up,” she orders.

She takes us down the familiar roads of our tiny town until, twenty minutes later, we’re pulling into the parking lot of a mostly abandoned strip mall that looks vaguely familiar. And then I see the sign: SKIN DEEP.

“No,” I tell her.

“Hear me out,” she begins. “I was just thinking that we need to do something that’ll remind you of what a badass you are, and seriously, nothing makes me feel like more of a badass than getting a new piercing.”

Mara has been collecting them. First her nose—I was there for that one—then her eyebrow, then her lip, then her tongue, then her navel, and who knows where else these days.

“Haven’t you wanted to get your cartilage pierced since, like, forever?” she asks, reaching out to touch my ear. “It’s very tasteful and cute.”

I shrug. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Well? Why not do it now?”

“I’m not sure the middle of an emotional crisis is really the best time to commit to permanent body alteration.”

“Oh, please,” she says, unbuckling her seat belt. “Emotional crises are literally the only time to do this kind of thing! And a piercing is hardly permanent. A tattoo—now, that’s a lifetime commitment. No, you’re getting your cartilage pierced, and if you hate it, you can take it out. Come on. Cameron’s working today. He’ll get us in right away.”

“He still works here?”

“Yeah. After graduation he moved from piercer to apprentice tattoo artist.”

I follow her inside and recognize the small waiting room from last time—somehow it seems less shady now, though, cleaner. The music playing through the speakers seems gentler, everything softer now than it was before. Cameron comes out from the back and actually looks happy to see me here with Mara.

“Hey, Eden. Wow, it’s been a while,” he says, all smiles.

“Edy’s getting a piercing,” she tells him.

“Actually,” I say as I look around at all the artwork on the walls, “I was thinking I might get a tattoo.” Because maybe I do need something permanent, something drastic. Something to bring me back to reality when I get in my head.

“What?” Mara shrieks. “Yes!”

Cameron sets me down with a bunch of books and says, “Here, look through these portfolios for ideas. I’m gonna finish up with this guy in the back and then we’ll do it.”

I look through the books, turning page after page, waiting for something to jump out at me, while Mara talks with the older tatted-up guy behind the front desk like they’re old friends—and they might be. I’ve missed a lot.

And then I turn the page, and in the middle of all these different elaborate, pretty, floral designs, I see it. “Found it,” I call out to Mara.

She skips over to me and looks. “A dandelion? That’s sweet. Understated. Very you.”

The guy from behind the counter comes over to look too, seeming excited for me. “Nice,” he says. “Where are you getting it?”

I look down at my arms and push my sleeve up. “Maybe here?” I say, drawing a circle with my finger around the inside of my wrist.

“Yeah,” he says with a smile, “that’s gonna look good.”

Mara hops and squeals. “Now you’re making me want to get one too. But I’ll wait. This is your day.”

“No, it’s not. It’s . . .” I start to say, but then I freeze when I see who’s coming out from the back room, Cameron following along behind him up to the counter. I can see he has the sleeve of his T-shirt rolled up, a fresh tattoo on his shoulder, covered with plastic wrap, but I can still make it out. A number. His number from basketball. Forever branded on his body.

It’s Jock Guy. Again, haunting me like some kind of unresolved recurring nightmare.

I watch him as he pays Cameron; he doesn’t even notice me sitting here. He may have chased me down before, but now it’s my turn. Suddenly I’m on my feet, following him out, the chimes on the door dinging twice in quick succession.

“Hey,” I call after him. “Hey!”

He turns around. “Yeah?”

“Do you remember me?” I ask him.

He starts to shake his head, but then I see something register on his face, “Oh. Yeah, you’re Caelin’s . . .” But he pauses. “I mean, your Josh’s . . .” He starts again but stops.

“I’m Caelin’s, I’m Josh’s,” I mimic, savoring the sharpness in my tone. “Eden, my name’s Eden.”

“Right, yeah,” he says, glancing around, maybe looking for Caelin, for Josh—to see if they’re here to defend me. “So, what’s up?”

“Just so you know, I remember what you did that day. When you and your buddy wanted to scare me after school that time. And I know you spread lies about me too.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, but he can’t look me in the eye.

“Yes, you do.”

“What do you want?” he asks. “An apology?”

I shake my head and continue. “I never told Josh you did that. But I just want you to know that it was really fucked up—pathetic, actually.”

“Fine,” he mutters. “That it?”

I shrug. “Yeah, that’s it.”

He nods and starts to turn away.

“You know, I don’t even know your name,” I call after him.

He turns back around and opens his mouth. “It’s Za—”Owned by NôvelDrama.Org.

“No, I don’t want to know it,” I tell him.

“Whatever,” he mumbles, then turns back around, picks up his pace as he walks to his car.

When I go back inside, everyone’s watching me from the window.

Cameron keeps asking if I’m okay, pausing as he dips the tip of the needle of the tattoo pen in the black ink. And I keep telling him I’m fine.

“It hurts, but not in the way I thought it would.”

“Tough girl, huh?” he says admiringly.

I laugh, but he tells me to hold still.

“By the way, I never thanked you,” he says.

“For what?”

“Finally cutting Steve loose,” he answers, and looks up at me like he’s trying to make sure I know he’s genuinely thanking me. “I know I gave you a lot of shit about how you treated him in the beginning, but I didn’t like how he started treating you, either. I’m just glad you ended it when you did, how you did. Before it got too . . .” He doesn’t finish, but I think I know what he means: too volatile, painful, destructive. “For both of you, I mean.”

I just nod in return.

My time with Steve feels like it was so long ago. I don’t even feel like I’m the same person anymore. Back then I felt like I had no choice but to accept whatever kind of affection was offered to me even if it wasn’t what I wanted or needed. But maybe we can only accept the love we think we deserve.

“I know I don’t say it or show it very often,” he adds, not looking up from my arm as he gently wipes the ink and blood off my skin. “But I do think of you as a friend, too, you know.”

“Thank you,” I tell him. “For saying that. And for being good to Mara all these years—she deserves to be loved that way.”

He smiles but doesn’t say anything.

“What do you think?” he asks after he finishes.

I look at my wrist, at my own personal dandelion, little seeds floating off toward the palm of my hand. Wishes, hopes. Mine.