On an Edge of Glass Page 3

  I momentarily stop breathing.

  What the hell?

  I catch myself getting dizzy. I’m literally slipping down the wall. I shake my head and force in a gulp of air through my clenched teeth.

  Mark is leaning over my shoulder. “Well?” He asks me, eyebrows lifted high on his forehead and nostrils flared.

  “Uh, yeah. Exactly like that guy,” I whisper in a high-pitched, squeaky voice that doesn’t even sound like mine.

  The guy turns and sees Mark and me standing in the hall near the door. His eyes round in surprise. He lifts a hand and pops out a set of green ear buds from his ears. He tosses the cord loosely over his shoulder and pushes his dark hair back.

  “Sorry,” he says in a slightly accented voice. It’s deeper and softer than I remember. He stands to his full height and laughs. He has a nice laugh. “I didn’t hear you guys come in.”

  He comes forward then, wiping his hands on the thighs of his faded jeans and adjusting his shirt so that it covers the entirety of his long torso. Neither Mark nor I move. I’m pretty sure that my bottom jaw is flapping somewhere around my knees.

  “You must be Ellie,” he says. There’s a smile sitting casually on his face.

  I smile back, but awkwardly. I’m trying to process this. I’m trying not to react too strongly to the fact that this guy knows my name and is in my house.

  As he crosses the living room and really looks at me for the first time, I can see the moment of recognition—the tiny flicker that flashes through his brown eyes and alters his expression. His step changes slightly. It’s almost as if the air stills for a fraction of a moment before sputtering back to life. He shakes his head and wipes one hand down his face, squeezing his chin.

  “Wow,” he says. “This is strange.”

  “Hi,” I respond cautiously, trying to think of a way to salvage the moment. Words are propped on my tongue. “Ummm… what are you doing here?”

  I look around, like I expect someone to appear from behind a piece of furniture with an explanation. My heart is hammering and my mind is whirling—throwing thoughts all over the place.

  He looks uncomfortable in numerous ways. He tucks his long brown hair behind his ears again and rolls his shoulders forward. “Actually, I live here as of today or tomorrow I guess.” He extends his hand to me and I think I catch it quiver. Just barely. “I’m Ben Hamilton.”

  My eyes widen and I clutch the last piece of mail in my hand—a glossy marketing postcard for Payton—so tightly that I think I might break my nails.

  On my left, Mark’s blaring white grin leads me to the conclusion that his teeth are probably going to fall out of his mouth.

  When my best friend finally speaks, his words are swollen with unabashed amusement. “Too perfect,” he chirrups, grabbing my right hand and squeezing it between his fingers.

  I squeeze back.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Coriander-less Kabobs

  There are so many odd moments in life. Like the time that Mark and I got trapped in an elevator in Richmond for three hours. We were in there with a Hollywood-based talent agent and ended up getting two signed movie posters and free tickets to an amazing concert out of the ordeal.

  Or, there was that incident in the fourth grade, when my babysitter’s dog really did eat my homework assignment.

  Strange things happen even in real life and the only thing to do is to get over it. I spend the weekend reminding myself of this and rationalizing the fact that my mystery coffee house crush is Ben Hamilton, and Ben Hamilton is also my new roommate.

  I do all of my normal things. I study Friday night like planned. On Saturday afternoon, Mark kidnaps me and whisks me away to the mall for a shopping excursion. Afterward, we get strawberry and chocolate parfaits and sit on a bench outside of Winchesters. We make up stories about the people that walk past us and laugh like we normally do.

  I clean and fold my laundry. I watch bad reality TV at night and study for the LSAT during commercial breaks. On Sunday morning, I paint my nails.

  The whole time, I tell myself that Ben being my new roommate is just like every other odd event in my life—soon it will fade into the background noise. It’s a non-issue.

  I’m simply going to avoid him as much as possible.

  This is hardly a challenge considering that he moved in the last of his boxes around noon on Saturday, and stayed away from the house for the rest of the weekend. It doesn’t escape me that he could be with a girl, shacked-up and rolling around in her bed.

