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

Part 4 – November

It’s been over a month since the nightmare, and things are finally getting back to normal. I’d taken an anxiety pill before Parker and I left the apartment. It’s extra slow to kick in tonight, though, as I sit in the stands by myself, chaos erupting around me.

Someone taps me on the shoulder and gestures to the seat next to me. “It’s taken, sorry!” I shout, but it’s so loud in here, I can barely even hear myself. I set my coat down and try to create a mental bubble while I wait for Parker to get back from the bathroom. But it doesn’t work; I can still feel the sweat on my palms. I can smell too many people in too small a place. I can see the wooden court shining like a lake that might swallow us all up.

The game won’t even start for a half hour and the energy in here is already insane. Everything is . . . too much. I guess the first home game of the season is a big deal. It’s so different from what I remember the last time I attended one of my brother’s high school games, when I was still in middle school and could tuck myself away into a corner and read, somehow managing to block everything else out.

When we were lying in bed this morning, Josh told me I didn’t have to come tonight—he knew I’d have trouble with a crowd this size. But when I said I wanted to, he laughed, reminding me that when we were in high school, I once told him that I’d never be the girl cheering him on at his games.

“Never,” he emphasized, teasing me.

“Oh my God,” I groaned into the pillow. “Why did you even like me back then?”

“Hey, I thought it was funny,” he told me.

“It was mean.”

“No, really, I found your honesty . . .” He paused, looking at the ceiling for the word. “Refreshing.”

“Lucky for me,” I said.

He smiled at me so sweetly I wanted to stay in bed, but I had to get ready for my shift at the café. When I got out of the shower and came back into my room wrapped in a towel that only just covered me, I thought he’d fallen asleep again, so I tried to be quiet as I started gathering my clothes.

But then he sighed quietly through the word “God.”

I turned around to see him watching me.

“What?” I asked, but just the sound of his voice, that way, had already stirred up all these butterflies floating around in my stomach.

“How has it been so long since I’ve seen you like this?” he asked, sitting up.

“We’ve been busy,” I told him, but that’s only part of the truth. The other part was the harder part to admit—that something happened that night neither of us has quite recovered from yet.

I walked over to the bed to kiss him, but he lingered there, taking my hands, pulling me closer. “You smell so good,” he mumbled against my neck. As I drew back, the side of his face was all wet from my hair. I laughed and wiped his cheek with the corner of my towel.

He touched my stomach and brought his hands to my hips, then up to the spot in the center of my chest where I tucked the edge of the towel in to hold it in place. Then he gazed up at me, a look in his eye I haven’t seen in a while. “Do you have a few minutes?”

“A few,” I answered.

He crept over, making space for me. “Come back to bed for a little bit?”

As I lay next him, he kissed me and then studied my face for a few moments, running his finger along the scar above my eyebrow, smiling as he leaned down to kiss it. Then he kissed my mouth again, my neck, moving down, taking his time even though we didn’t really have the time.

The towel peeled away from my body easily. I forgot about the clock.

Because his touch . . . his mouth on my skin, his hands. I couldn’t remember the last time it felt easy like this. To just give in and let go and get lost. I reached down to touch him too, wanted him to feel as good as he was making me feel. But he took my hand and brought my arm up over my head, held it there, gently, for only a second.

“I feel greedy,” I explained.

“Greedy?” he mumbled as he laughed with his mouth against my stomach. “Oh, if you had any idea how much I’m enjoying this, you would think I’m the greedy one. Besides, no pregaming for me.”

“Oh, is that a rule?”

He nods. “Kinda.”

“And I know you’d never break a rule.”

“Well, there’s no rule about after a game, though.”

I got in trouble for being fifteen minutes late to work, but nothing could ruin my high. Not my asshole manager, not the rude businessmen or the distracted soccer moms, not even spilling an espresso all over a customer’s shirt. Because I could just close my eyes, feel my heart racing again, and remember how unimportant everything else is.

I hold out my phone now and take a few selfies with the crowd in the background: one with a thumbs-up, another with a wink, another with a huge cheesy smile, and one of me blowing him a kiss. He hearts them all immediately and writes:

I’ve been thinking about this morning all dayText property © Nôvel(D)ra/ma.Org.

long

“What are you smiling about?” Parker asks as she squeezes in next to me.

“Just a little pregame encouragement. What do you say before a game? Not break a leg?”

