On an Edge of Glass Page 4

  Payton is still talking in the other room. I can hear the muffled sounds of her mellow laughter over the music and the erratic pattern of my heartbeats.

  Ben’s mouth is parted and he’s placed his cards facedown beside him. His expression is on the brink of something that I don’t quite understand. I screw my eyes closed. I suspect that the wine and the vodka swimming through my system are partly to blame for the churning in my gut. I silently remind myself the multitude of reasons why pursuing anything with Ben is a bad idea.

  1) He’s not my type. He’s scruffy, whereas I’m put-together. I wear cardigans for God’s sake. I think that effectively blocks me from being allowed to date musicians.

  2) Ben is my roommate.

  3) I made a pact with Payton and Ainsley. I made the two of them promise that they wouldn’t go after Ben, regardless of how tempting he turned out to be. That has to stand for something.

  I halfway convince myself.

  I stand, my knees wobbling slightly under my weight.

  Ben looks up at me from the floor. His eyes are dark in the diffused light. He frowns and a single line appears between his eyebrows.

  “I think I need to call it a night,” I say quietly, rocking forward onto my toes. My breathing is shallow.

  With his eyes still on me, he shakes his head softly like he’s chasing away a thought. He says only, “Okay.”

  I feel inexplicably stupid. I let my feelings get away from me, and now I need them back.

  I turn and start walking toward my room. At the corner I have to brace my arm against the wall because my head feels light and dizzy. I know that I’ve had a lot to drink, but I guess I didn’t realize how much. Now, it’s hitting me hard. I close my eyes and start to sway.

  “Whoa, Ellie!” Ben comes up behind me, slipping his right arm around the indentation of my waist. He shifts my weight against his side, and draws my head against his chest. With sure hands, he smoothes my hair back so that it’s off my face.

  When I open my eyes, he’s watching me. He’s so close—just a few inches away. I can feel his warm breath running over my lips.

  Ben leads me down the hall to my room. He sets me down awkwardly on the bed so that I’m slouched over some throw pillows.

  I push the pillows onto the floor and tip back so that I’m flat on my back on top of my green-patterned duvet. I let my arms trail above me so that my fingertips brush the cool wood of my headboard. Ben bends down and lifts my legs, gently pulling my socks off one by one. His fingers are cold, and I curl my toes into ten tight balls. He chuckles.

  There are no lights on in my bedroom, but the single bulb in the hall casts a thin silver halo over us. Even though Ben’s face is a puzzle of grey shadows, I can still make out his eyes. They are somehow brighter than any other part of him.

  When he looks at me this time, I look back and the air between us catches fire. It’s like all the molecules in the room have been kicked into hyperdrive.

  Ben shifts his torso forward, his body pressing me further into the mattress. I hold my breath tightly in my chest, but I don’t break eye contact.

  Every part of me is trembling. Too many thoughts are tumbling around in my head. Like I’m thinking about how this is a bad idea, and how I’ll have to wake up one room down from him for the next seven months, and how I made Payton and Ainsley promise not to do exactly what I’m thinking about doing and that makes me a hypocrite.

  But then there’s the fresh soapy smell of him everywhere, and the mesmerizing way that he’s looking at me as if he’s just as hungry as I am. Ben’s lips open on a soft sigh, and I’m run through. It’s like an actual physical ache that shatters my bones and my resolve. I lift my hands to his face. I hold on, rubbing my palms against the gritty two-day stubble that coats his cheeks. I’m afraid that letting go will unwind the moment and things will go back to how they were ten seconds ago.

  Ben blinks. I smolder. He blinks again. Then he leans closer and my body melts to accommodate his. When his mouth is just an inch away from mine, he pauses. It’s almost like he’s giving me one final chance to push him away. I don’t.

  So, Ben Hamilton kisses me.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Twins

  “Shhhh!” I whisper harshly into the phone.

  Mark chortles. “Ellie, you just told me that Ben is at class. I recognize that you want to believe that this guy has superpowers of some sort, but I don’t think he can hear us all the way from a classroom on campus,” he reasons in my ear.

