Page 82 of The Way I Used to Be

I can’t do this.

“Okay, how’s this: What are you thinking about when you get quiet all the time?”

I have to concentrate all my energy on not allowing myself to cry.

“Edy?” He pulls his arms around me tighter and tighter.

“What?” I finally answer.

He moves my hair and kisses the back of my neck. “Just—I don’t know, tell me anything.”

“I can’t.” I hear my voice and it sounds so wrong, like that’s not what I’m supposed to sound like. I feel my body curl into itself a little more, pulling away from him.

“What is it?” he asks. “What’s wrong?”

That’s it!

I break out of his arms and turn around. I sit up straight, ready to have a face-off. “Steve, will you please just shut up? God!”

He sits up too, looking so confused it makes me want to slap him.

“I mean, what is wrong with you? Can’t we just have fun? You have to ruin it, really?”

It’s almost like he flinches, almost like I really have slapped him. Like I hurt him. With just my words. Sadly, sickly, that makes me feel a little better, a little stronger.

“You wanted me to talk, right? Happy now?”

“I—” he starts. But I don’t hear the next word out of his mouth because I’m on my feet. I swing his bedroom door open and I run down the stairs. I slip on my boots and my coat. I don’t lace or button anything. I just need to get out.

Outside in the cold, I look up and wish on the entire universe of stars that I was anywhere—I close them tight—anywhere but here. But when I open them, I’m staring at the same sky, standing in the same town I’ve been stuck in forever, the same middle of nowhere, feeling the same as I did before. Only worse.

I light a cigarette but only get in a few deep drags before I hear the door screech open, followed by his footsteps shuffling through the snow. Then his voice, crushing the delicate silence of the frozen air.

“Look, Edy, I don’t know what just happened in there.”

I keep my back to him. He places his hands on my shoulders.

“I really have to go,” I tell him, in as even a voice as I can muster. Hooking my shoulders inward, I try to shrug his hands off.

He lets go and steps around in front of me, wearing an expression I’ve never seen on him before. His standard slouching posture straightens as he puts his hands on his hips. He looks bigger than usual, imposing.

“I honest-to-God don’t know what I did,” he says, the words cutting the air. “I’m trying to do the right thing, and you’re acting like you hate me or something!” His eyes get wider as he speaks, colder.

I say nothing. He stands there, waiting for me to deny it, getting angrier every second. I fill my lungs with smoke to stall my response. But then he throws his hands up abruptly, letting them fall heavy as they smack down against his thighs. It’s like my entire body shudders. My cigarette slips out of my hand and falls to the ground.

“I’m just saying that—” He pauses and looks me once over, assessing my face, my body. I try to recover, try to act like I’m okay. “What do you think,” he says slowly, “I would hit you or something?”

I shake my head no, but my mind isn’t sure anymore. Of anything. Or anyone.

“Oh my God, what kind of person do you think I am, Edy?” he says, voice raised. But I don’t know what kind of person he is—hell, I don’t even know what kind of person I am.

I feel myself backing away.

“I wouldn’t,” he says after I don’t answer. “I can’t believe I have to tell you that. I would never do anything like that.”

“Fine. Yeah, I know.”

“Wait, I’m just trying to explain...,” he continues, stepping closer, but I can’t even begin to listen. I nod my head in agreement to whatever it is he might be saying. “So does that make sense?” he finally finishes.