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

I pull up to the curb in front of our mailbox. I turn the car off and wipe my hands on my jeans. Even closed up inside my car, I can hear the screech of the front door opening. I get out. Take my bags out of the trunk. Walk up the driveway.

I watch my feet the whole time; I can’t look at them, standing there on the front porch. Dad comes down the steps to take one of the bags from me, and finally I meet his eyes—they’re full of all kinds of concern and questions.

I try to smile but can’t.

Mom stands on the top step, holding her hands up as she turns her head, the beginning of a word, “Wh . . .” hanging in the air. What’s wrong? or Where is she? I’m sure, will be coming next, but she stops herself.

I silently thank them for at least letting me into the house before they say anything.

Harley comes racing up to me, rubs her head against my legs, purring loudly. They let me bend down to pick her up, having her in my arms as a buffer. And Mom finally asks, “Well, don’t keep us in suspense. What’s going on?”

And then they stand there, waiting for an explanation.

“We broke up,” I admit, finally, after all these weeks of trying to deny it.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Mom says. “Come here.” She hugs me, and Harley leaps out of my arms. Dad pats me on the back.

When I look at him, he smiles sadly. “I’m sorry, bud.”

I nod. Not as sorry as I am, I would say, if I could.

“Okay,” Mom begins. “Come in, take your coat off. Do you want to talk about it?”

I shake my head. “Not really.”

“You didn’t break up over coming here, right?” she asks, probably thinking it must’ve just happened since this is the first they’re hearing about it.

I laugh as I drop down onto the couch. “Yeah, I wish.”

“Over the trial?” Mom asks, coming to sit next to me as she sets her hand on my knee.

“Mom?” I place my hand on top of hers. “Thank you, really. But I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

She looks up at my dad, then back at me. “Okay, honey.” A timer goes off in the kitchen, and she stands.

“Need help?” Dad asks her.

“No, it’s all under control. We’re basically just waiting on the turkey at this point.” And then she gives a not-very-subtle shooing gesture toward my dad, as if to say, Do something about him.

Dad sighs and sits down in his armchair across from me. “Wanna watch a game?” he asks, turning his head toward me in this gentle way.

“Sure,” I tell him. “Anything but basketball.”

He laughs. “Deal.” He turns on a football game, and we both watch, not saying much, but it’s sort of exactly what I needed. I stretch out on the couch, and Harley comes back to curl up on top of my chest.

“Someone missed you,” my dad says, gesturing to the cat. I scritch under her chin, and the purring starts up like a tiny motor. “Joshie, you know I’m here, right? If you wanna talk.”

“Yeah,” I tell him. “Thanks.”

I drift off, not quite asleep, but remembering this one time Eden slept over here when we were still in high school. We never even went upstairs. We ate pizza and watched TV and then fell asleep down here, on the couch, after talking late into the morning hours. We’d known each other only a few weeks and already I knew I was starting to fall in love with her that night. I told her secrets, about me, about my family, my dad’s addiction. Things I’d never told anyone. Because I trusted her. I trusted that she would understand, and she did. She always did.

I open my eyes and look over at my dad.

He’s been watching me.

“I really messed up,” I tell him.

He shakes his head briefly, then says, “Don’t we all?”

I nod in response, but what I really want to say is: no, we all don’t, I don’t—at least, I’m not supposed to mess up—not this bad, anyway.

Before we can get any farther, my aunt and two younger cousins, ten-year-old twins, Sasha and Shane, are barreling in, lots of noise and energy coming with them. A welcome distraction from my thoughts about how I’d imagined this day would go.

“Josh?” my aunt says as I stand to give her a hug. “Where’s the girlfriend?”

Dad shakes his head to try to signal to her, drawing his finger across his throat, but it’s too late.

“Oh,” she says, putting her hand over her mouth. “Sorry.”

“She’s not coming,” I tell her.

“Ohh,” she repeats, drawing the word out this time, with a frown and a sympathetic head tilt. “I’m sorry, sweetie.”

I shrug, try my best to pretend I’m not devastated.

“Josh, Josh!” Shane is hopping up and down next to me, shoving a basketball in my face. That familiar rubbery chemical new ball scent flooding my brain with memories. “Josh, look. Look at my new basketball. I just got it for my birthday.”

“Nice,” I tell him.

Sasha walks by and mutters, “You mean our birthday.”

Shane rolls his eyes and sighs at her, and I laugh. I don’t often think I’ve missed out on anything by being an only child, but when I see them together, it makes me wonder.