  Mark is right, of course. Still, I have my hand cupped protectively over the mouthpiece of my cell phone, and I’m talking to him from inside a sort of tent I’ve made out of my bed covers. I’m not taking any chances.

  Typically, the first thing Mark does when I tell him about the kiss is shriek. Then, he asks for all the juicy details.

  I’m trying my best not to sound like a romantic sap, but it’s supremely difficult. I keep replaying the kiss over and over—Ben bending over me, his hair falling forward to tickle my cheek, my fingers cupping his face. And then, those soft, perfect lips moving against mine, and his persistent tongue tasting, sucking deliciously. If I’m being fair, it was the best kiss of my life—a kiss that finds all your seams and pulls them apart, stitch by delicate stitch.

  Just thinking about it is almost too much.

  A flush crawls up my neck to my face.

  “So how did it end?” Mark wants to know.

  “Well, that’s the thing,” I say breathily, pushing two layers of covers from my head. I’m getting hot with so many thoughts ricocheting around my brain. “It was sort of a non-ending.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, we were interrupted.”

  “Interrupted?”

  “We heard Payton get off the phone,” I say. “She called both of our names and asked if we wanted to make daiquiris. And… Ben just—just… He just pulled away and left my room.”

  “Hmmm...”

  “Is that bad?” I bite my thumbnail anxiously. “It’s bad, isn’t it? Be honest, Mark.”

  Mark clicks his tongue. “I don’t know sweetie. But you’ve already told me that you were toasted on wine and vodka. He might have been hammered as well. I can assure you that a kiss under the influence does not equal long-lasting romance.”

  “I know that,” I respond cautiously. “But—”

  “Do you remember the time that I made out with a girl after three mojitos? That was a totally insane night.” Mark sighs aggressively. “And didn’t Ben just get out of a long relationship?”

  The question turns me inside out. I feel the same way that I did that time Payton and Hannah talked me onto the freefall ride at Six Flags. I was so excited to go on it. Then, five minutes after we got off the ride, my stomach clenched and I threw up all over my shoes.

  Leave it to Mark to point out the much needed obvious.

  I’m stalling and Mark knows it. He changes direction. “Let’s go back to the fact that two days ago you were insisting that getting involved with Ben Hamilton in any way shape or form was a terrible idea. Not only is he your roommate, which makes things complicated… but he’s also a musician. Do I need to remind you what musicians are like? Don’t forget that Melanie girl who was in our French class freshman year.”

  I remember. She got Chlamydia from the facially-pierced drummer of an alt-band and was never the same.

  I’m tempted to argue with Mark and defend what happened between Ben and me. But even though I can only get my head around one thing at a time, I know that Mark’s the one being rational. His logic rings true. Plus, I’m all spin and racing heart and blushing cheeks. My judgment certainly can’t be trusted.

  I throw my hand across my forehead and frown into the phone. “You’re right.”

  Mark laughs miserably. “Oh Ellie-bear, I’ve told you this a million times… I’m always right.”

  Theoretically the next few days should be awkward. I expect as much and steel myself for uncomfortable bump-in
s in the hallway between our bedrooms and the bathroom, or a formal stare-down in the living room. On that note, I’m surprised. I barely see Ben and we’re hardly ever alone.

  He goes back to being a ghost roommate—coming and going while I’m in bed or in the shower. The few times when we’re in the same room at the same time, Ainsley and Payton unknowingly offer up distractions.

  I start to think that the kiss we shared was something that I made up. Or that I dreamt about the whole thing in a wine and vodka induced quasi-coma.

  It would be plausible, except for one thing.

  Ben has stopped making eye contact with me.

  And it’s like the less that he looks at me, the more I get the sense that he wants to look. And, the thought that Ben wants to look at me sets my spine tingling.

  Thursday, just over a week after the “incident,” I walk in the front door and set my bag down against the wall. I head toward the kitchen. Keys dangle from my hand. I drop them onto the hook that Ainsley put up two weeks ago up precisely for that purpose.

