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

It’s been four months since I’ve been back. Four months since I’ve seen my parents. Four months since the fight with my dad. Four months since I was here in my room. I’ve been home only a couple of hours, haven’t even seen my dad yet, and already I feel like I’m suffocating.

I slouch down and let my head sink into the pillows, and as I close my eyes, I swear I can smell her for just a moment. Because the last time I was here, she was here next to me, in my bed, no more secrets between us. And as I turn my head, I bring the pillow to my face and breathe in deeper this time.

My phone vibrates in my hand. It’s Dominic, my roommate, who practically packed my bag and dragged me out of our apartment and into his car to come home this week. I had to come home sometime.

His text says I’m serious. be ready in 10 . . . and don’t even think about bailingThis is property © NôvelDrama.Org.

I start to respond, but now that my phone is in my hand and Eden is on my mind again, I find our texts instead, my last three still sitting there unanswered. I haven’t looked at them in a while, but I keep rereading them now, trying to figure out what I said wrong. I’d seen the article about his arrest. I asked her how she was handling it all. Reminded her that I was her friend. Told her I was here if she needed anything. I checked in a couple of days later, then again the next week. I even called and left a voice mail.

The last thing I wrote to her was should I be worried?

She didn’t respond and I didn’t want to push. Now months have passed, and this is where we are. I type out a simple hey and stare at the word, those three letters daring me to press send.

My bedroom door creaks open with two sharp knocks, followed by a pause and one more. My dad. “Josh?” he says. “You’re home.”

“Yep.” I delete the word quickly and set my phone facedown on the bed. “What’s up?”

“Nothing, I—I just, uh, wanted to say hi.” He shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, his eyes clear and focused as he looks at me. “I didn’t see your car outside.”

“Yeah, Dominic drove us home,” I explain, feeling my guard lower, just enough to let my anger start to rise inside me.

“Oh,” he says, nodding.

I pick my phone back up; hope he takes the hint.

“Actually, if you have a minute, I’ve really wanted to talk to you. About the last time you were home. Look, I know I wasn’t there for you when you were dealing with . . .” He pauses, searching for the rest of a sentence I suspect also isn’t there.

I watch him closely, waiting to see if he actually remembers what it was I was dealing with the last time I was home. I make a bet with myself while I wait: If he remembers even a fragment of what happened four months ago, I’ll stay in tonight. I’ll talk with him like he wants. I’ll tell him I forgive him, and I might even mean it.

“You know,” he starts again, “when you were dealing with all that.”

“What is this, making amends?” I ask. “Step nine already? Again,” I mutter under my breath.

“No,” he says, wincing softly. “It’s not that, Josh.”

I sigh and set my phone back down. “Dad, I’m sorry,” I tell him, even though I’m not sorry. But I don’t need him breaking his sobriety again just because I took a cheap shot, either. “Shit, I just—”

“No, it’s okay, Joshie.” He holds his hands out in front of his chest and shakes his head, just taking it. “It’s all right. I deserved that.” He backs up a couple of steps until he can hold on to my doorframe like he needs something to lean on. He opens his mouth to say something else, but the doorbell interrupts him. I can hear my mom downstairs now too, talking to Dominic.

“I don’t know why I said that.” I try to apologize again. “I’m sorry.”

It’s fine, he mouths to me, then turns toward the hallway, greeting Dominic like the picture-perfect father he sometimes really is. “Dominic DiCarlo in the flesh! Good season for you, I hear.” What he doesn’t say is how my season has been shit—he doesn’t need to say it, we all know. “Keeping this one in line, I’m sure,” he adds in that good-natured way of his.

“You know it,” Dominic jokes, shaking my dad’s outstretched hand. “Someone’s gotta keep him in line.” He’s all cheerful until he sees me, taking off my hat and trying to smooth the wrinkles in my shirt. “Man, you’re not ready at all.”