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

I’m freezing on the roof at midnight. Just one more cigarette. Then, I promised myself, I’d go to bed. I’ve pulled one of the lawn chairs up to the edge of the roof, where I lean against the railing, letting my arm dangle over the edge.

As I inhale the mixture of cold air and smoke, tiny pinpricks stud the insides of my lungs. On the exhale, the cloud just keeps going, switching at some point from smoke to breath. I keep pushing out until my lungs feel tight, squeezed. The corners of my vision darken, until my body starts to burn and no more breath can come out. For a second I think about waiting just a little longer, letting myself pass out, find some kind of peace. But my body takes over and sucks in air, stubborn thing that it is.

Just as I’m putting out the cigarette, I hear a car door shut. Then another. Voices travel through the cold up from the street. The day before Thanksgiving, there’s not much going on. I lean over to get a better view. They had to park across the street and around the corner.

I watch him from up here. I know his walk, know his voice by heart, even when I can’t make out his words, I know it. It’s been two and a half weeks. As I watch him now, all I want to do is race down the stairs to meet him, jump into his arms, and tell him to take me to his parents’ house tomorrow. Let’s pretend, I’d say. Let’s take a break from this ridiculous break. I want it so badly. But even as I have that fleeting thought, a kind of paralysis takes over the lower half of my body, forcing me to sit, to remain still. Wait, my body commands me. Stay. It always wins.

It’s completely silent outside by the time it allows me to move again. When I look down, the pack of cigarettes is crushed in my hand.

As I promised myself I would, I go to bed.

When I come out of my room in the morning, Parker has a suitcase and carry-on by the door, ready to go home with her. She’s standing at the blender in her winter coat, filling two travel mugs with her classic green protein breakfast smoothie concoction, which she tries to foist on me every morning before she leaves for swim practice.

“You’re drinking this,” she orders. “You need the antioxidants with all the disgusting smoking you’ve been doing.”

“Actually,” I begin, but she stops me.

“No arguments, roomie!”

“What I was gonna say is, I quit. Again.”

“When?” she asks, side-eyeing me.

“Last night.”

“Well, it’s about damn time,” she says, rolling her eyes at me as she snaps the lid on both travel mugs, setting mine in the fridge. “Okay, now that you’re not actively murdering yourself, I’ll remind you that my offer to come jogging with me still stands.”

“Maybe I’ll try when we get back. Maybe,” I add, feeling in no position to be making promises to anyone, least of all myself.

“All right, come here,” she says, and swishes toward me in her giant coat. Gives me a long hug. “Drive carefully, and take care of yourself, all right?” Then she scrunches her face up like she smells something bad and adds, “God, who the fuck am I turning into, my mother?”

My laugh muscles are out of practice from neglect, but they give a weak little huff. “Have a safe flight,” I tell her. “See you in a few days.”This text is property of Nô/velD/rama.Org.

She heads for the door but turns around and sort of half smiles, half frowns. “Honey, do me a favor and just think about changing out of that shirt, okay?”

“Oh.” I look down at myself—the gray T-shirt is sticking out from under the collar of my hoodie—I had no idea it was that obvious I’d been wearing his shirt under my clothes every day. “Okay.”

“Love you,” she sings as she maneuvers through the door with her bags and mug, managing to nimbly close it behind her.

I take a breath but barely have a chance to let it out again when I hear his voice in the hall. I go to the door and look out through the peephole. In the tiny wide-frame convex circle, I can see their distorted figures: Josh standing on one side and Parker on the other.

Their voices are quiet, muffled.

Parker says, “Josh, I don’t know what to tell you.”

“At least tell me if she’s okay?”

Parker puts her hand on her hip and brings her other hand to her mouth—I think, making the “shh” gesture, because she points at the door next. If she says anything, I can’t hear it.

Josh brings his hand to his head. I hear him say something, followed by “. . . to tell her I’m sorry.”

Parker shakes her head. Something mumbled. Then, “Don’t. Just don’t.”

Josh throws his hands up and shakes his head. “But . . .” something indecipherable.

Parker reaches out and touches his arm for a second. “Let her come to you.”

He says something short and nods.

I watch as Parker walks away. Josh watches her go. After a few moments he turns back toward the door, takes a step forward. I hold my breath as I watch him place a hand on either side of the door-frame and look down at the ground. My heart starts racing at how close we’d be if the door weren’t between us. I can hear him sigh. Then he backs away and rubs his hands over his face—his stubble back now, nearly turning into a real beard this time. He looks at the door once more, and part of me is afraid that he might be able to tell somehow that I’m watching him. If he knocks right now, I’m not sure I’d be able to not let him in. I feel my fingers reaching for the knob—to keep me in or him out, I don’t know which.

But then he walks away.

And I finally exhale.

I bring the green smoothie into the bathroom with me and sip on it as I get ready to take a shower. The cold rushes against my skin as I peel the T-shirt off my body. I feel more naked than naked even, like I’ve just removed a layer of skin and am now exposed to any number of dangerous contaminants from the world around me. But I let the shirt fall from my hands into the laundry hamper. I pile my other clothes on top of it and smoosh it down as hard as I can.

When I get out of the shower, I have a text from DA Silverman waiting for me:

Happy Thanksgiving, Eden. I wanted to

share this right away. We have a date.

Clear your calendar for the second week

of January. As always, let me know if you

have any questions. Thanks, CeCe

CeCe. How strange it is to see her name there. I guess going to trial puts us on a first-name basis. I’ve seen her full name on paperwork as Cecelia Silverman, but I’d never imagined in real life she would go by CeCe. Such a normal nickname, a cute name even. Is she cute in her real life? I find myself wondering. Like, not a stoic powerhouse in heels and suits with her hair pulled back tight and shiny. Does she do cute things like make jokes and eat popcorn in movie theaters and sing off-key in the car? I write back immediately, still dripping wet, leaving puddles on the bathroom floor—I didn’t realize I’d been needing this news so urgently until it came.

Okay, thank you for the update. Happy

Thanksgiving to you too, CeCe.