“And what did you get, Sasha?” I ask her.

“Mom bought me a clarinet,” she announces, proud of herself.

“Wait, you play the clarinet?” I ask. Of course she does.

“Duh-uh,” she says, full of attitude. “Only for two whole years now. Which you would know if you ever came to any of my school concerts.”

“Sasha,” my aunt interrupts. “Geez, give the guy a break. You know his games always fall on your concert dates.”

“Sorry, Sash,” I tell her. “What if I try to make the next one?”

She shrugs and skips off into the kitchen. She probably doesn’t give a damn, but I feel terrible. I didn’t even realize this was yet another thing I’ve been missing out on because of basketball. It’s not like we have a big extended family; they can’t just let me not show up for shit and then not even tell me.

I turn to my aunt. “Hey, I actually do want to try to come to her next concert. Will you let me know when it is?”

“Sure,” she answers, seeming surprised. “If you really want to—but, honey, it’s fine, we all know you’re busy. Don’t let the kid give you a guilt trip over it.”

“Josh? Josh, Josh,” Shane starts in again. “Wanna play before dinner?” He dribbles the ball twice, and his mom gives him the look—widening her eyes and pursing her lips—it’s the same look my mom has given me so many times throughout my life.

“Not in the house, you little beast.” She points to the door. Then she turns to me. “Do you mind indulging him for a bit, honey? It’s literally all he’s been talking about all week,” she says under her breath. “My cousin Josh this, my cousin Josh that.”

“Of course,” I tell her quietly, happy to have an excuse to get out in the fresh air, where Eden’s absence isn’t taking up so much space. “Let’s go, little man,” I tell Shane. “Sasha, you wanna play too?” I call in the direction of the kitchen.

“I hate basketball!” she yells back.

I have to laugh at her candor; she makes it sound like such an easy thing to say.

“Thank you,” my aunt whispers.

I follow Shane out to our driveway, where he runs and jumps for a shot into the basketball hoop my dad attached to our garage back when I was even younger than him.

“Good shot,” I tell him. “You got some air on that jump, didn’t you?”

He glows as he passes me the ball. We take turns shooting and passing and dribbling. I give him a few pointers here and there, which he seems delighted to receive.

“Square your shoulders,” I say, and then I show him what I mean.

“Like this, Josh?” he keeps asking.

“Bend your knees a little more—that’s it,” I tell him. “Feet a little wider apart. Elbows in. Now when you shoot, you gotta follow through with your fingers.”

And it’s not until my dad comes out with some water bottles and I look up at him, smiling at us, that I realize I’ve been smiling too. I pass the ball to Shane, and he passes it to my dad.

“All right,” Dad says, dribbling his way to the driveway. “Go easy on me, guys. I’m getting old.” But then he turns and steps fast, driving past us both to deliver the most perfect layup, holding Shane in awe. And maybe me too, a little.

“Old?” I repeat. “Yeah, right. You see that?” I ask Shane.

“Uncle Matt, I didn’t know you could jump that high,” he says.

I nod in agreement.

Dad keeps playing with us, bringing a new energy in now, like he always used to when I was younger. Before long I realize my lungs are aching from breathing the cold air and laughing, shouting, joking with the two of them. It hasn’t been like this between us in so long, I almost forgot it could be like this. The whole reason I ever got involved with basketball was because of this feeling. The fun, the connection we had. I don’t know when that stopped.

I hold up my hand to signal I’m going to go grab a drink of water. Mom comes out then and stands beside me, puts her arm on my shoulder. “How you holding up, sweetheart?”

I nod. “Okay.”Content property of NôvelDra/ma.Org.

She looks up at me and smiles. “Dinner’s ready, you guys,” she calls out.

And as my dad walks by me, he holds his hand up. I give him a high five, and he pulls me in for a quick hug and kisses my forehead, in this way that makes me feel like I really am ten years old again. Shane passes me and then tosses the ball in the air over his shoulder. I catch it, and as I stand there in the walkway watching them go inside, I wish I could freeze this moment.

As we sit down to dinner, my heart feels lighter than it has in weeks, months really. Ever since that night. Eden was partially right about that night. Not that I wanted out. I didn’t—I still don’t. But ever since then, it’s felt like someone’s had a hand inside my chest, squeezing my heart, tighter and tighter, anytime I would try to feel anything good. And now I wonder if this is how she must feel all the time. If it is, I think maybe I can kind of understand now. Why feeling good, forgetting about the bad, would be enough to risk so much, just to hold on to it for a little longer.