The Way I Am Now (The Way I Used to Be)
The Way I Am Now: Part 1 – Chapter 12

I wake up in my bed. The light coming in from the window is so bright it feels like I’m staring directly into the sun. I close my eyes again, and I have this flash of my dad and Dominic walking me up the stairs. Through my bedroom door. Dumping me onto my bed.

Still in my clothes from yesterday, I check my pockets for my phone. Not there. I sit up, and my body is so heavy, my head pounding. I feel all around the bed, look under the sheets, on the floor. I stand up and am immediately knocked back down by gravity.

Slower this time, I stand again. I check my desk, move papers around, toss books on the floor. It’s not here. I start walking toward my door. I’ll retrace my steps. I must’ve dropped it.

My mom comes in first. “Josh, why are you throwing things around?”

“I’m not throwing anything; I’m looking for my phone,” I tell her. “Have you seen it? I think it fell out of my pocket.”

“Your phone can wait,” my dad answers, suddenly there in my doorway. They come inside like they’ve been standing in the hall all morning, just waiting for me to wake up. Mom flips the covers back over my bed and sits down on top of it, patting the spot next to her.

“We need to talk, sweetheart,” Mom says. “Sit down.”

Dad nods in agreement and steps forward.

I sit. The last time they sat me down like this was when I was ten and our first cat died.

“What happened?” I ask.

“You tell us,” Dad answers.

“What do you mean?”

“Josh,” Mom says, suddenly irritated. “Last night. What the hell happened?”

“Nothing happened.” My head cracks open with each syllable they force me to speak.

“Joshua,” Mom says, pulling out the full name. “You couldn’t make it through the door without—”

“That’s what this is all about?” I try to laugh like I’m not about to die. “You guys are overreacting. I drank too much. Everyone there drank too much.”

“Oh, well, if everyone was doing it”—Mom throws her hands up—“then never mind; it’s fine.”

“It was one night.” I can’t believe they’re coming down on me like this. “It’s not like I was driving.”

“It’s not like you were walking by the end of it, either,” Dad accuses.

I stand up now. I’m not taking this sitting down. Certainly not from him.

“Can I not have one fuck-up?” I say, feeling my heart pumping faster.

They just stare at me.

“No, I’m actually asking,” I tell them. “I did nothing wrong in high school, do I need to remind you? I never skipped school, didn’t drink, never did drugs, never even smoked once. Hell, I never even got a detention!”

“You’re not in high school anymore,” Mom says.

“Fine. Exactly. I’m not a kid. I don’t even live here anymore. I’m twenty years old, and this is the first time I’ve ever—”

“This was not the first time you’ve been this drunk, Joshua,” Mom interrupts, standing back up now too. “Though I’m grateful you didn’t come home beaten up this time.”

“Mom,” I begin—how could she bring that up? “That was different.”

“Whoa, wait, what do you mean?” Dad says, giving us the time-out sign with his hands just like he used to do when he coached my peewee games and the ref would call a foul on me. “When did he get beaten up?”

“Winter break. His senior year, Matt,” Mom says, practically pulling the exact date out of her brain. When I got in a fight with Eden’s brother, or rather when he got in a fight with me; it actually wasn’t much of a fight at all since I could barely muster the will to even defend myself.

“Of course you would remember the one time I actually dared to act my age, right?” I snap at her, and her eyes widen with my betrayal—we’ve always been on the same team.

“Stumbling home drunk with bloody knuckles and bruises and a black eye is not acting like any age. It’s acting foolish and dangerous. And no, you’re wrong. This . . .” She waves her hands over me. “This is all too similar.”

“Why am I just hearing about this?” Dad asks, talking over Mom.

“How is this similar?” I say, ignoring him.

“Why am I just now hearing about this?” Dad repeats, louder.

“You were there, Matthew!” Mom yells at my dad. “How could you forget this? That girl’s brother attacked him.”

“Okay, he did not attack me,” I try to say, but she’s focused on Dad now. Of course he doesn’t remember. He was drinking back then, among other things.

“This is all over the same girl as last time,” she tells him, then turns on me again. “Josh, every time you get involved with this girl—”

“Will you stop calling her ‘this girl,’ Mom?”

“So, this is the same girl from a few months ago, too?” Dad says, catching up too slowly for Mom’s rapidly dwindling patience.

“This is not over Eden. It’s not over anything. It’s not even anything!”

She looks back and forth between us, shaking her head as she walks out of my room, muttering, “I can’t with you two right now. I just can’t.”

