Page 16 of On the Edge

I watchas Henri kneels in front of me, swaying like I’m sitting on the deck of a boat. My head feels like it’s stuffed full of wool, my brain sluggish and heavy. It feels as though my neck might break from the strain of holding my head aloft.

I feel a strange sort of disconnect from my body as I watch Henri get the laces of one shoe undone before moving to the other one. Maybe it’s because I’m wasted, but I feel like I can see a thousand shades of brown in the strands of his hair. I’ve never seen his head from this angle before. His hair looks shiny, and is a strange mix of wavy and curly. I like it.

Almost as though my arm is being controlled by a puppeteer, I watch my hand lift from my lap and my fingers touch his head.

“Soft,” I say, threading my fingers through. He doesn’t say anything, just finishes with the laces of my shoes and grasps the heels to pull them off. When he stands up, my hand falls to the bed and I feel oddly sad. He walks over to the door andplaces my shoes next to his, all lined up in a row. I laugh, even though I’m unsure why it’s funny.

“You should get some rest,” he tells me, drawing my attention to the bed.

Obediently, I stand up and grasp the hem of my shirt, meaning to take it off. The room jolts and my knees give out, but Henri catches my arm and directs me back to sitting. The bed sways as well, but gently.

“Your room is nuts,” I tell him, meaning the way everything is moving. His hand is on my shoulder, putting his forearm in my direct line of sight, and reminding me how muscular they are. “You have nice arms.”

Another laugh escapes at that, but Henri doesn’t join in. I peer up at him, leaning backward with the motion and feeling my stomach slosh dangerously.

“You should lie down,” he says.

Good idea.I let myself fall to the side, legs still off the bed. The room still rocks, but it’s better this way. I close my eyes.

“Move up, Atlas.” Henri’s voice has me cracking my eyes back open to find him bent over me, one hand warm on my arm. He helps me slide up the bed until my head is on the pillow, and my legs aren’t hanging off.

His face is so close to mine, with him bent over me like this. It’s a nice face, I realize. I reach out and press my fingers to his cheekbone.

“I like your face,” I tell him. My mouth is dry and my words are garbled, like I tried to speak around a mouthful of rocks. He sighs.

“No, you do not. You are drunk.”

“I do,” I say, momentarily distracted by the scratch of his facial hair against my fingers. It feels good. Flattening myhand against his cheek, I repeat the motion with my palm. That feels good, too. “I like looking at you.”

“Atlas.” He sighs again. He makes that noise a lot. It must be his favorite sound.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, bent over me slightly. I feel as though I can see all the blues of the ocean in the color of his eyes. I love blue eyes, I decide. They are my favorite eye. I laugh, because having a favorite eye is strange.

“I can’t sleep in jeans!” I exclaim suddenly, realizing I’m still fully dressed. My hand isn’t touching Henri’s face anymore, but I can somehow still feel the scratch of his scruff against my skin. I rub my fingertips together, marveling at that.

“I can help you, if you wish,” he offers carefully.

“I wish,” I say, mimicking his accent and then laughing. “You talk so funny. You are so funny. You are soweird.”

“Are you sure you want me to assist you?”

“Yes. I like it when people take my pants off—don’t you? Oops. Shhh.” I make a motion like I need Henri to talk quieter even though I’m the one who just shouted. “People are sleeping.”

He stands up, and slowly reaches for my waist. I lift my hips helpfully off the bed. He barely touches me as he unfastens the button and loosens the zipper. The moment the waist is loose, he moves his hands down to the legs and tugs them down that way. I pout, disappointed that I didn’t get to feel the scratch of his knuckles on my abdomen.

I watch as he folds my pants and lays them on his desk chair. He moves the trash can over and sets it next to the bed.

“If you must be sick, use this, yes?”

“You going to sleep with me?” I ask.

“Use this to throw up,” he repeats, pointing at the trash can. I nod and pat the bed next to me.

“Time for sleep,” I tell him, trying to focus on one of his faces. There are at least three. He’s too far away, though, and the room is spinning too much. I flail an arm out, colliding with his stomach, and grasp his shirt.

“No, Atlas,” he says, untangling my fingers and resting my arm back on the mattress. I don’t understand why he’s being so difficult. Doesn’t he want to snuggle?

“You don’t want to sleep with me?”

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