“God no, please don’t say that! How about a simple ‘good luck,’” she suggests, watching as I text him. “I’m glad you guys are doing better,” she says, and gives my shoulder a little shake—she’s been so supportive ever since I filled her in on everything, kind of like the sister I never had. I’m about to tell her that, when the cheerleaders come out and everyone around us gets on their feet, starts clapping and yelling.

They’re all so pretty in their sparkly makeup and hair all done up and their perfect bodies. I find myself wondering if any of Josh’s teammates saw the selfies I’d just sent him. Would they say, Huh, well, she doesn’t look like much? Not compared to these girls. Jocks can be ruthless. But then, all guys can be ruthless.

When the teams come out, everyone stands up again and cheers. I spot Josh. His jersey is number 12, just like it was in high school. How did I not know that?

I can’t take my eyes off him the whole time. It’s like I’m experiencing this entirely different version of him. He looks so graceful, moving quickly and jumping and passing the ball like it’s nothing. I’m sort of in awe, how he can just show himself like this, put himself out there, in front of all these people.

He looks up at me when they’re in the middle of a huddle and smiles. I feel flattered, then giddy. But there’s something else following right behind. It’s a sinking feeling that settles into my stomach in the place where those butterflies were fluttering earlier, like someone just threw a bunch of gravel on top of them, smothering out their fire, destroying their wings. And with that image, I name the feeling: unworthy. I’m strangely, suddenly, acutely unworthy.

I close my eyes, trying to summon that light, airy, throbbing, aching release I’d felt just this morning. But it’s gone now. I try to tell myself it’s probably just the anxiety meds kicking in.

Afterward, Parker and I hang out by the locker room, waiting for Josh and Dominic. And as they come out, there are girls—and guys—waiting here too, ready to gush all over them. I stand back and wait for him to come to me. He kisses me right there in front of everyone, jostling that heavy stone of unworthiness around in my stomach. Part of me wants to stop him, say, Josh, wait, what will they think of you—being with me? I’m nothing. And you’re . . .

I look down for a moment, and when I look back up, he’s got this amused sort of grin on his face. “What?” I ask.

“Shy girl night?” he asks quietly, knowing me so well. “We don’t have to go out with them. It’s okay.”

“No, let’s go. I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, besides, we should celebrate.”

He shakes his head and laughs. “We lost.”

“Oh, right.” I knew that, but I guess my brain sort of misplaced the importance of the whole winning-losing concept in its attempt to make me stay present through the whole thing. “Well, so what? All the more reason to celebrate.”

“Hey, I agree with your girlfriend, Miller,” says a guy I know must’ve been playing just now, but I didn’t really register anyone but Josh. He introduces himself and is friendly enough, but I forget his name immediately.

We walk to the restaurant, arm in arm, lagging behind the rest of the group. It’s the kind of perfectly chilled yet not too cold early-November night that makes me love that my birthday is coming in just a few days.

“You’re quiet,” he says.

“Sorry.”

“No, you don’t have to be sorry. I just noticed, that’s all.”

“Oh. I was just thinking about the weather. It’s really nice out.”

He looks up at the sky, the clouds moving above us, faster than we’re walking.

“I mean, I was also thinking about the game,” I add. “I’ve never sat through an entire basketball game before, like actually paying close attention.”

“Even with your brother playing all those years?”

I shake my head. “I never cared very much. But, Josh,” I say, more seriously. “You were so good.”

He laughs. “Again, we lost.”

“Well, forgive me. I was just watching you the whole time—I wasn’t really keeping track of anything else.” The way you move your body—I feel my cheeks burning.

“Me?” he says with a laugh.

“Yes, you.” I pull him closer to me, and our feet shuffle along in slow motion as we gaze at each other. “I don’t know, I never thought I was one of those girls.”

“One of what girls?”

“You know what I’m talking about. One of the five hundred girls here tonight who are probably going to go home and fantasize about you.”

He smiles and narrows his eyes at me, head cocked just slightly like he doesn’t quite believe that this is a thing. God, he’s so cute when he doesn’t know how cute he is.

“I’m just saying if you got sick of me, you could have an upgrade in under a minute.”

He stops smiling now and rolls his eyes, resumes walking at a non-dreamy pace.

“No, I’m just saying . . . you have options.”

“Do you have to do that?” he asks. “I’m not interested in options.”

“Okay, but I’m just saying there were like a dozen very pretty girls in my immediate vicinity who would—”

“Oh my God,” he groans. “Stop.”

“I’m just being honest—I thought you said earlier you liked that about me.”

“Well, now you’re being mean,” he whispers, leaning close to me. “To yourself.”