Page 71 of On the Edge

The truth is, I like having sex with Atlas. He’s the only person I’ve ever found that level of connection with—theonly person I’ve ever looked at andwanted. But my favorite things are not the blowjobs or the kissing. My very favorite things are when he holds my hand, or finger-combs my hair; when he brings me ridiculous apple-themed items, and smiles when I call him German nicknames. If Atlas never wanted to kiss me again, I would be sad, but if he never wanted to talk to me again, I would be devastated.

Sam and I talk a little longer, and it’s as though I can feel the muscles in my back unlocking. It’s as though I’ve been holding myself still—bracing for impact—and unable to relax. Suddenly, I am exhausted. I want to crawl into my bed at Carter and Zeke’s house, and think about dark hair and almond-shaped eyes. I want to think about what I am going to say when I call Atlas, and fall asleep as I let myself dream of maybes.

“Why don’t you finish up early today?” Sam suggests, tapping his phone and noting that it’s still several hours before quitting time. “You’ve earned it.”

“Could I bring these with me, do you think?” I point at the media files. Sam nods.

“Absolutely. But don’t spend all evening working on that. Relax a little bit too, okay?”

After giving him my word that I wouldn’t squander my free afternoon working, I leave the building to blinding sunlight and thick, humid heat. I can’t wait to get home and change out of my work clothes—slip into something casual and less constricting. Clothes Atlas would prefer to the polo shirt and khakis I’m wearing right now. Sighing, and desperately fighting against the gloom that threatens once more, I slowly walk to my car and stow my homework on the passenger seat.

The drive home, as Sam correctly observed, is long, buttoday I don’t mind. I use the time to think about Atlas, and what I’m going to say when I call him, because that decision has been made—I am going to reach out, and I’m going to do it tonight. Even if Atlas no longer wants to date, I mean to convince him that friendship is still an option. What absolutely is not an option is this: no contact, and a yawning emptiness in my chest.

Carter’s car is sitting in the driveway when I get home. Carefully, I pull up next to it and get out. Neither him nor Zeke was home this morning when I left for work, since they’d spent the night in Charlotte for a “mini getaway” as Zeke called it. I’ve been feeling badly about it ever since they packed up the car and left, worried that I’d chased them out of their own home.

Quietly, I walk in the front door, taking my shoes off and leaving them in the hall closet next to Zeke’s. Carter’s appear to have been kicked in haphazardly, so I take a moment to straighten those as well. As I always do when I come home—ever aware of the fact that they might be naked in the living room—I shout out a greeting to let them know they’re no longer alone.

“Hello, I am home.”

“Vas!” Zeke shouts happily from the kitchen, making me smile. He peeks his head around the corner and beams at me, walking forward to wrap an arm around my waist and give me a side-armed hug. This is a new development in the last few weeks, but I can’t say I mind it. Nobody else is hugging me.

“Hello, my friend. How was your trip?”

“It was a blast. I’ll have to show you pictures of the bed-and-breakfast. It was so nice! We missed you, though. How was work?”

“It was…” I pause, thinking back to the conversation I had with Sam Jameson. “It was very interesting. I was missing you and Carter—it is strange to be here alone.”

Zeke grins and leads the way back to the kitchen where Carter is standing at the stove, stirring something in a pot with a wooden spoon. He’s glaring down at it, apparently trying to frighten it into cooking. Zeke reaches over, lips twitching, and takes the spoon back.

“What are we making?” I ask.

“Spaghetti,” Carter grunts. “We brought this for you, Vas.”

He shoves a paper gift bag across the counter roughly. Sitting down at the island, I pull out a box of chocolates.

“Those are from a local, family-owned business,” Zeke explains. “Carter almost made himself sick by eating a dozen at once.”

Chuckling, I pop open the box and select a piece. When I hold it out to Carter, he holds up a hand and shakes his head.

“Those are for you,” he tells me. “I’ve learned my lesson.”

“Thank you. That was kind of you to think of me.” Carter waves this away, too, embarrassed. He comes to sit beside me at the island, watching Zeke drain the water from the pasta. “May I help you, Zeke?”

“I’ve got it,” he replies.

I wait until we are all seated, and their mouths are busy with spaghetti, before I bring up Atlas. Clearing my throat, I set my fork down on the counter and link my fingers in front of me on the island.

“I am going to call Atlas,” I announce.

“Fuck that guy,” Carter mumbles around a half-chewed mouthful.

“Well, I am just wanting to talk to him. I miss him. I think perhaps we could be friends, if nothing else.”

“I get it,” Zeke tells me, smiling kindly. “I’d be the same way if our positions were reversed.”

“Except I would never have said that shit to you,” Carter points out, and Zeke sighs.

“True.”

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