Page 65 of On the Edge

“Yes,” I agree, smiling widely at him. “Although next time I will be sure to pick an activity that I excel at, I think. It is hard to be impressive while losing at a game most children can do.”

Snorting, he pushes open his door and rounds the hood of the car to wait for me. The dorm is a little more rowdy tonight than usual—music thumps through the hallways, and raised voices carry through the doors left wide in openinvitation. I wonder for a moment if Atlas will want to join the party, but he only trails after me silently until we reach my door.

Inside, he moves about my space with the practiced efficiency of someone who has been here many times. It makes my chest feel tight to see it—Atlas comfortable in my room, and with me. He catches me watching him and narrows his eyes at me.

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing.” I wave a hand, not wanting to embarrass him. He lifts his shirt over his head, loosely folding it and laying it on my desk chair the way he does every time he spends the night. Bending over to slip his pants off, he glances up at me.

“Are you sleeping in that?” he asks.

“No, but I think I shall wait until you finish. I am enjoying watching.”

Chuckling, he slips off a sock, balls it up and tosses it at me. Catching it, I walk over and hold out a hand for the other before folding them together and putting them with the rest of his clothes. When I turn back around, Atlas is standing in his boxers and watching me.

“All right,” he says, gesturing to me. “My turn to watch.”

Atlas sits on the edge of my bed, leaned back on his hands, as I take my clothes off and put them away. Usually, I’d be using this time to get some studying in, or watching whatever NHL games were on; maybe working through some of the physical therapy exercises I can manage in my dorm room. But ever since Atlas and I have tentatively dipped our toes into dating, he’s been spending quite a bit of time here, and my carefully structured life is no longer so rigid.

I join him on the edge of my bed, and smile when hishand immediately rises and fingers trail down my spine. He’s waiting for me to tell him what I want or don’t want. Atlas—who seems to always be ready and willing—is forever up for anything. I, on the other hand, am very seldom in the mood. Mostly, I just want to be around him. Sitting quietly for a few moments, I enjoy the gentle slide of his fingertips over my back.

“Can we sleep?” I ask him. I’m always nervous about requesting that he stay the night, particularly when most nights I don’t want to do anything sexual. He’s so skittish about relationships, I feel the need to step lightly around him. One wrong move will have him springing for the door.

“Sure,” he agrees, dropping his hand and reaching around us to pull the sheets back. Relieved, I slide into the bed to the spot closest to the wall and wait for him to join me. I stare hard at his face, looking for any annoyance or disappointment, but find none. I turn him down quite often, and I do not want him to be mad. He looks relaxed, fortunately.

“Thank you,” I mutter, as he settles himself in next to me, clicking off the lamp. He lies on his side, one arm tucked under the pillow cushioning his cheek. “I am sorry, I know you were wanting to?—"

“Don’t do that,” he says crossly. “Don’t apologize for not wanting to fuck. You’re allowed to say no, Henri.”

“But what about you?—”

“Don’t,” he repeats. “I don’t like that you feel bad about that. I don’t want you to ever feel obligated to have sex with me or anyone else, okay? That’s not cool. Nobody should make you feel that way.”

“Okay,” I agree, a little surprised at his vehemence. He sounds angry. I can’t see his face, but even in the dark I knowhe’s wearing a frown. “I am just not wanting to let you down. I want you to like me.”

He sighs, and I feel his breath on my face. His fingers find the side of my head and slide soothingly into my hair. I try not to moan, but it’s a close thing. Of all the things I like doing with Atlas, my favorite is when he touches me in this way—loving and gentle.

“I like you,” he says, in the same tone of voice one might use to describe a root canal they received. Another sigh. “I shouldn’t, but I do.”

And here we go with this again. I hate it when Atlas talks like this. Like he’s not good enough, and is just waiting for me to find someone better. I do not understand how someone so smart could be so blind. How could I want someone else when Atlas is in the world?

I wonder, for a moment, whether now is the time to bring up the summer. The end of the school year has been looming in the periphery, bringing with it both an exciting new chapter for me, but also a great deal of uncertainty. For the first time since starting school here, I won’t be going home to Germany for the summer months. Atlas, of course, hasn’t said anything about his own plans, and the ambiguity is beginning to feel damning. It feels like his silence means the end.

I need to bring it up—Iknowthat I do—but talking about these things with Atlas sets him on edge. I can easily imagine the way his eyes would fill with panic if I asked him to visit me here over the summer. He’s as skittish as a wild animal, prone to running when someone makes an abrupt movement around him. So I’ve kept quiet and let my anxiety fester, and now here we are: a handful of weeks before the end of the semester and time is up.

“Atlas?” I whisper.

“Mm,” he grunts back, already half-asleep.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Now?” He huffs, fingers gently pushing my hair back in a way that makes my heart hurt and my eyes burn.

“Not now,” I mutter, even though I long to sayyes, please, let’s talk now.“Go to sleep, Bärchen. I can wait until morning.”

But the morning comes and goes in a haze of lazy cuddles and soft kisses, and Atlas is gone home by the time I remember that I wanted to talk to him.

20

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