Page 97 of The Way I Used to Be

“I know, I’m sorry, I just now listened to your messages. Just please don’t come. It’s not worth it. I’m really not that—it’s not an emergency or anything. I’m really sorry if I worried you.”

“Worried me? Yeah, you fucking worried me. I’ve been thinking you weredeadfor the past seven hours!”

That word—“dead”—it just cuts. Like a blade. Through everything. “I didn’t—” But I can barely speak. “I didn’t mean to—that’s not what I wanted. I didn’t want you to be worried, I was just—oh God, I don’t know.”

“You what? Why were you calling me?”

I have to stop walking while I try to think of the answer. Well, maybe nottheanswer, but an answer. “I was just... lonely. I’m just lonely, that’s all. I’m sorry. I know it was stupid to call. I don’t even know why I did it. I shouldn’t have involved you.”

Silence.

“I feel like such an idiot,” I tell him.

I hear him cluck his tongue, then sigh sympathetically. “No, come on, stop. Don’t say that.”

“No, I do. I’m really embarrassed.”

“I see you.”

“What?”

But he hangs up. I start to call him back, but a car horn shatters the icy quiet that blankets the entire neighborhood. I turn to look. An old beat-up Ford slows down as it pulls up behind me. I stop walking. It stops moving too. I bend down and look inside through the steamy passenger window. It’s really him. He reaches over and unlocks the door.

We stare at each other from across the table at the IHOP off the highway. I feel like I’m looking at a ghost. He looks the same, but different—grown up, more like himself, like the way he’s supposed to look, somehow. He sips his coffee; he takes it black, very grown up indeed.

Next to the syrup corral, there’s a cup of broken crayons. I can’t stop staring at them.

“So...?” he says, and I literally have to push the crayons out of my field of vision so I can focus on him.

“I just can’t believe I’m sitting here with you,” I finally say, after staring for far too long.

“I know. I can’t believe it either.” Except the way he says it is so much different from the way I said it.

“You had to have been driving all night?”

Pointedly, he says, “No, just half the night, the other half I was calling you.”

“Iamsorry. I didn’t mean to make it sound so dire. I was just upset, I guess.”

He doesn’t say anything. His face is a cross between pissed, annoyed, and confused.

And because I can’t stand that look, my mouth keeps saying the stupidest things. Things like: “Um, you look really good,” and, “So, I guess this is finally our date, huh?”

He doesn’t respond though, he just sits there, looking like he’s in pain.

Blessedly, our waitress comes to my rescue with two heaping plates of pancakes. “Just let me know if I can get you anything else,” she tells us. “Enjoy, guys.”

We both reach for the butter-pecan syrup at the same time. Our hands touch.

“Eden, I should tell you something up front, right now, okay?”

“Okay?” This sounds important; I balance my fork on the edge of my plate, make sure I look like I’m paying attention.

“I’m seeing someone. I have a girlfriend, and it’s serious, so...”

“Oh.” I pick my fork back up, stab at the pancake, try to wipe the devastated look from my face, and sound as blasé as possible. “Right, yeah, right, of course.” I carefully cut off a triangle of pancake and stuff it in my mouth. It’s hard to swallow.

“So I just want you to know that I didn’t come here to—what I mean is that I’m only here as a friend.”