Page 63 of On the Edge

“This is not the truth, Atlas,” he says, voice suddenly losing the sleepy, satisfied quality of minutes ago. “The truth is you are just right for me. You are worrying too much about the future, I think.”

Not believing him, but also not wanting to ruin the night by arguing, I stay silent. Love is conditional. Nobody, not even Henri, can love someone selflessly forever. Eventually, he’ll leave, too. Everyone does. People change and it’s not always for the better.

“Let us go to sleep, Atlas. Perhaps in the morning you will realize that I am right, yes?”

Snorting, I give his hair another stroke before dropping my hand back to the bed. Sliding back from him as far as the small bed will allow, I watch as Henri reaches over and turns off the lamp. The dorm plunges into black, with barely a sliver of moonlight illuminating the room through the window. I wait to see if Henri decides he wants to try his luck and snuggle, but he settles on the other side of the bed and I can breathe a little easier.

Closing my eyes, I try not to think too hard about the fact that this is the first night I’ll be spending in someone else’s bed.

“Happy birthday, Atlas,” Henri murmurs into the dark, and I squeeze my eyes shut against the sudden pain in my chest. Nothing good can come of feeling this good.

19

Henri

I love Creative Communications class.I love sitting next to Atlas and accidentally-on-purpose brushing his hand with my fingers. I love leaning over and catching a whiff of spice and cigarette smoke. I particularly love it when his dark eyes meet mine and his lips curve up into the barest hint of a smile. I am certain he doesn’t know he’s doing it, which is why I’ll never say anything about it—if he knew how much I loved that look, he’d be sure to stop.

“Hello, Bärchen,” I greet him warmly as I slide into my seat. “How are we today?”

“Fine. You?” He sets a small gift bag on my desk, smirking.

Atlas and I have developed something of an inside joke where apples are concerned. It started out as a genuine concern for his health, and has slowly manifested into a game between us to see who can find the most ridiculous apple-themed item. Last week, I was thrilled to find ahorrendously ugly apple-patterned tie, and he has yet to beat me. Before that, Atlas brought me a set of children’s barrettes that were different types of apples. I have quite the stash of apple gifts from Atlas, and I cherish them rather more than I probably should for what is essentially a load of junk.

“And what is this?” I ask.

“Open it and find out,” he says smugly. Clearly, he believes he’s found something better than the tie.

Pulling open the bag, I peek inside. It looks like some sort of fabric—silky, like pajamas. Furrowing my brow, I reach in and pull it out, only to stuff it back out of sight under the table. Atlas snorts with laughter.

“Atlas!” I scold, feeling my face heat with embarrassment. “You cannot give me underwear in class, this is not appropriate!”

“Apples, though,” is all he says between chuckles. “Satin, too, did you notice?”

“Atlas,” I repeat, desperately trying to keep my expression stern. It’s very hard not to smile when he’s obviously so pleased with himself.

“Wear them tonight, yeah? I need a picture. Maybe you could pose for me.”

Sighing, I turn around in my seat and try to gauge the nearest person and whether or not they just saw me flinging boxers around. Nobody appears scandalized, so I quickly transfer them to my bag. When I turn back to him, Atlas is still looking ridiculously proud of himself.

“Okay,” I say on a sigh, “that is pretty good. I suppose you are winning, for now.”

He looks smug as Dr. Robertson walks into the room. I immediately face forward, pen poised over my notebook and ready to take notes. Beside me, Atlas has his laptop ready. Wemake a good team, him and I. Although handwriting things does help me retain the information, it is a great deal slower and I occasionally miss pieces of the lecture. With Atlas typing his notes and giving them to me later, I’m able to fill in the blanks.

When class is dismissed later, I carefully finish up my last line of text before turning to Atlas. He’s watching me—again, with that cute smile on his face—and waiting for me to finish.

“Are you free for this Saturday?” I ask him. He shrugs.

“I can be.”

The way Atlas makes plans is a little bit anxiety-inducing. He doesn’t so much make plans, as stroll casually into them. While I prefer to have everything structured and planned in advance so I know precisely what my days look like, Atlas prefers to agree to things spur of the moment. Similarly, he has no problem discarding plans when something better comes along. In this case, I am hoping that is me.

“I was thinking we might have a date,” I tell him, sliding my books into my bag. “My friend Zeke has given me an idea, and I do not have a hockey game.”

“Oh?”

“Are you free?” I press, not wanting to give away too much information before he actually agrees to going. He scowls at me, because he knows exactly what I’m doing.

“Sure,” he grunts.

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