Page 4 of On the Edge

“What the hell is a student year?” I ask, even though I know what he meant. His brow scrunches up in confusion, and he places his hand on the center of his chest.

“I am in year four, and will do another after this year.”

I raise my eyebrows. “It’s taking you five years to earn your…?” I leave the tail end of the question hanging for him to fill in the blanks, but he only stares at me and waits. Great—I’m stuck with the idiot for a partner. “What degree are you here for?”

“I am earn a dual degree in media and communications, with a minor in foreign language,” he answers, punctuating this with another nod, this one joined by a smile. What the hell is he doing, nodding so fucking much?

“Earning,” I correct.

“Pardon?”

“You areearninga dual degree in media and communications. You should probably learn basic English if you’re going to be in the media, yeah?”

He jolts and the smile slips just a bit before he slides it back into place. Instead of rising to the bait, he nods—again—and agrees with me.

“Yes. I am still learning basic English. My apologies if I make mistakes.”

He says this perfectly seriously and completely without guile, eyes locked on mine in an almost uncomfortable way.

“Whatever.” I shrug and look back down at my phone. Less than two minutes left of class. I’m logging into my account and dropping this shit the moment I get home.

3

Henri

My partnerin Creative Communications makes me nervous. I’m good with people—always have been—but from the moment I sat down next to him I felt wrong-footed and unsure. I’m certain I’ve never met him before, yet it’s obvious he doesn’t care for me. I don’t like that at all.

I know I have an almost pathological need to be liked. My mother tells me I have a dependent personality disorder, and that I have an unhealthy desire to make others happy. She tells me she worries about my self-worth, and that people will take advantage of me if I am not careful. I wonder what she would say if I told her Atlas’ clear animosity toward me had me running 5k on the treadmill after practice finished that day, unable to settle myself down.

My palms are a little clammy as I push open the door to the lecture hall. Atlas isn’t yet in his seat, which affords me a few moments to get my bearings once I sit down. I’m going to work extra hard to watch my English when I talk to him, andmake sure I pronounce his name correctly. Both of these seemed to be black marks against me last time, and I won’t make the same mistake twice.

I place an apple on the corner of my desk nearest Atlas’ seat, before laying out my notebook and pen. That done, I turn my phone completely off and tuck it back into my bag. Resting my hands in my lap, I sit up straight and watch the door, waiting.

Atlas is one of the last people to enter and he does so with a frown on his face. It’s a different frown than the one Carter wears. Carter employs his animosity as a shield to protect himself; it took next to nothing to break it down. Atlas, on the other hand, is all sharp edges. His frown is a knife blade. A warning to stay away.

“Good day, Atlas,” I greet him carefully, making sure to soften my accent on his name. I can’t tell if I’ve done well or not—he ignores me and takes his seat, expression never wavering. “How are we today?”

Silence.

I like silence. I am a creature of silence. But this silence is prickly and uncomfortable, and makes me feel vaguely ill. Perhaps he’s angry because he’s hungry.

“Would you like an apple?” I ask, gesturing to the Granny Smith I brought with me for a snack between lectures. His gaze slides to mine.

“I don’t like green apples,” he says. I nod. I’ll remember that for next time.

“My apologies.”

He rolls his eyes and I sigh. When he bends over to dig through his backpack, I watch him. I’m good with people because I’m good at figuring them out. He’s an enigma right now, but perhaps not for long.

The first thing I notice is his hair: black. True black hair isn’t common, but he has it. There’s an almost navy hue when the light hits it just right, and I can tell it’s soft by the sheen. I cannot pinpoint just by looking at him, but his creamy skin and almond-shaped eyes speak of a mixed race. His eyelashes are so long and dark, it looks like he’s wearing eyeliner. No tattoos, no piercings. His clothes are plain and without any overt logos that might tell me how much they cost. He wears a simple gold band on his pinky finger.

“I like your ring,” I tell him, and his eyes narrow nearly to slits.

“Another polo shirt, I see,” he responds tartly. I look down at my shirt. It is, in fact, a polo. I have five, all different colors, that I rotate throughout the week. On the weekends I wear my two SCU hockey shirts. I check to make sure the buttons are all fastened, but everything looks in order. Who doesn’t like polo shirts?

“Yes,” I agree. “I have two blue ones, but this is the darker one.”

I grin, trying to bring him in on the joke, but he doesn’t even crack a smile. If anything, his eyes narrow further. With his dark irises and dark lashes, it’s a distinctly shark-like look. I struggle to maintain my calm, bland expression.

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