  The pinpricks of jealousy that break out on my skin and the way that my stomach turns over, are not good signs. I have to remind myself more than once that Ben is completely off limits by my own proclamation.

  Late Sunday, while I’m lying in bed with an LSAT study guide propped up on my knee, I hear the click of Ben’s car door and remote locks through my bedroom window. The front door opens and closes softly. His uneven steps echo on the wooden floor of the hallway along with another sound. I listen closely, finally realizing that he must be carrying an instrument in the house with him. Just outside my door, he stumbles and I hear his hand go to the wall for balance. I catch my breath.

  Later, I fall asleep trying to listen carefully for Ben’s rhythmic breathing through the thin wall that separates our bedrooms.

  I have an early class Monday, and beforehand I’m going to shoot some photos of a new sculpture installation some art students put up on campus last week. It’s all sleek metal lines and strange, sharp corners. If I get there in the right morning light, I know that I can take some amazing shots.

  When I was twelve, my grandmother gave me a ridiculously expensive camera for Christmas because my parents thought it would be good for my academic resume to be on the middle school newspaper staff. All of the writing spots were already filled, but there was an opening for a photographer. My newspaper career only lasted two lousy months, but I’ve been playing around with a camera ever since.

  I dress quickly in loose jeans and a thin purple sweater that falls off one shoulder. To save on time, my hairdryer and trusty paddle brush are ignored, and I leave my damp hair to dry to its natural state of disorderly waves.

  I slip an oatmeal granola bar into my backpack, and turn to the refrigerator. Bending down, I catch a glimpse of Ben’s dark head as he shuffles from his bedroom to the bathroom. I try not to notice that he’s shirtless and far more muscled than I would have guessed. The skin covering the hard expanse of his stomach is smooth and curves up to his well-defined arms. He has no hair on his chest. He reaches forward for the doorknob and I see a sliver of lime green boxers peeking out from the above the waistband of his pants.

  I take a deep, shaky breath and force my eyes back to the refrigerator. I’m supposed to be looking for a bottle of water to take with me on campus, not drooling over my new housemate.

  From her perch on the kitchen counter, Payton is eyeing me with brash curiosity. She holds a mug of steaming coffee clasped between her palms. Her short hair is held away from her face by two disheveled pigtails. The small silver stud in her right nostril glints under the florescent kitchen light.

  “Like what you see?” She winks conspiratorially and chuckles.

  In response, I say nothing. I simply shake my head blandly before stuffing the water bottle into my bag and heading for the front door.

  “He’s hot,” Payton throws out at me.

  “And?” I challenge, paused half-in and half-out of the house, my fingers touching the doorknob.

  She shrugs and turns away. “It’s just a casual observation.”

  I don’t even respond. I just let the door slam shut behind me.

  That night, Ainsley and I make bad grilled cheese sandwiches and collapse on the couch to watch our favorite nighttime soap series. The house is quiet and I finally relax for the first time since Friday afternoon.

  I’ve been informed that Ben is at band practice. Apparently he is also the “band type”—some indie group that Payton’s friend Megan says
is “killer.” Honestly, it isn’t all that surprising given his looks. There’s no way a face like that stays hidden in a pit behind a cello all of the time.

  With my legs propped on the coffee table and Ainsley’s head resting on my shoulder, I decide that the whole arrangement isn’t so bad.

  I can do this.

  Unlike most girls my age, guys have never, ever been my weakness, and I’m not about to let one ruin anything for me now. After all, if the past few days are any indication, I’m barely going to see Ben Hamilton and his gorgeous face.

  What’s that old saying? Out of sight, out of mind.

  By Wednesday, I start to think that having a man sleeping in the room next to mine at night is actually a good thing. A bonus, if you will.

  Just think of the spiders Ainsley, Payton and I won’t have to catch, or the clogged toilets that our male roommate can plunge for us, or the high closet shelves that can be reached without the assistance of a stepladder.

  That’s when the incident occurs.

  That’s really the best way to think of it.

