Page 25 of On the Edge

“They probably weren’t my friends, dude. They were probably just people I was partying with.”

“You do not remember still?” he hisses, incredulous. I laugh, surprised to have worked up so much emotion from him. Apparently, the cardboard mandoeshave normal emotions.

“No, not really. I remember asking you to take my pants off, though, so that’s great for me.”

“It was nothing sexual,” he assures, and I laugh again. He smiles tentatively, apparently happy that we’re getting along so well.

“Sorry, the way you said sexual was just funny.”

“Sexual,” he repeats, in that fucking accent.

“Stop it, Henri.”

“I had to throw away my trash can. I was worried about it being clean,” he admits.

“I bet you were. Your room looked like an IKEA ad for aserial killer’s bedroom.” He laughs softly, the sound dangerous and lovely in the midnight haze. Shivers crawl up my forearms at the sound. Frowning, I look down at my pocket. What the hell was in that cigarette?

“Yes. My mother was very strict about things being orderly,” he admits. “But I, too, prefer it that way. The house I picked you up from was filthy.”

He shoots me a look. I nod. “Sounds about right.”

I’m wishing I had another cigarette, if only so I could have something to do with my hands. Trailing my fingers along the bench seat, I go in search of another sliver of wood I can pick at. Henri is quiet beside me, comfortable enough in his own skin to not need every silence filled with words. This is the most palatable interaction I’ve had with him yet. Maybe Nate was right, and he’s not so bad after all.

“I tried to call my dad today,” I tell him, voice sounding too loud in the dark. He looks over at me and smiles, like he thinks talking to parents is a good thing.

“Oh? That is nice.”

“Might have been, if he’d answered. He never answers when I call.” I shrug. “Busy guy and all.”

“Oh,” he repeats, frowning.

“I don’t call him often. Or, ever really.” Tiring of destroying my fingernails on the bench, I rest my hands in my lap and play with the ring on my finger. It’s my mom’s wedding band, because I’m pathetic and love her even though she never loved me.

“I do not speak often to my father, either,” Henri says, drawing my eyes to his. “I am closest to my elder brother, Jakob. He is a sports agent. He lives in New York, for most of the time, but flies to Los Angeles a lot.”

“Cool. No older brothers for me.”

“You can share mine. He is sometimes a lot,” Henri says, with absolutely no inflection at all. I laugh again, not sure whether that was even a joke, but finding it funny nonetheless. I have the same buzzy feeling in my head that I get when I smoke weed, like Henri’s company tonight is an intoxicant. “Sometimes Jakob will send me money. ‘Fun-time money’ is how he calls it. We can study together over dinner, the next time he sends it, yes?”

“Sure, Hen, I’ll help you blow Jakob’s fun-time money,” I tell him.

His head whips toward mine and his eyes widen. I didn’t mean to drop a nickname so casually into the middle of the conversation, and there won’t be any pretending I didn’t say it, because he clearly clocked it. Looking away from him, I spread my knees and stretch my legs out. I need to go home and go to bed.

“I have an interview tomorrow afternoon,” Henri says quietly, drawing my eyes back over to him. He has one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, and his khaki pants are stretched obscenely over his crotch and thighs. I definitely don’t look. I don’t even like him like that. “I am nervous.”

“What’s the interview for?” I ask his dick, because who the fuck am I kidding, I can’t look away.

“It is for the local NHL team. It is a summer internship, so less involved with the team and more involved with things such as management and media. It would provide many good experiences and connections for when I am looking for a job after school.”

Clearing my throat, I compromise by closing my eyes again and leaning my head back against the bench. I’m starting to see the appeal of khaki pants.

“Sounds boring as fuck,” I tell him, and his chuckle zingsacross my skin and sets my hair on end. I must have been body snatched. There is no other explanation for whatever the hell is going on right now.You will not become attracted to Henri Vasel, I tell myself sternly.

Standing, I stretch my arms over my head and bend backward, earning a satisfying crack in my spine. I peek at Henri and see him watching me, eyes on where my shirt has ridden up my stomach. I pull it back down. I donothave the abdomen of a hockey player, or that of any sort of athlete, actually.

“You better get some sleep before your big interview,” I tell him, the words coming out a little harsher than before. I’m annoyed that I caught him checking me out, even though I’d been doing the same to him. Mostly, I’m annoyed that I liked it.

“Yes.” He sighs, standing up. I take a step away from him so he doesn’t brush against me. The entire sidewalk at his disposal, and he has to standthatclose? “Do you live on campus? I can walk back with you.”

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