As she exits, the air in the room feels slightly lighter. I exhale, roll my neck from side to side. “Have you seen my phone?” I ask him, resuming my search under my bed.

“No. Joshie,” he says, all exasperated. “Forget about the goddamn phone and talk to me.”

“Talk about what?” I sit back down on my bed, suddenly dizzy after bending over.

“Dominic said you ran into the girl—this ex-girlfriend—at some concert, and next thing it’s this again, you’re falling-down drunk. So, what happened?”

As I look up at him, meeting his eyes, I have the strongest urge to laugh. Because of course he wants to talk about her now. “Dad, you know her name. If you call her ‘the girl’ one more time, I swear to God—” But I stop myself; there’s no point in arguing. “And besides, I already said this has nothing to do with her. It was a party. There was drinking. End of story.”

“Eden,” he corrects himself. “Okay? I remember her name is Eden. What’s the deal exactly with this g—with Eden?” he asks. Then he steps closer, lowering his voice. “What is it? Just say it, Josh. You can tell me.”

“Tell you what? I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Is she pregnant?”

“What?” I stand up again. “What are we even talking about?”

“Did you get her pregnant?” he repeats quieter, casting a quick glance over his shoulder. He’s looking at me so earnestly, so concerned and ready to step in and help that I do laugh now. “Hey, I’m serious here. Is that what’s been tormenting you? Because we can figure it out.”

“No, I didn’t get her pregnant, Dad. But that was a good guess. Do you wanna try again?”

“I am trying, I promise.”

“You really don’t remember anything I told you, do you?”

He closes his eyes, as if I’m the one hurting him rather than the other way around. My dad has blacked out huge portions of my life, and most of them I couldn’t care less about, but this was one of the big ones I needed him to remember. And it’s clear it’s just not there. He has no recollection of me pouring my heart out to him, telling him everything, begging for advice, reassurance. Of course, it wasn’t until he came over to my side of the kitchen table and put his arm around me that I smelled the alcohol on him. It wasn’t until I stopped crying that I recognized that vacant look in his eye.

“I wanted to talk to you about this back in December. I came to you then. Do you remember at all?” I ask him. “I’d understand if you don’t, since it turned out you were in the middle of a bender at the time.”

“I remember you were very upset. I do remember that. I’ve tried to talk to you about this since, and you’ve pushed me away every time. You didn’t even come home over the holidays, Josh—”

“Yeah, I really didn’t want to see you,” I tell him, not caring if I hurt his feelings.

“And you know what? I understand that,” he says, “but let’s deal with this thing now.”

“Does Mom even know, or does she think you’ve been sober this whole time?”

“She knows about my relapse, yes. But I’m back on track now and . . .” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a token I’ve seen so many times before. “Got my ninety-day chip just last week.”

“You know what, Dad? I don’t care. Get high. Drink yourself to death. I honestly don’t care. I can’t care anymore.” I start toward the door. “I need to find my phone. Do you mind?”

“Joshie, come on.” He holds his hands up like he’s not going to let me pass. “I’m listening now. You needed me and I wasn’t there for you. I’m sorry if my not being there is why things have been going off the rails for you lately, but you can’t mess up everything you have going for you because you’re mad at me.”

“Not everything is about you! Believe it or not, I have my own problems that have absolutely nothing to do with you.”

“You’re clearly numbing yourself. You’ve been reckless. You’re throwing basketball away—throwing your future away.”

“Basketball?” I scoff. “Basketball is not my future.”

“And if you’d been kicked off the team for showing up drunk to that game at the beginning of the year, what would’ve happened then, huh? Your scholarship would’ve been pulled. Do you know how many hours I spent on the phone with your coaches, with the dean, with your adviser, to make sure you only got benched for the rest of the semester?”

“I wasn’t drunk,” I lie. I’d been in that black hole, as D called it, all of winter break. I barely left the apartment. I was sick over Eden, over my dad, over me—not being able to do anything about any of it. And I was sick of feeling sick. So, I had some drinks before the game. It worked. I felt better. I didn’t think I was drunk, though. Didn’t think anyone would notice. But Coach did. He noticed right away and had one of the assistants drive me home before anyone else noticed too.

Dad stands there staring at me with his jaw clenched, holding back his words.

“I was sick,” I tell him. He thinks that’s a lie too but I can’t explain why it’s not, so I continue, “And I never asked you to do that—I would’ve dealt with the consequences myself.”

