Page 32 of On the Edge

“Whatever. Have fun on your date. Use protection.”

Walking away, I glance over my shoulder and see him watching me with another puzzled expression on his face.

When I get back to the house, I can immediately tell that it’s empty except for Nate. There is a steady twang of country music shaking the house at a volume that no country song should ever be played at. Standing in the entryway, I listen to a man sing about his truck for a few moments before walking upstairs and letting myself into Nate’s room without knocking. Predictably, he’s stretched out on the floor, shirtless, performing some sort of abdominal exercise that looks like torture. He grunts as I walk in and take a seat on his bed.

He finishes his set and collapses onto the floor, head tipped back so he can look at me. I let my eyes trail ameandering path from his face to his toes. Nate’s probably the hottest guy I’ve ever seen, so I might as well take advantage of the view while I’ve got it. It’s crazy to me that a body like that was built on a farm and not a stripper pole.

“What do you want, perv?” he asks.

“Just enjoying the show,” I shout back, trying to raise my voice enough to contend with the next country music star currently trying to blow out my eardrums. I point toward his Bluetooth speaker. “This is what gets you fired up to work out? Really?”

He presses a finger down on his phone, silencing the music. My ears ring from the sudden quiet.

“Buddy, I’m from the country,” he tells me. Admittedly, it’s a fair point.

“How’s baseball guy?”

Nate rolls over onto his stomach, pillowing his cheek on his arm. There’s a tattoo on the small of his back of a longhorn cow skull. He told me once he got the tramp stamp after losing a bet, but I’m not convinced. I’m pretty sure he’s just a redneck. A hot one, but a redneck all the same. At the mention of baseball guy, his face flushes and he smiles.

“Good.”

“Good? Really, that’s all I get?”

“I mean, sort of good. Nothing’s really changed. We haven’t hooked up in a while, but we text every day and we had a really incredible date. But then I saw him at the coffee cart one day and sat with him for a bit, and when I touched his hand, he pulled his arm away from me.” Nate shrugs and turns his face so the opposite cheek is resting down and I can no longer see his expression. “I think he’s probably not into dating. Or maybe just dating me.”

“Maybe,” I agree. “Why does it matter to you so much?Why not just be happy with banging in private and friends in public?”

I can hear it in Nate’s voice as he talks—the longing. It makes me irrationally angry, the same way I get when people complain about their significant others. It makes no sense to me, the way people throw themselves into relationships. It’s like purposely sticking your hand in a fire even though you know it will burn.

He sits up, bending one knee and stretching his other leg out in front of him. Scowling at me, he plants his hands on the floor behind him and leans back.

“Because I want to hold his fucking hand, Atlas. I want to kiss him after he wins a game. I want to bring him back to my uncle’s ranch for a visit, and teach him to ride a horse. I want to see if this could actually go somewhere. I feel like…I feel like I’msupposedto know him. I saw him and it was this immediate attraction and I’ve never had that happen before. I don’t want to just get laid, okay? I want todatehim.”

I still don’t get it, but I know by the look on his face that he’s prepared to argue if I push it. I settle for a disappointed headshake. He’s giving this guy way too much power, and he’s bound to get hurt. Judging by the look on his pretty face and the tone of his voice, he’salreadybeen fucking hurt.

“Maybe he already knows how to ride a horse,” I point out, and Nate snorts.

“He doesn’t. I asked and he said it’s not safe to ride things that have a mind of their own.”

I cast my eyes toward the ceiling dramatically. “That sentence is a veritable goldmine of gay jokes.”

Nate chuckles and bends forward to stretch out his quad. I wish I had something more concrete to give him in the way of advice, but I can’t even fake it. Relationships are a waste oftime and energy. Happy endings are a fabrication used to sell novels and Disney movies—they don’t exist in the real world.

“How are things with Vas?”

“What?” I ask, the single word coming out sounding snappish and defensive. Nate raises his eyebrows. “How should I know?”

“Aren’t you guys partners in comm?”

“Oh, yeah, we are. It’s fine. He’s fine.” Fine to look at, more like. Fuck my life.

“You can admit you like him. The sky won’t fall, and I promise not to say I told you so.”

“I don’t like him. He’s annoying and perfect and way too fucking nice. There is—quite literally—never a hair out of place on his head. It’s all brown and soft-looking. Have you ever noticed how it’s wavy but also sort of curly in the front? Pick a fucking lane! Also, I bet he uses some fancy-ass lemon-scented shampoo and conditioner. Separate too, not the cheap, all-in-one shit I get at the drug store. And his stupid scruffy face is so…even. I think he shaves with a slide rule.” I hold my hands up, palms facing out like I’m warding something off. “He drives meinsane.”

“What I’m hearing is you’re in love with him.”

“What is it in the country air that made you so stupid?” I ask and Nate grins at me.

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