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

I spent all day sending Mara pics of every outfit combination I have in my current wardrobe, which is not that much. She kept saying I should wear the one dress I brought with me, but a dress felt like too much pressure for our very first real date. There’s enough pressure after waiting for this for almost three years, I don’t need to add any more.

So, I opt for the jean shorts I wore the night of the concert. They’re newish and I know I caught him checking out my legs in them that night. A simple T-shirt with tiny yellow flowers. Pretty but not sexy. Sandals. I shave my legs and armpits. Because, just in case. I try to follow this video Mara sent me on cute styles for shoulder-length hair. I manage something with a twist and bobby pins that looks decent enough—from the front anyway. Lip gloss, mascara, bracelet, necklace, earrings.

He picks me up at eight o’clock on the dot, just like he said he would, and he looks and smells so good, I almost don’t want to go anywhere with him except back inside. But then he leans down and kisses me on the cheek, which makes me laugh for some reason. And when we get outside onto the sidewalk, he takes my hand, except it’s so tender and unexpected and honest that it makes me almost want to cry.

We hold hands as we take our time walking, smiling, and glancing over at each other for the entire three blocks it takes to get to the restaurant.

Nonna’s Little Italy is the name of the place. It’s small and dark and cozy, and I could smell the herbs and baking cheese and garlic and oil from the street. If comfort food could be an entire environment, this would be it. The woman who seats us does so with not many words, but she smiles warmly at us both when she hands us our menus. A second, younger man, comes by to leave a basket of freshly baked bread wrapped in the same kind of cloth napkin our silverware is tucked inside.

After we place our orders, Josh says, “So?” neatly pulling back the towel from the bread, like he’s trying not to rip wrapping paper on a gift. “How’s the date going for you so far? And don’t let the fact that I’ve been trying to plan this basically as long as we’ve known each other influence your answer in any way at all.”

“Well, for starters, you showed up on time. Looking very handsome, I might add.” I pause because, did I just say handsome out loud? I feel like I should be embarrassed, showing my hand so easily, but then . . . we’ve waited too long for games. That’s something old Eden would do. So, I force myself to add, “The kiss on the cheek was also a nice touch.”

“Oh, I’m glad,” he says, blushing. “I wasn’t sure that went over like I’d hoped.”

“No, it did,” I assure him. “And this place. You might as well have read my mind. Nonna’s Little Italy might be my new favorite restaurant, and I haven’t even tried the bread yet.”

He pushes the basket toward me, and I tear off a piece, still almost too hot to touch. But the butter melts into it perfectly. He waits for me to take a bite.

“And now that you’ve tried the bread?” he asks.

I take my time chewing and swallowing and open my mouth like I’m going to answer him but then take another bite, which makes him laugh, which makes me all warm and inexplicably soft inside. “Best date I’ve ever been on,” I answer.

“Wow. That’s better than I thought,” he says.

“Well, full disclosure. This is also kind of the only date I’ve ever been on.”

“Steve didn’t take you on dates?”

I had sort of forgotten Josh knew about Steve. In my mind, I was thinking more about the plethora of random guys I’d hooked up with after Josh—the ones I met at parties or other sordid drunk and high encounters. Faceless, mostly. Nameless. People I never saw again, let alone went out on dates with. “Not really,” I finally answer. “But not for lack of trying on his part,” I add, in Steve’s defense.

Josh looks down at his plate, and when he looks back up at me, he’s sort of grimacing. “Okay, that’s gotta be like first date rule number one, right? Don’t mention the other person’s ex. Jesus, maybe this is my first date too,” he tries to joke, taking a sip of water.

“No, it’s okay.” But now that it’s out there, I feel obligated to say something. “Steve was a pretty good person. We just should’ve only been friends, that’s all.”

Josh is nodding, and right as he’s about to say something, our food comes. We start eating in silence, and I worry I’ve somehow messed this up, but then Josh finally speaks. “So, does that mean you’re still friends with him?”

“You mean like you and I are still friends?” I ask.

“Sort of,” he admits.

“No. We’re friends. But we’re not friends like you and I are friends. If you know what I mean?”

