Page 64 of On the Edge

“Excellent! I shall pick you up around four, yes? And we will go and enjoy some glow-in-the-dark miniature golfing.”

“Actually, I’m not free,” Atlas corrects quickly.

“Yes, you are. Four o’clock on Saturday, I shall be there to pick you up.” Leaning forward, I give him a quick kiss to the top of his dark head. He sighs as though I am testing his patience, and stands to follow me out of the lecture hall. Ihold the door for him and he scowls as he walks past me and out of the building.

“We’re not dating,” he reminds me, although the words lack any conviction at all. “We’re just fucking.”

“With feelings,” I add cheerfully.

“No feelings.”

“A few feelings.” I nudge him with my elbow, grinning. He rolls his eyes but still smiles back.

“Fine. I’ll go mini golfing, but I’m not happy about it,” he tells me crossly, though there is still no heat behind it.

“All right, Bärchen. It is a date.” I kiss the top of his head again, because Atlas is starved for affection and I am happy to provide it. He sighs gustily and leans into me, arm wrapped loosely around my waist in a half-hug.

Atlas pretendshe is not having fun with the mini golf, but he is. The room is dark, with the only illumination coming from the brightly painted, glow-in-the-dark course structures. Atlas, with his dark hair and pale skin looks even more striking than usual. I ask a nice woman to take our photograph as we are waiting at a hole, and although he grumbles a little bit, he leans into me and smiles at the camera.

“Look at this.” I show him the picture, grinning down at it.

“How are you even real,” he mutters. “It looks like I’m standing next to a celebrity.”

This is my first experience with mini golf, and it is a tad humbling. Having been gifted with more athletic acuity than most people, I had assumed this would be easy for me. Thatis, until Atlas never scores higher than a two and I seem to average a four on every hole.

“You are quite good at this, yes?” I comment. Atlas shrugs.

“My youngest half brother likes to do stuff like this.” He looks down at his feet, scuffing the tip of his Converse against the turf.

“Oh? And how old is he? How many brothers?” I try to temper the excitement in my voice, but it’s difficult. Learning about Atlas in any capacity is ridiculously hard. He doesn’t like to talk at all, let alone about himself. He once told me he didn’t have any older brothers, and I’d foolishly taken that to mean no siblings at all.

“Two. Ethan is five years younger than me, and Ryan is ten years younger.”

“Wow! And how old are you, then?” I ask, making Atlas laugh.

“Twenty-two. Ryan just turned twelve. He still likes to do stuff like this”—Atlas gestures around, encompassing the golf course—“but Ethan is sometimes too cool for it.”

“Like you,” I tease, and he shoots me a wry look. “Jakob is nine years older than me, so I am having a big age gap like you.”

“Yeah. Even though he’s a lot younger, Ryan and I get along fine. For now,” Atlas adds, shrugging and attempting nonchalance. “Soon enough he won’t want to hang out with me, though. Neither of them will.”

“I do not think this is true,” I say lightly. “I am always trailing after my brother growing up, no matter how old I am. Big brothers are always the hero, yes?”

“Maybe,” he allows, chin still angled downward so I can’t see his expression.

I touch a fingertip to the back of his hand, resting on thehandle of his golf club. It’s our turn at the hole, so Atlas is able to avoid further conversation by taking his shot. He sinks his ball in three this time. Plucking it out, he smirks at me.

“Might be time for you to post a comeback,” he teases. Sighing, I shake my head and bend over to place my ball on the turf. I don’t think a comeback will be happening tonight. Indeed, this ends up being my worst hole yet, which makes Atlas smile as he jots down a six on the scorecard.

“Good thing the hockey net is so big,” he notes casually. I give him a small jab with my elbow, but he sidesteps me, grinning.

Atlas ends up winning, which will likely earn me a little chirping when I tell Carter and Zeke. According to Zeke, Carter “destroyedhim.” Atlas, smirking, hands me the scorecard as we pass a trash can on my side as we head out the door. Instead of tossing it, I tuck it into my pocket. Proof, for the future, that perfect days do exist.

“Are we going back to your dorm?” Atlas asks, clipping his seat belt and turning to face me.

“Sure, if that is what you wish.” Smiling over at him, I see him nod and turn his head to watch out the window. He sits in silence for the majority of the ride, and it’s not until we reach campus that he looks over at me.

“That was fun,” he admits grudgingly.

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