  “The key hook is genius.”

  I jump at the sound of Ben’s deep voice and turn.

  When I walked in, I didn’t see him sitting in the stuffed chair in the corner of the living room. Two open books are on his lap and a third is in his hands.

  Our eyes meet somewhere over the back of the beige couch and stay there. It’s a kick to the gut because I realize how much I’ve missed looking at them. And him.

  Neither one of us blinks. His brown eyes are earnest and they break inside of me, twisting my nerves into a million tiny knots. The air around us changes. I breathe it in. My heartbeat wobbles—speeding up then slowing down, then speeding up again.

  Finally, I turn away and focus on the afternoon light spilling in through the front window. My traitorous hands are shaking. I take a long, steeling breath.

  I have to do this.

  I can do this.

  I’m Ellie Glass. I’m going to an elite law school in less than a year. I’m a grown up. I can handle one conversation with the roommate that I shared a drunken kiss with last week. I can talk to him even if I’m so attracted to him that I think he could set me on fire from his position across the room.

  My knees tremble. I open the refrigerator.

  “I know,” I say finally, reaching for a soda. “I think Ainsley finally got sick of helping Payton find her keys. She used to lose them about three times a day.”

  Ben laughs.

  Popping the tab on the can, I walk into the living room. I hesitate briefly and then choose a spot in the middle of the couch. It’s far enough so that I won’t have to look at Ben, but close enough that I can look at him if I deem the situation appropriate.

  It’s clear that I’ve interrupted him while he’s studying, but when I sit, Ben pushes his books to one side. He picks up the remote from the coffee table and flips on the television.

  For awhile, we both stare straight at the screen. A thick silence surrounds us. I consider saying something casual, but the words I come up with in my head are all wrong. So, I quietly look directly ahead and try my best to ignore the confusion that’s building inside of me.

  A slamming door shatters the awkward zen of the moment. Payton launches her purse toward the small table where we keep our mail, but she misses entirely. The purse skids halfway across the living room floor and winds up upside down next to Ben’s feet. Lipstick and a pack of mint gum fall out.

  Before Ben and I can react, Payton throws her body horizontally across the couch. Her head lands on my thigh and her feet hover over the armrest.

  “Let’s all go out tonight,” she says and it comes out sounding more like an order than a question.

  “Out?” I push her hair aside so that I can see her face.

  “Yeah.” She blows out a puff of breath. “I want to go out.”

  So we do.

  The place that Payton chooses is loud and crowded—just her style. Her round hazel eyes swing across the room when we walk in. Waving her arms, she pushes through a group of gathered girls, and leads the way to the bar.

  Nights like this I half-envy Payton’s daring style. She’s layered about four extra coats of mascara on her lashes to compliment the blaring red of the lipstick that she’s chosen. The ends of her dark hair are spiked with gel so that they rest playfully against her cheekbones. She’s paired a short grey dress with knee-high black boots. And, of course, she’s got three silver necklaces piled on and a ring on almost every single finger.

  People notice her immediately. Guys literally stop what they’re doing to stare as she walks by.

  Ainsley has put effort into her appearance as well. Her long blonde hair falls in perfectly arranged curls over her shoulders, and she’s got on a light pink top that dips dangerously low in the front.

  Glancing down, I feel distinctly dowdy in my dark skinny jeans and a fitted blue top. Mark would frown grumpily at my utter lack of accessories and my pulled-back, didn’t-really-try-that-hard hair.

  The second that we get to the bar, Payton shoves a drink in my face. She claims that she and the bartender are friends. Judging by the way that he’s ogling her, I have a feeling that this is one of those instances when her definition of “friendship” is fairly flexible. Uncomfortable, I take a sip and shift on my barstool.

  Ainsley spots two of her sorority sisters, Laurie and Allison, and waves them down. They squeal happily and do some sort of wonky group hug thing. When the thumping white lights switch to purple, all three of them hit the dancing crowd on “boy patrol.” This is Ainsley’s terminology, not mine.