He smiles, both bright and bold, yet a little shy, all at the same time. “I think I know what you mean, yeah.”

“Good.” I twirl a bite of my pasta around my fork and stuff it in my mouth so I stop talking.

“And just so you know,” he says, “I’m not friends with anyone else right now either.”

“Noted.” And even I have to laugh at how nerdy and awkward we’re being. “Thank you for the information,” I add.This belongs to NôvelDrama.Org: ©.

“You’re very welcome.”

Full of pasta and sauce and bread and cheese, we leave Nonna’s, but when we get outside, Josh starts walking in the opposite direction from which we came.

“Not this way?” I ask.

“The date’s not over yet,” he says.

“There’s more?”

“Yeah, there’s sort of a whole theme.”

“I get a themed date?” I ask, genuinely impressed, flattered even. “What is it, the theme?”

“It’s more of a loose theme or . . . or a theme within a theme,” he says, motioning with his hands as he tries to explain.

We walk about half a block, past some apartment buildings that look a lot like ours, with storefronts at the ground level that are closed already. Old trees line the streets here, their roots pushing up the cement of the sidewalk into tiny mountains that make the ground uneven. Josh reaches for my hand again and I let him. But he keeps holding on even after we pass the broken parts of the sidewalk.

“We’ve never done this,” he points out, interlacing his fingers with mine. “You always used to pull away when I’d try to hold your hand.”

I nod. “I like it now. It’s nice.” But it’s more than nice. And I more than like it. I just don’t know exactly how to say that.

He smiles at the ground, and I squeeze his hand once. He squeezes back. Like some kind of private Morse code between the two of us. We turn on a dark corner and the wind suddenly picks up, blowing our clothes and hair. I have the distinct thought that I wouldn’t want to be walking here alone at night without him.

“We’re close,” he says as if he can tell what I’m thinking.

We stop in front of a little shop I think is a coffeehouse at first, because the neon sign in the window says GREATER THAN > GROUNDS. As we walk in, a bell dings. There’s no one in sight, and when we step up to the counter, I see there are at least twenty different flavors of gelato lined up in the freezer case. The hand-lettered sign at the register says: COME FOR THE COFFEE, STAY FOR THE GELATO.

“Mm, gelato for dessert?” I ask.

“I took a chance,” he says, half squinting, half side-eyeing me like he’s holding his breath. “You do like gelato, then?”

“Well, yeah. I like ice cream, so . . .”

A girl pops up from behind the counter, proclaiming, as she straightens her glasses, “Gelato is not ice cream. Ice cream is not gelato. Gelato is a thousand times better than ice cream. It’s just a fact.”

“I agree,” Josh says, but he barely glances at her, this girl who kind of reminds me of myself in a weird way. Maybe it’s just the glasses and the similar hair and height, but I find myself imagining her as an alternate-universe version of myself.

She puts on a fresh pair of plastic gloves and says, “My name is Chelsea. I’ll be your barista today.” And then she sighs, like saying her name is the worst part of her job. “Let me know if you want to sample any flavors.”

“Thanks,” Josh tells her as we peruse the selections.

I can’t help glancing over at her. She’s looking at Josh—of course, I understand why—and when she sees me noticing, she pushes her glasses up, just like I always used to do when I was nervous.

“Um, can I try the pistachio mint?” I ask her.

She shovels a tiny plastic spoonful and hands it to me across the counter. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that Josh is watching me put it in my mouth. “What?”

“Nothing. It’s just, pistachio mint? What are you, a senior citizen?”

“It’s good! Here, try,” I tell him, hovering the spoon in front of his face.

“Gross, keep your old-person pistachio mint.” The barista, Chelsea, sighs again, thoroughly unamused. Part of me wonders if she’s looking at me and looking at Josh and wondering how— why—he’s here with me and not giving her a second glance when we’re so similar.

“Can I try the chocolate peanut butter?” Josh says, either not picking up on the barista’s annoyance or just not caring. She gives Josh his sample, and we both watch him as he presses the spoon onto his tongue and closes his eyes.

“Chocolate peanut butter, really? That’s what does it for you?”

“What’s wrong with chocolate peanut butter? It’s a classic flavor combination.”

