Page 17 of On the Edge

“You will be very embarrassed about this, I think, in the morning.” He sighsagain, grabbing my hand before I can tangle my fingers in his shirt once more. “I do not think you will be wanting to sleep with me, if you are sober.”

“Just sit.” I pat the bed again. “I won’t be mad, I pinky swear.”

He sits down with his back to the wall, but he’s all the way at the end of the bed and I can’t reach him with my hand. I poke my toes against his leg, tucking them underneath his thigh and chuckling. He makes a small noise, but doesn’t push me away.

“You’re like…super fucking nice,” I tell him, closing my eyes and pulling his pillow toward me. I remember suddenly that I don’t actually like him. Strange, that I forgot in the first place. I hasten to remind him. “I don’t like it.”

“I know.”

“People are going to walk all over you if you be nice like that.”

“Okay.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?” I don’t know why I asked, but now that I did, I want to know. I bet girls love him. Girls loveguys that look like him, and have sexy accents. “I bet you do because you have an accent.”

“No, Atlas. Perhaps it is time for sleep, yes?”

“Boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Me either. But if you weren’t so weird, I might try to kiss you. You have a nice face. Nice lips, too. They’re just better when they aren’t moving and saying odd shit.”

He rests a hand down on my calf, patting gently. “Time for sleep.”

“All right,” I say, turning my face into the pillow. It’s a nice pillow, and it doesn’t seem to be moving. I like this pillow. “But tomorrow maybe we could try the kissing.”

I wakeup when the contents of my stomach start making their way up my throat. With barely a second’s notice, I lean over the side of the bed and vomit into the trash can. It’s hardly more than bile, but it burns my throat so badly tears spring to my eyes. I wait until I’m certain there isn’t anything more, before rolling onto my back and squeezing my eyes shut against the pain and nausea. My head feels two sizes too small, like my brain is being squeezed to death and is pounding for release against the inside of my skull.

I lie there until my stomach starts to protest once more. Carefully pushing myself to a seated position, I shakily walk to the bathroom, making sure to keep a hand on the wall to steady myself. Bending over the toilet, I dry-heave until my stomach muscles are screaming in pain.

The bathroom is clean, and not one I recognize. There is a tidy row of skincare products sitting on the vanity, and awashcloth lying next to the sink. I try to avoid looking at myself in the mirror, knowing that if I feel this bad, I probably don’t look great either. Arm wrapped around my stomach, I shuffle my way back into the dorm and look around.

It’s practically empty. Nothing but a desk, a bed, and a wardrobe—standard for a dorm room, but doesn’t exactly help me figure out where the fuck I am. Trying to think over the pounding in my head, I walk over to the desk. There’s a water bottle sitting on the corner next to a bottle of ibuprofen. I down four before my eye catches on a picture taped above the desk.

“What the fuck,” I mutter, squinting at Henri Vasel’s smiling face, his arms around two sweaty guys I don’t know. Given that I’m not wearing pants, and I can’t remember a single thing that happened after I left the stoner house last night, I almost hope I’m in the dorm of one of those strangers and not Henri’s. I can’t imagine a world where Henri and I ended up at the same party and left together. Hell, I can’t imagine him at a party at all.

Picking the water bottle back up and taking a few sips, I start to sit back down on the bed before my eyes catch on a piece of paper also taped to the wall. It’s a schedule, broken down by time increments and very detailed. Even “stress release” has a scheduled time, although I’m not altogether certain what that entails. I read through it twice, stomach beginning to flip unpleasantly once more. Why do I get the impression that this is something fucking Henri would do?

Feeling like I might pass out if I don’t sit back down, I half collapse onto the bed and rest my forearms on my knees. I need to get out of here before the occupant of this dorm comes back. I need to take a shower, eat something greasy, and sleep for the next twelve hours. Unfortunately, I can’tmanage to do any of those things right now, because I feel like I was hit by a car. Twice.

The sound of a key turning in the lock almost has me throwing up again. I look down at my bare legs and curse the fact that I didn’t think to put my damn pants on. God, I really hope I was too drunk to hook up last night.

Henri walks into the room, paper bag clutched in his hand and a wary look on his face. When he sees me, he smiles carefully and holds his arm up.

“Good morning, Atlas. I have breakfast.”

“Hey,” I croak. My throat feels like someone took sandpaper to it. He approaches the bed slowly, arm held out as though the food is a peace offering and I’m a wild animal.

He looks unfairly good in sweatpants and an SCU hockey shirt, hair still damp from a shower and face freshly shaved. When he gets close enough to hand me the paper bag, I get a whiff of something fresh and clean, like laundry detergent. The way his shirt fits a little tighter than his usual polos holds my attention. He’s pretty muscular from what I can tell; certainly not as soft as me. Swallowing roughly, I look away.

“Thanks,” I mutter, opening the bag and groaning as the smell of bacon grease wafts out. Inside are two breakfast sandwiches—perfect hangover food. I pull one out, take a bite, and only just remember to chew before I swallow. Henri sits on his desk chair, facing me. He leans forward and places my folded jeans on the bed next to me. I flush, embarrassed. I can’t believe I have my legs out in front of this guy right now.

“Do you feel all right?” he asks.

“I puked in your trash can.” I nudge it with my foot and he nods.

“Yes,” he agrees, likely because he was able to figure thatout by the smell. Feeling unmoored and defensive, I take a bite of breakfast sandwich and point a finger at his wall.

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