Page 58 of On the Edge

I laugh out loud in my empty room, picturing Carter glaring down at his phone. It’s time to go pick up Atlas, though, so I don’t respond. When I pull up to Atlas’ place, he’s sitting outside on the front step smoking a cigarette. Burning it out on the concrete when he sees my car, he stands and walks toward me. He’s wearing a pair of dark jeans and a black T-shirt. With his pale complexion and dark hair, the black clothes make him look striking and a little bit dangerous.

In comparison, I fear that I may look like a door-to-door salesman with my khaki pants and green polo shirt. I know Atlas prefers it when I wear more casual clothing, but I certainly can’t wear sweatpants to a restaurant.

“Hello, Atlas,” I greet him when he slides into the car. He grunts, clicking his seat belt into place. “You look handsome in black.”

He sighs and trails his fingers over my thigh. “I’m going to have a ceremonial burning of all your khaki. Sacrifice them to the fashion gods.”

“You are funny,” I tell him. He takes his hand off my leg, which makes me sad. Putting the car in drive, I check the map app on my phone and get us on the road. Glancing over at Atlas, I decide I should probably remind him exactly whatthis is, in case he’s already forgotten. “You should keep your hand on my leg, because this is a date, yes?”

He shoots me an acidic look, and I smile cheerfully back. We’re a few miles down the road before I feel the weight of his palm on me once more. Pleased, I smile, but keep my eyes on the road and my own hands on the wheel.

It’s a nice night—perhaps a little on the cooler side, but still similar enough to the rainy winter weather I’m used to in Germany—so we opt to utilize the outside seating at the restaurant. Lights are strung up overhead, and the outdoor heating lamps are burning bright. As we’re led to a table next to the railing, Atlas curls his fingers over the wood and looks down into the dark water. I thank the hostess and turn back to Atlas, nervous.

“Is this okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, straightening and walking over to me. He touches my cheek and leans up to drop a quick kiss to my mouth. Shocked, it takes a few seconds for me to follow him to the table and sit down. I cannot believe he just did that. Usually, I can’t even get him to smile at me in public, let alonekissme.

The table we’re at is a little too big for only two people, which means there’s a choice as far as seating goes. Instead of sitting across from him, I take the corner seat, right next to where Atlas sat down. This way, if he gets it in his head to kiss me again, he won’t have to reach too far. When we take a look at the menus, Atlas’ eyebrows shoot up his forehead, and his eyes widen. He lets out a low whistle.

“This is expensive,” he mutters, eyes flicking upward to mine.

“Yes, I thought it might be. Carter recommended it to me,” I muse, leaning down and starting the arduous task ofreading so many strange English words. “But that is okay. I will like spending money on you.”

He taps his finger against the wood of the table, eyes narrowed as he tries to decide whether he wants to argue or not. Below the table, I hook my ankle over his.

“What is this, do you think?” I put a finger on the word and hold my menu out for him to read.

“Cremini—it’s a mushroom.”

“Cremini,” I repeat, but must say it wrong because Atlas’ mouth twitches like he wants to smile.

We go through the menu together, and several times I get him to laugh at the way we try to pronounce some of these unpronounceable words. I should have just asked Carter what to order—he would have known. But this is fun, and Atlas is relaxed; the lights hanging above us shimmer on his hair and the water laps gently against the deck below us. I’d sit here all night with him.

Our waiter is a tall, fit-looking man with a tattoo of a snake curling up his forearm. He introduces himself as Ty, before taking Atlas’ order. When it’s my turn, he comes to stand by me, leaning on the table close enough that I can smell his cologne.

“Nice night,” Ty comments mildly, scratching down my order and grinning at me. “Where are you from? Can’t say I’ve heard an accent like that around here before.”

“I am from Germany, but am going to school at the university.”

“Yeah?” Ty steps a little closer, pen tapping against the palm of his other hand. He’s staring at me very intently, which makes me wonder if I need to use the men’s room and check my appearance. “Well, this place closes down around ten most nights, if you’re still around?—”

Atlas’ fingers on my wrist distract me. When I look over at him, his grip is tight on my arm and he’s staring venomously at our waiter.

“No,” he interrupts him firmly, and then doesn’t take his eyes off of Ty until he leaves with a promise to bring our food out soon.

“What is wrong?” I ask him. I haven’t moved my hand, and neither has he. His hold feels almost proprietary. Atlas’ eyes track Ty across the patio and back into the main restaurant before meeting mine.

“He was asking you out.”

“Oh, no, Atlas, I do not think so.” I shake my head, making him scowl at me. His fingers tense incrementally on my wrist. I wonder if he’s even aware he’s doing it.

“Yes,” he says firmly, “he was. He was telling you what time he gets off of work in case you wanted to hang around. He was hitting on you.”

I shake my head again. People do not come on to me like that. Probably, Ty was just being friendly. He works for tips, after all. I imagine he chats with all his customers the same way.

“I think he was only doing his job.”

“Oh? And that’s why he didn’t say a single word to me, but felt the need to comment on your adorable accent and let you know what time he gets off of work?”

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