Page 86 of On the Edge

“True.” Nervously, I comb my fingers through my hair before brushing them down across my jaw. I shaved in preparation for the evening, but perhaps I should have left the hair. Atlas used to like it when I was a little scruffy. “Well, I shall get going. Have a good evening, Zeke.”

“You too! I’ll stay awake and wait for you, so I can hear how everything went.” He smiles cheerfully, and I relax enough to return it.

The arts classrooms aren’t in a building I’ve ever been to. As such, I park in the wrong lot and end up having to walk twice as far as I would have done, had I known where I was going. It’s a good thing I got here thirty minutes early, otherwise I might have been late.

Instead, when I push open the door of the studio, I’m alone except for a young lady who barely glances up at me before she focuses back on her work. Stepping off to the side, I clasp my hands in front of myself and settle in to wait for Atlas. It feels unusually warm in the room, and my heart is beating a little too fast for someone who hasn’t moved in several minutes. I work to regulate my breathing, and have just about managed it, when the door opens and Atlas walks in.

He’s wearing dark jeans and a dark shirt, and his black hair shines in the extreme light of the room. Almond eyes ringed in black find mine like a blow to the stomach. I force myself to smile, because that’s what you do when you greet your friends.

“Hello, Atlas,” I say, far quieter than I’d intended. I hadn’t forgotten that he was beautiful, precisely, but there’s a differencebetween remembering something and having it right in front of me.

“Hey. Thanks for coming.”

He looks so uneasy, it’s obvious I’m not the only one unsure of how to act. Being friends seemed like a more manageable task when we didn’t have to look one another in the eye.

Atlas’ eyes jump from mine and land on my pants. He doesn’t smile, but I can see the shadow of the expression on his face anyway.

“I’ll get you an apron,” he offers, and some of the tension breaks.

“I would be most appreciative.”

Trailing after him, I try not to stare too obviously at the back of him, but it’s difficult. I want to do more than look. I want to touch. When he turns around to hand me an apron, my face flushes guiltily. Friends don’t look at their friend’s backsides.

“Thank you.”

Atlas looks around the room, notes the presence of the girl, and leads me over to a pair of wheels as far away as the room will allow. Patting the seat to indicate where he wants me, he wanders off through a pair of double doors. Putting my apron on, I sit down and watch for him to return. He doesn’t take long, walking back into the room with two lumps of clay in his hands.

“Here you go,” he says, plopping one down in front of me and settling the second on his own wheel.

When he takes a seat next to me, his leg brushes mine. Fingers clenched painfully together in my lap, I wait for him to walk me through the steps. It is extremely hard to concentrate, particularly when he reaches across me and his armbrushes mine. There is a distinct possibility that I will not survive this night.

“Perhaps you might show me how to do it, before I try for myself?” I suggest. I’ve already forgotten half of the instructions, and it really is very hot in here. My back is sweating.

“Sure.” He sets the wheel to spinning and wets his hand. “You want to make sure you’re sitting close to the wheel, and keep your elbows in tight. Hands like this”—he holds his arms out to show me—“and push the clay forward. Let’s assume we’re making something simple, like a bowl. When you’ve coned up, you can use your thumbs to level the top—like this.”

Watching carefully, I nod even though his eyes are on his hands and he doesn’t see it. Having him demonstrate was a bad idea. Now, I’m sitting here listening to his voice, and watching his hands, and every inch of my body is aching.

“You see?” he asks, and I nod, even though I do not see. “Give it a try.”

Taking a deep breath, I situate myself in exact mimicry of how he’s positioned. He reaches over and helps me get the wheel spinning, watching as I wet my hands and put them on the clay. The moment I do, I realize this is a lot more difficult than he made it seem. I squeeze too hard and the clay shoots upward into a cone. I try to compensate and end up overdoing it, my thumbs creating a deep indent into the top. I huff.

“Goodness,” I mutter, frowning down at my hands. “This is not right at all.”

“Here, it’s all right.” Atlas reaches over to help me, voice heavy with humor. I breathe hard through my nose as his hands touch mine, gently directing.

I cannot do this. I simply cannot.

“Atlas.” He jolts, even though my voice is low. His hands slide away from mine and he leans back, bending over his own wheel once more.

“Yeah?”

“It is nice to see you. I have missed you.”

This feels like a safe introduction into all the words I’ve been saving for him over the summer. He doesn’t reply right away, but continues molding the clay with sure hands, dark head bent low.

“You know I’m sorry, right?” he mumbles, talking directly to the pottery wheel. I’ve stopped paying any attention to my own; instead, letting the clay spin through my palms aimlessly.

“Yes, Atlas, I know this.” I know it because he’s said it. Many times. Far more times than I needed to hear it. “Thank you. I am sorry, too, that you did not feel as though you could trust me.”

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