The Way I Am Now (The Way I Used to Be)
The Way I Am Now: Part 1 – Chapter 9

We’re dozing to a movie playing on Steve’s laptop when my phone vibrates on the nightstand. I raise my head from its spot on his chest to look at the time.

He tightens his arms around me as we settle back in. But then, in the next beat, suddenly he’s sitting up, dumping me off him. “Seriously!” he shouts, looking down at my phone as the screen darkens. “Why’s he texting you at one thirty in the morning?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Do you really want me to check?”

“No,” he says abruptly.

I reach across him and flip my phone over, facedown, pretending I don’t care that he’s just looked at my phone without my permission, that I don’t care about whatever it is Josh has said. Steve is staring at me as if I should have some kind of explanation.

“Are we still on this?” I ask. “Because if we’re going to have this fight again, I’d rather just go home.”

Reluctantly, he lies down next to me. It vibrates a second time, and we both ignore it. The third time, Steve sits up again. “Oh my God, what the hell does he want?”

I reach for my phone, and this time I turn it off, but not before I catch a glimpse of the beginnings of each message lighting up the screen:

It was nice to . . .

I’m sorry if I . . .

Can I see you . . . ?

“I don’t know. I don’t care,” I lie. “Forget about it,” I tell him. Even though I’m already trying to fill in the ends of each sentence, even though all I want to do is stare at the words and overthink each and every one for hours on end.

“Sorry,” Steve says, closing his laptop and setting it on the floor. “That kinda ruined the mood.” The mood was already ruined, though, before we even got here. He lies back down next to me in a huff.

“Again, I feel like you’re blaming me or something. It’s not like I asked him to text me.”

“I know,” Steve says. “I’m not blaming you. I blame him, believe me.”

I hesitate to say the rest, which is, again, we’re friends and friends text each other and I don’t like him thinking he has any say in the matter. But instead of that, I ask him, “Do you still want me here?”

“Of course,” he answers, softening a bit as he looks at me.

“Well, can I borrow a T-shirt or something to sleep in? I hadn’t planned on not going home tonight.”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry, I should’ve offered,” he says, remembering that he’s supposed to be a nice guy. He jumps out of bed, and I follow him over to his dresser, where he opens a drawer overflowing with his signature nerdy graphic tees, all in various states of unfolded. “Take your pick.”

I sift through until I replace the one I’ve seen him wear so many times over the years of being friends, then not being friends, then being sort of friends again, and now this, whatever we’re trying to be now. It’s got a picture of a cat holding up a bone, with the caption I FOUND THIS HUMERUS. I drape it over the front of me and turn to look at him. “How about this one?”

He laughs and nods. “Perfect.”

And I start to relax for the first time since I let go of Josh’s hand earlier tonight. Face-to-face, I think we both realize at the same time neither of us knows quite what to do. We’ve seen each other without clothes a few times before, but it wasn’t like this, just standing in front of each other.

“Um,” he says, nervously pushing his hand back through his hair. “Want me to turn around or . . . ?”

“No,” I say uncertainly as I pull my shirt off over my head and set it on top of the dresser. Except now I’m feeling a little self-conscious just standing here in my bra, so I start unbuttoning and unzipping my shorts to have something to do with my hands. Steve takes his jeans off and sets them next to my shirt, making us even. Now he’s wearing only his boxers and the band T-shirt from earlier. He reaches for the humerus shirt and raises it up over my head so I can easily slip my arms into it. Thankfully it’s big enough that it falls past my butt.

“Thanks.”

I finish taking my shorts off and reach under the shirt to take my bra off. We get into bed, and he looks down at me, grinning in this shy way that reminds me of the chubby, awkward freshman version of Steve I used to be friends with.

“What?”

“I just never would’ve thought that shirt could look so sexy.”

I reach up to turn off the light, laughing. But he kisses me, hard, swallowing the sound. He moves his hands over the shirt more confidently, more freely than he has ever touched me in the three months we’ve officially been together. He’s usually so timid when things heat up, but the way he’s pulling my whole body closer to him, it sort of takes my breath away. Maybe it’s because of his dad being gone, or Josh, still no doubt in the back of his mind.

I don’t know. Whatever it is, I want to let myself go with it. I don’t want to fight it, don’t want to keep waiting for every last thing to feel right before I get to enjoy this. The kissing and the weight of him, the closeness. He pushes the shirt up my stomach and pulls his own off over his head so we’re skin to skin. He pulls my leg up around his waist, rubbing himself against my hip, his thigh pressing between my legs.

“Do you like that?” he whispers.

I nod in the small space between us.

I don’t care that I don’t love him. I like him; I trust him. Pretty much, anyway. Even if the events of the evening have only shown me that he clearly doesn’t trust me, I try to shove the rest of this night out of my mind. He trails his hand down my stomach, inside my underwear, and groans as his fingers slide against me.

“I have a condom,” he says with his lips to mine. “If you want to try again.”