“I know I’m in the minority, but there are just some things that don’t go together.”

The barista says, completely monotone, “Oh my God, take it back.”

Josh looks at the barista, then at me, and for a second I wonder if he sees it too. But then he says, “Okay, I’m sorry, but this isn’t gonna work out after all.” He turns like he’s going for the door, and I try to laugh because I know he’s joking, but then, out of nowhere, I collide into this wall of panic that rushes into me at the thought of him saying that for real someday.

I reach for him, but he floats through my fingers because they’re going all tingly. Time seems to expand in the second he takes to stop and turn back around and pull me into his arms.

“Just kidding,” he whispers into my hair. He looks down at me and kisses my lips, quickly. Time resets. And I’m here, I tell myself, I’m okay. I can keep myself here.

I see: Josh. I feel: Josh. I hear: Josh. I smell: Josh. I taste: Josh.

He brings his hand to my neck and tilts my face toward him. “You know I’m just kidding, right?” he says quietly, sweeping his thumb across my cheek.

“Yeah,” I breathe, finding my voice again. Not disappearing. Not tonight. Not with him.

The barista clears her throat and says loudly, “So, one pistachio mint and one chocolate peanut butter?”

I look at her again, and maybe I don’t see as much of a resemblance anymore. She is just a girl named Chelsea who has her own life and will probably never think about us again after we walk out of here. “Yes, please,” I answer, stepping away from Josh and feeling my feet and hands and legs and arms regaining their strength as I walk up to the register.

“I can get it, Eden,” Josh says.

“No, I insist,” I tell him. “You got dinner; I’m getting dessert.”

“Okay,” he agrees. “Thank you.”

Chelsea slides our cups of gelato across the counter and says, “Have a good night,” adding, under her breath, “I’m sure you will.”

We take our little paper cups of gelato and tiny flat spoons to go, eating as Josh leads us down the street. “So, I sorta got the feeling that girl didn’t like us very much,” he says with a laugh.

“Well, in her defense we were being a tad . . . cute.”

“You mean you were.” He nudges me in the arm, but I sidestep the sweet comment because even though I’m trying here, I’m still me, and I still can’t seem to acknowledge even the most innocent compliment.

“So, I’d like to guess at the theme of the evening.”

“Okay,” he says, scraping the sides of his dish and licking his mini spoon.

“Something Italian, obviously,” I say, tapping my chin with my finger and pretending to give this my serious and undivided attention. “Delicious Italian foods?”

“Clo-ose,” he says, drawing the word out. “Remember, though, it’s more of a theme within a theme. We do still have one more stop.”

“Are you taking me to Italy next?”

“Yeah.” He smiles as he tosses his cup into a garbage can. “I wish.”

“I have one more bite of my pistachio mint. You sure you don’t wanna try? It’s really good, I promise. I wouldn’t steer you wrong.”

He studies the contents of my cup and then says, “Okay, I’ll try.”

I gather a spoonful and then can’t decide if I should hand it to him or feed it to him. He laughs at my awkwardness and ducks his head to meet the spoon, holding my hand in his as he brings it to his mouth. He watches me while he tastes it. And there’s something almost unbearably intimate about this moment, standing on the sidewalk on an empty street, the wind picking up all around us, my hand still in his while we pause, taste, savor.

Slowly, he begins to nod. “Hmm.”

“Hmm . . . good?”

“Different,” he says, licking his lips. “It’s different than I thought it would be, but I kinda like it. Actually, I really like it.”

“See?”

He takes my empty cup and spoon and tosses them into the garbage can a few steps away, and when he comes back, he stands in front of me and touches my cheek again, the way he had in the shop. He presses his lips to mine so softly, not rushed like before, and as I kiss him back, I can taste all the flavors.

“I wanted to make up for that weird little spur-of-the-moment kiss back there and couldn’t wait until the end of the night.” He holds his hand out for me to take again and adds, “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I liked them both.” I squeeze his hand again, and he squeezes back as we keep walking in the direction of campus.

We enter a parklike setting right off the street. I read the sign out loud. “Tucker Hill Memorial Garden. Is this part of the school?”

