Page 81 of On the Edge

“She sounds kind of cool,” he says quietly, and I wonder if he’s thinking of his own mother. My poor Atlas. If only that were a hurt I could soothe.

“Yes, she is cool. People are always surprised, yes? Jakob and I did not follow in their footsteps. We are both choosing to do something different. Most people think we will be doctors, too.”

“You would be a terrible doctor,” Atlas says honestly.

“Yes,” I agree, smiling helplessly at the ceiling.

“You’re way too empathetic. You’ll be great at sports media, though. You’re the perfect guy to be impartial. Not tomention, you practically live and breathe hockey. And you’re killing it at your internship.”

I open my mouth to demure, but the fact is, he’s right. I am doing very well at my job, and have been told many times over. I decide to take the compliment instead of arguing it away.

“Thank you. I have other news, as well.”

“Oh?” The word comes out on a yawn, and there is the faint rustle of cloth in the background, as though he’s cozied up in bed. My poor heart is never going to survive this night of longing.

“I am not returning to the dorms for my final semesters. I will be here, at Carter and Zeke’s house. Carter tricked me into it, so I shall remain living here under quiet protest.”

Atlas snorts. “Better than the dorms, though. You’ll be able to make all the fancy German bread you want.”

“True.”

“And sleep in a bed that’s bigger than a prison inmate’s,” Atlas continues.

“True,” I whisper, thinking of all the enjoyable nights he and I spent in my small, dorm-sized bed; the mornings we woke up pressed together simply because there was nowhere else to go. Atlas yawns again, and I take pity on him, loath though I am to hang up the phone. “You are tired, Bärchen. Let us get some rest and we shall speak tomorrow, yes?”

“Okay,” he replies sleepily. “Text me in the morning?”

“Always,” I promise, remaining on the line with the phone pressed to my ear so that I can listen as he falls asleep.

24

Atlas

What startedoff as a summer promising to be the worst of my life, has somehow managed to be the best. Perhaps it’s that they’re getting older, but this is the first time I’ve ever felt quite so enamored with my siblings. Nearly every single day this summer was spent in one or both of their company, and had it not been for that, I’m not sure I would have survived. At the very least, I would have ended the summer as an alcoholic.

Add in the fact that Henri and I are now speaking daily, and really, what the hell do I have to complain about?

Dad drives me back to the airport, awkwardly trying to make stilted conversation. I apply only half of my attention to the chatter, and eventually he stops trying. I’m glad. It’s hard to talk when all I can think about is the fact that soon I’ll be back at school and in the same postal code as Henri.

I want to see him, while feeling afraid of what mighthappen if I do. In all our chats, he hasn’t mentioned wanting to meet up, and neither have I. We’ve carefully danced around the topic of school, using classes and hockey to distract us from the fact that we can no longer use distance as an excuse not to connect.

I know I made a mistake. I know I hurt him, and that’s not something I can easily forgive myself for. Henri has, but I can’t. And if I do—what then? I still don’t trust relationships, myself, or other people.

But I trust Henri, and that’s what matters.

Feeling sick to my stomach, I unclip my seat belt as Dad pulls up to passenger drop-off. He gets out of the car and pulls my suitcase from the trunk, before shoving his hands into his pockets and standing awkwardly next to me.

“Well,” he says, “let me know if you need anything.”

“Okay. Thanks.” I give him an uncomfortable, one-armed hug which he returns belatedly, only as I start to pull away.

“Have a good semester,” he calls to my retreating back. I wave a hand in acknowledgment of the words, but can’t trust my voice. Any reminder of school starting, and being back on the SCU campus, tightens my throat to the point of discomfort. At this rate, even if I do see Henri, I’m not sure I’ll be able to force any words out.

The flight to South Carolina is unremarkable, as is the Uber I pick up from the airport. By the time I’m walking through the front door of my shared house, I’m feeling distinctly travel worn. I need a hot shower, hot food, and a warm bed in an air-conditioned room. Hefting my suitcase, I head up the stairs toward my room. I’m the last of my roommates to arrive, as indicated by our house group chat. Nate drove in yesterday morning, and the two newest roommates—replacing those who graduated last semester—moved their stuff in the day before.

My room looks exactly the same as it did when I left it. Small and nondescript as it is, I can’t help but feel a tug of something like happiness when I look around. I like it here. Dropping my suitcase on the floor, I open it up and pull out the bare minimum of supplies needed to wash an airport off of one’s skin, before heading into the bathroom for a shower.

I do less showering, and more standing under the hot water in a trance. Henri’s already here and tucked happily away in the spare room of his friends’ house. He’d gone home to Germany for a quick visit with family before classes start, and even with that time change between us, we’d somehow managed to talk every day. I’d told him I’d be back in South Carolina today, and he’d responded that he’d be back a couple days prior—neither of us took it any farther than that. No offers to grab coffee or meet up for dinner. If we are friends, it is quite possible that Henri prefers we remain the virtual kind. I can’t blame him.

---