Page 46 of On the Edge

“You should have gone for your hattie,” I tell him, but he shakes his head and looks across the room toward Nate.

“Nah. I hog the puck too often. He needed that.”

“You do not hog the puck, Max.” I laugh, pulling my sweater over my head and running a hand through my wet hair. “We give you the puck most often because you are best player and goal scorer.”

Embarrassed, he shakes his head and turns away from me to get undressed. I know it makes Max uncomfortable to be the center of attention, but I also want to make sure he is confident in himself and his abilities. Next year he will be playing in the NHL. He will no longer be the best player on the ice, but a rookie. I only have a short while left to talk him up and build up his confidence, and I mean to make the most of it.

When I walkinto our last day of communications class before winter break, Atlas is already in his seat. He so rarely beats me to class, I can’t help but give him a little grief for it.

“You are missing me so much, you come early today?” He glares at me as I set a to-go cup of coffee on his desk, but there is no force behind it. He drinks black coffee, which I learned after pulling the information out of him the same way one might pull a tooth. I try to bring him one every class,as well as a nutritional snack. I do not think Atlas takes very good care of himself, and I worry about his health.

He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t comment beyond a mumbled “thank you” for the coffee. When I produce a red apple and hold it out to him, his lips twitch as though he wants to smile. Turning it over in his hand, he leans back in his chair and takes a bite.

“Do you go home for the holidays?” he asks. “To Germany?”

“No, I will be staying here. Last year I spent Christmas with my brother and that was very nice, but not this year. What about you?”

“Staying here,” he replies, lips twisting unpleasantly as though there’s a sour taste in his mouth.

“Perhaps you and I can have plans,” I offer carefully. Atlas is always very firm with me about the boundaries of our relationship, and I don’t want to push that by asking him to spend Christmas with me. A strange expression crosses his face, but it’s gone before I can make sense of it.

“Yeah, maybe,” he responds noncommittally.

Knowing that I won’t get anything more out of him, I bend to retrieve my notebook from my bag. Atlas clears his throat and fidgets.

“I brought this for you,” he says, and slides something over to my desk.

Abandoning my bag, I look at the object. It’s badly wrapped in tissue paper, whatever it is, and is oddly shaped. When I touch a finger to the paper, I have a momentary sensation of lightheadedness. Atlas brought me a gift.

Carefully, I pick it up. It’s weightier than I was expecting. Tearing the paper off, I glance over to see Atlas staring resolutely at my hands and looking like he’s sincerely regrettingthis bit of kindness. I figure out it’s a coffee mug before I’ve got it fully unwrapped, but it’s not until it’s completely uncovered that I realize what I’m looking at.

The mug is an impossibly vivid shade of green—darker on the base before slowly brightening toward the mouth. Turning it around in my hands, I notice there is a small drawing carved next to the handle. This time, the lightheadedness feels a little bit like falling, and I have to press my feet hard into the floor to center myself. It’s a drawing of an apple.

“You made this,” I say, turning it over carefully and seeing an artist’s mark on the bottom.

“Yeah.” Atlas shrugs as though it’s no big deal, and he hasn’t just given me the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever received. “Do you get it? It’s because you always bring me red apples, but you prefer?—”

“The green ones,” I whisper, clenching my hands tight around the mug and finally looking over at him.

He’s got his arms crossed over his chest defensively, and has his usual surly expression on. For the first time in my life, I want to kiss someone in a public place.

“It’s just a mug,” he says warily, apparently reading some of my thoughts on my face. I shake my head. No, it is not just a mug.

“You are very talented,” I tell him, tracing a finger over the glaze. “I am thinking ceramics class is your favorite for a reason.”

This sets off a renewed round of scowling, which means I’ve embarrassed him. He shrugs, casually trying to let my compliment roll off his back. It is not surprising to me that Atlas is not good at accepting compliments. Carefully, I set it down in the middle of my desk and stare at it.

“Thank you, Atlas,” I say quietly. “Thank you very much.”

He fidgets, uncomfortable. Before he can deflect or say something snarky, I put a hand on his thigh below the desk. He stills, but doesn’t shove me off or yell at me.

“It’s just a mug,” he repeats desperately, as though if he says it enough times, it will make it true. I shake my head again, but don’t argue. He’s letting me touch him in a public place, and he’s just given me a gift. I should be happy with these developments and not push him for more. If I make him uncomfortable, he will run away from me and I will lose all the ground I’ve gained these past few weeks.

The classroom has slowly filled up around us, the volume in the room steadily rising. Regretfully, I have to move away from Atlas to finish gathering my things out of my bag. I give his leg a small squeeze, before bending over and pulling out my notebook. I rewrap the mug in the tissue paper the way an archeologist might handle a precious artifact. I can feel Atlas’ gaze on me as I do; can practically feel the wordsit’s just a mugtrying to claw their way out of his throat for a third time.

He watches as I get it settled in my bag, and prepare myself for the lecture. I notice we’re sitting closer today than we usually do, elbows and knees knocking gently together when one of us moves. Neither of us moves away or mentions it. In fact, I make it my mission to cross the line between our desks as often as possible—foot pressed against Atlas’ and forearms brushing. It’s the most enjoyable Creative Communications class we’ve had to date. They seem to only get better and better.

When class ends, Atlas doesn’t sprint for the door the way he usually does, but hovers beside me as I pack up my things. I take extra care to make sure the mug is secure and will not get broken. Instead of swinging my bag onto my shoulder, Ilift it gently and nestle it into my side. When I turn to Atlas and smile, he muttersfinallyunder his breath and leads the way from the classroom.

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