  A cute guy with deep set eyes and a heavy five o’clock shadow saunters over to us. He stands next to me and taps his finger on the bar like he’s going to order a drink. Then, almost like it’s an afterthought, he casually leans his hip in and tilts his upper body toward Payton’s shoulder. Suggestively lifting one eyebrow, he asks her to dance. We’ve been at the bar for all of ten minutes.

  I watch in fascination as she grins slyly and takes his offered hand. The two of them stalk off, disappearing into the mess of thumping bodies.

  Ben is flipping a quarter between his fingers. He gives me a sideways glance. “Happen often?”

  I do the eye roll thing but I’m smiling indulgently. “She is a force to be reckoned with.”

  “You all are,” he says, slipping the quarter into his back pocket and taking a small sip of his beer.

  We sit there, side by side for three obnoxious songs. This place is all club music and greased back hair and hot, sweaty dancing. It’s not really my scene and I’m getting the sense that Ben feels as out of place as I do.

  To fill in the lack of conversation, I drink faster than normal. When the beat of the music hits a higher notch, I signal to the bartender for another drink. He obliges, bringing over a fresh vodka and cranberry garnished with a slice of lime. Ben slides over money before I can even reach into my purse.

  I should say thank you or something like that, but it surprises me so much that I do nothing but blink and nod my head like a moron.

  After another minute, Ben stands. He seems like a fake person then—leaning toward me, his hands folded into his pockets. He’s got this quasi-apprehensive look on his face that I don’t understand. Like me, he’s wearing jeans and a long-sleeved blue shirt. He even has his brown hair secured in a ponytail at the nape of his neck just like mine.

  I laugh.

  “What?” He asks loudly so that I can hear him over the music. His forehead rumples. I think that he’s uncertain and maybe a little embarrassed.

  “Nothing. It’s just that we match.” I point and smile harder. God. I’m smiling so hard, the muscles in my cheeks start to hurt.

  Ben looks at me, and then down at himself. His parted mouth transforms into a grin. That one ridiculous dimple appears out of nowhere.

  “To twins,” he chants, and he lifts his glass up off the bar and holds it in the air expectantly. I raise my glass and we clink.

  �
��Twins,” I echo.

  Ben sets down his drink and tucks the brown hair that has come loose from his ponytail behind his ears. He clears his throat once, then twice, before bringing the flat of his hand to my back.

  He lowers his face so that it’s almost level with mine. The feel of his shallow breath against my neck and collarbone sends a delicious shiver through my body.

  “Dance with me?” He asks in a deep and husky voice.

  My heart dips and sputters like an engine that’s catching. I nod slowly and take two long sips from my drink for courage before abandoning it on the bar top.

  Behind his back, Ben’s dangling an open hand, but I don’t take it. I trail one step away and fill in the spaces he creates as people part and come back together to let us in. I have this crazy thought that it’s like being swallowed up by human bodies and that I’m being digested by the loud and hectic music. I feel it move through me, pulling me—sucking me from the outside in.

  The house lights dim further. Now we’re swimming in a new kind of darkness. One that’s a surreal dreamlike canvas, dotted with soft greens and blues. Ben’s hand snakes out for me. He finds purchase at my waist. With fingers inching toward my spine, he draws me to him until our bodies are aligned and I can feel the hard edges of his torso through the thin fabric of our blue shirts.

  My heart hammers against my breastbone and stirs up a torrent of sensations inside of me. I wonder if he senses it—if he feels even half of what I’m feeling right now.

  Ben lifts his hands and gently touches my cheek. Giving in to the turbulent vibrations rattling and heating the air between us, I close my eyes. He trails his fingers along my back, pausing to trace the outline of my shoulder blades. His hands continue downward until they’re cupping my hips. Hesitantly, hoping that I don’t explode, I slip my arms over his neck and leave them there.

  And then we’re dancing. My head barely reaches Ben’s shoulders, but he inclines his chin, fitting himself to the shape of me. I find that I’m completely aware of him—of the way his thumbs are sliding closer to my navel, and the smell of his skin, and his mouth, which hovers mere inches above my neck.