“You were hungover,” he says, thinking he’s correcting me. “Like you are right now.”

“You of all people?” I shout at him. “How can you stand there and lecture me?”

“Because I know better than anyone!” he yells back. “Don’t do this to yourself. God, you’re so much like me,” he mutters to himself. “Please don’t be like me.”

“I am nothing like you; stop saying that!” All the yelling is making my head throb, my heart pound, my stomach queasy. “Dad, move—I’m gonna throw up,” I manage to say, dodging past him.

I make it to the bathroom, and as I empty my entire body, Dad keeps patting my back. “Get it out,” he’s saying, over and over. “Get it out. You’re gonna be fine.”

After I’m sure I’m finished, I sit on the floor with my back against the wall. The cold tiles feel good against my skin. I watch as my dad gets a washcloth from the cabinet and runs it under water from the sink. He wrings it out and then sits down next to me. He places the washcloth on the back of my neck.

“Stop, Dad.” I push his hands away.

“I’m only trying to help.”

I toss the washcloth up onto the counter because some part of me doesn’t really want to feel better. I won’t say that, though; that would only make him think there’s even more wrong with me than he already does.

He sighs, and because I don’t want any more lecturing, I open my mouth. The first thing that comes out is “Mom’s wrong about Eden.”

“All right?” he prompts. “I’m listening.”

“None of this is because of her. Okay, maybe it’s partially because of her, but not because of anything she did. She didn’t do anything to me. I just . . .”

“You what?” he asks, nudging me in the arm. “Tell me what’s going on then. Please.”

“She’s special. I really care about her.”

“But?”

“Don’t tell Mom about this, all right? I’m really not supposed to be talking about it.”

He holds both hands up in front of his chest and shakes his head. “You know I can’t promise until I know what it is.”

“She was raped.”

He clicks his tongue. “Jesus.”

“It happened before we were together. And I didn’t find out until after we broke up. A long time after we broke up. She just told me a few months ago and—”

“In December?” he asks.

I nod. “And I’ve just been so . . . I don’t know. I was the first person she ever told about what happened, and I didn’t know what to do or say.” I stop myself from saying, which is why I needed you. “I felt helpless. Hell, I still feel helpless.”

“I’m sorry,” Dad says.

“I guess I just wish I would’ve known earlier about what happened. I feel like I should’ve known, anyway, without her having to tell me. Like maybe I could’ve done something to help her. I don’t know, it’s like a million thoughts running through my head all at once. Like what if I did anything when we were together to make things worse for her? If I wasn’t paying attention or I pressured—”

“Do you mean sexually or . . . ?” For all his faults, he has always been easygoing about this kind of stuff, so I know his question is strictly for clarity—no judgment involved.

I nod. “Mostly, yeah. But other times too.”

“Come on, Josh. You’ve always been a stand-up guy. I’m sure you were a gentleman.”

“How can you be sure? I’m not. There were times I got really mad at her, lost my patience. But only because I didn’t understand what was going on. Now that I do, I’ve questioned a lot of what happened between us. Sometimes I wish I could do our whole relationship over. If I could do it differently, I would.”

“It’s never too late to try again. Right?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know, it’s probably better that we stay just friends. It feels too . . . complicated,” I land on, borrowing Hannah’s word from last night. “That is, until I see her, and then it feels like it would be so freaking easy. But now she’s with someone else, and anyway, there’s this age difference—”

“Oh.” He breathes the word, the subtlest interruption, and I can see the worry stitching across his forehead. “How much of a difference are we talking about here, Josh?”

“She’s seventeen. So, it’s not terrible, but it’s—it’s there. We were only two grades apart in school,” I try to explain. “Anyway, she’s about to graduate.”

“All right,” he says, seeming to relax a bit. “Go on, sorry.”

“I want to . . . ,” I begin. “I don’t know, I just can’t . . . I guess I thought . . .” But I’m not even sure what I’m trying to say, not sure what I want anymore, what I think. “I just thought I’d moved on,” I finally admit.

He sighs and squeezes my shoulder, holding the space for those words to exist for a minute. “Well, it sounds like you’re going to have to find a way to really move on, bud. A different way than this,” he says, gesturing all around us—this, meaning hungover and half-dead on the bathroom floor.

“Yeah,” I agree.

“Grab a shower. Drink some water. Take a nap.” Dad pats my back again as he stands. “You’re gonna be okay, I promise.” And he leaves me in the bathroom, closing the door gently behind him. “I’ll find your phone,” he calls to me from the hall.

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