  Kiss sounds so much more intimate.

  I get home from class around three in the afternoon and collapse on my bed. Last night I stayed up way too late catching up on assignments and going over the LSAT practice material that my mother insisted that I complete. She’s sort of obsessed.

  To say that Columbia Law is a “big deal” to my parents would be the understatement on the century. Columbia is where they met. It was the launching pad for their prominent careers.

  And it is a universally accepted fact that after my own graduation from Columbia Law, I will join their Washington D.C. practice. It’s something that no one questions—like you don’t eat sandwiches from gas station vending machines, you don’t talk politics at weddings or Bat Mitzvahs, and Elizabeth Jane Glass is going to be a successful corporate attorney like her parents.

  It’s just that my senior year of college might be turning into more than I bargained for. I signed up for a slew of graduate level classes and now I’m paying the price with more than my fair share of late nights. So, it isn’t really a surprise that my eyes close almost the moment that my head hits the pillow. When I wake a few hours later, my room is cast in the dusky blue-black of night.

  I roll to one side and give myself a few minutes to adjust to this new state of being. Slowly, the disorientation of daytime dreams slips away and I start to notice things—like the sound of faint music filtering in underneath my bedroom door, and the warm, savory smells that are tickling my nose. Scratching sandy sleep out of the corners of my eyes, I throw my feet out of bed.

  Some band that I’ve never heard before is playing from the small speaker over by the television. The chords are simple, drifting up slowly and sliding around my head, mixing with my thoughts. It’s almost like I’m still asleep. I glance up and Ben is standing in the kitchen staring into our pathetic excuse for a spice cabinet. I very nearly turn away and sneak back into my bedroom like the coward I suspect that I am, but something about the napping, and the music, and the pot boiling on the stovetop has me feeling bold.

  “Looking longer won’t make anything good appear,” I say, placing my hands across my chest.

  Ben turns. His hair falls across his forehead into his eyes, which are more unusual than I first thought. I see flecks of amber and gold dance across his chocolate irises.

  “Right,” he says. The crooked smile that I remember from the coffee shop appears. He tucks the offending hair behind his ear and peers back into the cabinet. “I’m guessing that you wouldn’t know where the coriander is.”

  This makes me tip my head and laugh out loud.

  Ben’s smile gets wider and that one adorable dimple deepens. “Is something funny?”

  “I don’t even know what coriander is, so I don’t think you’re going to find it in this kitchen.” I shrug and take a step closer. Now, Ben and I are at a dangerous proximity. The hairs on the back of my neck come to attention. My skin tingles. “I hate to be the one to break the news to you, but Payton, Ainsley and I all have the culinary skills of a group of orangutans. We’re more of the toasting-bagel and ordering-pizza variety.”

  Ben laughs and there is an answering flutter in my chest. I notice for the first time that his teeth are a bit uneven. One canine juts slightly forward at the wrong angle.

  “Well then, coriander-less kabobs it is.” He mock sighs, bowing his head. With his back to me, he slips a broiling pan into the oven and fiddles with the control knobs. “How will we manage?”

  “I think we’ll survive,” I hedge.

  Ben looks at me over his shoulder. “I wanted to grill these but I saw that the propane tank on the grill is empty.”

  I scrunch my nose. “Yeah…. I’m not even sure how that thing works, and my instincts tell me that I should stay away from devices that combine gas and fire.”

  “Always trust your instincts,” Ben nods in agreement. His left hip is resting against the counter and his feet are crossed at the ankles.

  Standing here in the kitchen, I’m struck again by the whole of him—the unevenness, the shaggy dark brown hair, the long, lean arms, the scruff along his jaw, and those warm caramel-infused eyes. I find myself wishing that I could still this moment and keep it in my mind like a picture.

  I lift my gaze and catch him looking back at me. My breath hitches and a warm pink heat rushes to my cheeks. Before I can embarrass myself anymore, I turn away and busy my hands, rearranging the folded dish towels stacked near the sink.

  “So what can I do to help?” I ask hastily.

