Page 72 of On the Edge

“Even so,” I cut in, “I am going to call him after dinner. I am not going to let him get rid of me so easily.”

“Be careful,” Carter says, voice low as he fiddles with his fork and it clinks against the side of the bowl. “You’re a nice guy…I just don’t want him to take advantage of you.”

I pat his arm to show him I’m grateful. Carter is a good friend—he is unfailingly loyal and feels a deep responsibility for those he cares about. It was this, more than anything, that had me keeping my mouth shut about Atlas and our breakup during my first week living here. But Zeke, ever tuned to the emotions of others, had carefully asked me one night if everything was okay. I certainly wasn’t going to lie, so I’d told them some of what happened. Not word for word, but just enough for them to understand. Carter, predictably, had been mutinous on my behalf, though this has seemed to cool slightly in the weeks since.

“I will be careful,” I promise, and then promptly change the subject. “Now, tell me about your getaway.”

Later, I sit on the edge of my bed, door closed and room dark except for a single lamp on my nightstand. My phone, cradled in my hand, is pulled up to Atlas’ contact. Taking a deep breath in, I click the call button and bring the phone to my ear.

22

Atlas

“Hey, your phone is ringing.”

I glance over to see Ryan, my youngest brother, poking his head out of my window. I’m sitting on the roof, having popped out the screen on my window and crawled through to have a smoke without being seen by my stepmom. I’ve also nabbed a bottle of whiskey from my dad’s stash, which I now nudge behind me and out of sight of my brother.

“It’s fine,” I tell him. It’s probably Nate, calling to tell me about cow tipping, or whatever the hell it is they do for fun on a ranch.

Instead of heading back inside to his video games like I expect him to, Ryan puts his palms on the windowsill and begins to crawl through. Pulling the cigarette from between my lips, I reach a hand out to him.

“Careful,” I admonish. He glances up at me, before slowly crawling over to where I’m seated. He scoots his butt close enough to me to press his body against mine.

“You’re not supposed to be smoking,” he says, watching as I put it out on the shingles. I wave a hand through the air, trying to keep any lingering smoke away from him. Making sure the whiskey bottle is still firmly out of sight, I turn back to him.

“And you’re not supposed to be on the roof.”

“You won’t let me fall,” he says, shrugging. “Do you want to have a sleepover tonight? We could put the sleeping bags on the floor in my room, and watch a movie on the ceiling with the projector.”

“Sure,” I agree, and say a silent prayer for my lower back.

“You can pick the movie,” he offers. I can’t help but smile a little bit at that. Ryan is sweet and gentle, often giving the impression of being younger than he actually is. Sometimes, I worry about him. He’stookind. Like Henri.

“Ethan having a sleepover with us?” I ask, trying to distract myself from the pain thinking of Henri brings.

“No. You guys went to the golf course yesterday, so tonight it’s my turn to hang out with you.”

I snort at that. I’ve never been so popular as I am this summer—my brothers practically fighting each other over what I’m going to be doing, and who I’m going to be doing it with. I can’t say I mind, and I’m already a little bummed, thinking about a day in the future when hanging out with me won’t be quite so thrilling for them.

“Why are you so sad?” Ryan asks suddenly, skinny arm pressed against mine and bony shoulder poking me in the bicep.

“I’m not,” I reply immediately, even though it’s a bald-faced lie. Ryan frowns.

“Mom says you are.”

I sigh and rub my eyes. Of course she does. My dad might be fucking clueless and not give a shit, but my stepmom is always two steps ahead of the rest of us. She’s also aware of the walls I keep built up between us, which is probably why Ryan is out here talking to me about this and not her.

“I’m fine, Ry.”

He huffs a little bit, scuffing his socked foot against the shingles. “Lying is bad,” he says testily.

“Okay, fine, I’m just…” I pause, trying to figure out a way to explain a breakup to a kid who still thinks other boys and girls carry cooties. “I had a good friend at school and I told him I don’t want to hang out anymore, that’s all.”

Ryan’s nose scrunches up as he thinks about this.

“Why did you do that? You probably hurt his feelings. You need to say sorry,” he tells me, in a tone of voice suitable for a lecture.

“Yeah, probably,” I agree, wishing I could take a pull from the whiskey. “But it’s too late, now. Some things you can’t apologize for.”

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