We’ve tried to have sex three times, but something always goes wrong. The first time I was the one to freak out, the second time he was, and the third, we were both too nervous and it didn’t last long enough to count it as having happened. I would say yes right now if I thought it would be easy. But these things are never simple with him, and I don’t think I can take one more emotional hit today.

“Wait,” I say, pulling his hand out of my underwear. “Can we just stay like this for now?” I ask him, drawing his body closer with my arms and legs. “This feels really good.”

“I’ll do whatever you want.” He’s kissing me as he repositions himself between my legs so that his whole body is against me now, only a couple of thin layers of underwear between us to dull the sensation of how hard he’s pressing down on me, the friction of our bodies barely absorbed by the fabric. “Is this good?” he asks, breathless.

I gasp, “Yes.”

We’re both breathing heavier and moving faster. And as his hands roam under my shirt now, I can’t get Josh out of my head. I can’t stop thinking about his hands touching me, his arms, his breath, his voice, his body. I open my eyes in the dark to try to remind myself of where I am, but it’s no use because it becomes Josh’s room.

A moan escapes my mouth, and I get scared that somehow he’s going to be able to tell it’s not for him. He thrusts harder, though, and I start to wonder if maybe his head is somewhere else too. I can’t help but think about how if we were really having sex and not unceremoniously grinding on each other, he’d really be hurting me. But we’re not, I tell myself, we’re not, so he’s not. It’s okay.

“God, I’m close,” he’s saying as I’m thinking all this.

I close my eyes again and try now, try so hard, to think of Josh and not Steve. I am a bad person, I know. But I don’t want this to end. I don’t know when I’ll get to feel this way again, and I want to savor it as long as I can. He’s pushing against me so hard, I stretch my arms up over my head, reaching for the wall behind us, just to have something solid to hold on to.

“I’m so close,” he breathes against my neck.

But before I can even consider how close or far I am, he grabs my arms so abruptly, it shocks me back into reality.

“Steve.” That’s too hard, I want to say, but it’s all happening so fast. He wraps his hands around my wrists and holds my arms down against the bed. “Steve?” I repeat, but he’s not looking at me, not hearing me. I push and pull my arms. I try to move. I can’t. I squeeze my legs around him, trying to make him slow down. I try to call his name again, but my voice is frayed, and I’m not getting any volume.

It feels like something in my heart stretches and snaps like a rubber band, some force rushing toward me like hands pulling me underwater. Dark, freezing-cold water that I can’t see through.

I’m pulled through this murky darkness until I’m back there again. And it’s not Steve anymore; it’s not Josh. My wrists are pinned, twisted together, held so tight I’m afraid they’re slowly breaking. Again. Another hand around my throat. Again. A voice telling me to shut up. Again. I’m drowning. I can’t fight this. I struggle against him. Yell at him to stop—I think I do, at least. Not breathing. For too long, I’m not breathing. I’m drowning, I must be. And then, when I’m sure I’m going to just let go, sink, die, those hands holding me under release their grip, and I break the surface of the dark water, gasping, flailing.

On my feet, I turn the light back on. I’m breathing heavily, coughing, pacing, trying to stave off the memories that just invaded my mind, my body, without warning.

Steve watches me for several seconds, sitting there in bed, a pillow pulled across his lap. “Edy!” he shouts, his eyes wide, like this isn’t the first time he’s said my name. “Edy, where were you just now?”

“Where were you?” I shoot back at him.

“I was here,” he says. “I—I’m here.” And he’s looking at me so innocently, I can’t take it. I turn around and place my hands against his desk, trying to brace myself, and I let out a slow, shaky breath. I look up at myself in the mirror. Clear, harsh edges. No blur, no disappearing acts. I am fully here.

“Please come back to bed, Edy,” Steve says gently.

I meet his eyes in the mirror and have to look away again. “I need a minute,” I manage to tell him between breaths. And then I watch as his reflection gets out of bed and cautiously walks up behind me.

“You’re scaring me,” he says. “Tell me what I did. Please?”

“Nothing,” I choke out. “It wasn’t you.”

“It had to be,” he counters. “Everything was fine—good, you said it felt good—and then something happened.”

I shake my head. He places his hands on my shoulders, slowly turning me around to face him. He takes my hands in his. “Jesus, you’re trembling.”

I snatch them back from him and shake them out. “I’m fine.”

“Is it a panic attack or anxiety attack or whatever?” He freezes, looking genuinely worried. “What should I do?”

“Just—just stay right there,” I tell him, holding my arms out so he doesn’t come any closer. “For a second.” I gasp. “Okay?”

He nods. He doesn’t move. I step back and lean against the desk again. Close my eyes. Breathe in and out. In and out. In and out until my lungs work again.

When I open my eyes, Steve is sitting on the edge of his bed. He’s put his shirt back on.

“Come back, we’ll just cuddle, okay?” he says, as he holds the blanket up for me to climb in. I do. I back up against him, and he wraps himself around me. He’s always good at this part. “I’m not him,” he says softly, smoothing my hair back. “You know that, right?”

If I speak, I might cry, so I just nod. Because I know what he’s talking about. He’s not Kevin. Of course he’s not. But he’s not Josh, either.