  If Ben notices that my voice is strange, he’s gracious about it. He shows me how to chop the parsley we need to add to the rice that’s boiling on the stovetop. Then, we work on slicing red and green peppers diagonally. The spaces between his culinary instructions are littered with questions about my life and my plans for the future.

  “So, why do you want to be a lawyer?” He asks, sliding the slices of pepper into a large bowl with the blunt edge of the knife he’s been using. He wipes his hand on a kitchen towel and turns to me. His face is expectant.

  It’s a simple question.

  It’s a question that I should be able to answer quickly—succinctly. But, the thing is that no one has ever asked me that before. There’s no why involved in the formula that is my life plan. It just is.

  So I stammer and say something that sounds worthwhile. But, I end up feeling like it’s lacking—like I’m playing a kind of game with myself. And by the look on Ben’s face as he watches me, he knows it. That bothers me more than it should.

  Because I like Ben.

  He’s funny.

  He’s smart.

  He’s proficient on three instruments and is going to be auditioning for several orchestra placements in the spring. He’s also the bass guitarist for an indie band that plays local bars a few nights a month. He bites his lip and his cheeks flush noticeably red when I ask him if he’s hounded by groupies in miniskirts and push-up bras.

  I like the way that he obsessively tucks his hair behind his ears as he talks, and how his whole body moves when he’s nodding his head. He’s enthusiastic about the things that he likes, and lately I’ve been noticing that enthusiasm is a rare commodity among a generation of young men that value disengagement and pop their chins and say, “sup” in lieu of a greeting.

  Ben shares stories about his family—about the little brothers that dominate his home life and the mother that rules them all. I laugh until tears drip onto my cheeks when he tells me about eleven year old Kyle rigging up a homemade zip-line extending from the rooftop of their house to a tree across the street. Needless to say, it did not end well. He fell into a neighbor’s trashcan and broke his wrist.

  Payton joins us when she gets home from class. With her presence, the music gets louder and a bottle of wine is opened. Then we delve into a second bottle.

  Sometime between dinner and ripping into a bag of Oreos, a deck of cards and a bottle of vanill
a flavored vodka are introduced into the mixture.

  Ben sits next to me on the floor with his long spidery legs crossed in front of his body. He doesn’t have shoes on and it’s first time I’ve seen his bare feet up close. I note his narrow toes and the way that he wiggles them against the wood floor while he’s thinking about his cards.

  Each time his arm brushes against mine, or I catch the already familiar soapy scent of him, I try not to lose my way. I hunch forward, curling my shoulders inward over my chest. I attempt to stay focused on the playing cards in my hand, and it works. I end up winning two times in a row.

  Payton mutters under her breath and throws her cards down, but Ben flashes me a dimpled smile so wide and beautiful that it hurts. I look at the floor. I’m confused and a tad off-balance by the huge feeling unraveling inside of me.

  Like some kind of cosmic joke, Payton’s phone buzzes. She gets up and walks into her bedroom to answer it, leaving Ben and me alone on the dining room floor.

  There are a thousand things that I want to say right now, but I can’t even breathe properly, let alone get real words out. Ben is fiddling with his cards. His dark eyebrows cut a straight line across his forehead.

  My left foot is hooked under my right knee, and my palms are flat on the floor. I untangle myself so that my legs stick out straight. Looking sideways, Ben follows my movements with hooded eyes. He sucks in a visible breath and curls the hand not holding his cards into a tightly balled fist.

  Imprisoned inside of my ribcage, my heart starts beating faster. My face is on fire. Chills are breaking out on my skin, and I wonder if Ben can see the effect that he’s having on me.

  I start to imagine him touching me on purpose. Not just an accidental brush as he reaches across me for another Oreo. A deliberate touch. One that is intended to make a point.

  I ponder how Ben’s long, slender fingers would feel grazing the bumps of my ribcage. I picture his thumbs running along the waistband of my jeans, tickling the sensitive skin there. I think about his warm lips, sweeping over mine and moving down my neck.