“It is, yeah. I used to live over here my first year,” he says, pointing farther down the street. “And this is how I would get on campus every day.”

“It’s really pretty here,” I tell him. We continue down this little pathway through the garden. There are different types of plants and flowers, with benches parked under trees every so often, small lights that shine along the way, plaques engraved with people’s names adorning everything in sight.

“Confession,” Josh says, giving my hand a squeeze. “I actually used to think about you all the time when I came through here.”

“You did?” I ask, feeling my heart racing at the thought of him here, thinking of me.

He nods.

“Why?”

He shrugs. “It’s always quiet here and beautiful—every season has different things in bloom. It’s also a little sad, but peaceful. I guess I kind of thought this might be your sort of thing.”

I let his words sink in as I catch a long sweeping branch of a young willow tree and let it fall through my hand as we walk. When I turn my head to look back at him, he’s already watching me. I let go of his hand and loop my arm with his instead, wanting him closer.

“What are you thinking?” he asks. “Am I talking too much?”

“No, I love when you talk to me.” He pulls me in closer, and our feet kind of stumble into each other. “It just catches me off guard every time you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Just . . . get me. So right, so often.”

“Well, I can’t take all the credit,” he says, seeming to sidestep my compliment this time. “There’s one more part up here that deserves most of it.”

I can’t imagine what he means by that, but as we continue down the foliage-lined pathway, I see there’s a light ahead, a clearing that opens up into a larger space. As we get closer, I can hear water running, splashing.

“Wow,” I say, letting go of Josh’s arm to get a better look. It’s a fountain in the shape of an apple, made of stone and metal and sitting on a giant circle of granite, no barrier to prevent anyone from walking right up to it. And so I do. But when I get too close, water spouts begin spraying all around it, like a challenge to try to walk through and remain dry. The exterior of the apple is shiny red like a fire engine, and the water sprays out of the top where the stem curves up and over the side of the apple, a metal leaf dangling in the wind, held there by a wire or chain of some sort.

But as I walk around to get the full view, I see the other side of the apple is carved out, meant to look like there have been giant bites taken out of the fruit, leaving the hourglass shape of the core behind, and the seeds, made of a dark metal, all overflowing with water. Inside the round part of the apple, there’s a bench with two sculpted seats in the shape of leaves, just like the metal leaf from the stem, shielded from the waterfalls. It reminds me of the pumpkin carriage from Cinderella, except grittier, less elegant . . . more dangerous and even sensual, somehow.

Josh stands in place, waiting for me to come back around—I guess he’s seen it enough times. “This is really . . . ,” I begin as I make my way back to him. “I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s strangely . . . beautiful.”

He’s smiling as he watches me, and then he points to something on the ground in front of him. I come to stand next to him and look down. There’s a plaque there that reads:

FONTANA DELL’EDEN / FOUNTAIN OF EDEN.

“Oh my God,” I say.

“See, I can’t take all the credit,” he repeats.

“The apple thing makes more sense now,” I say, looking at the fountain again.

“I’m glad you like it.”

“I’m surprised you like it—it’s so edgy and weird.”

“I like edgy and weird,” he says as he moves the strand of hair that’s fallen out of my half-assed attempt at an updo. “My favorite person in the world is a little edgy and weird, herself.”

“Josh,” I begin, but I don’t really know what to say.

He stares into the water, lights shining up from underneath, casting reflections of movement all around us.

“Every day, when I would pass by, seeing your name there, I would sort of daydream about you being here. Or me bringing you here.”

“You know I thought about you too, right?”

He nods, taking both of my hands.

But I need him to really know. “It’s not that I just thought about you, though. I . . .” Ached is the word I’m having trouble getting out.

“I know,” he says softly, but I wonder if he really does. “You know, I always thought if we got a second chance, I wanted to do it right this time,” he continues, drawing his eyebrows together. “Do you know what I mean?”

This time I nod.

“Because I want this with you,” he says, eyes fastened to mine. “I really do.”

“I do too,” I tell him. “More than anything.”

He smiles now, and I can see his whole body relax, his grip on my hands loosening. “So, then . . . we’re doing this for real this time?”