On an Edge of Glass (17 page)

I clear my throat
, trying to regain some control.  I bend my arm on the center console and prop my head with one hand.  “Fine, but one of the ground rules is no classical music can be played.  There’s absolutely no way that I’d ever be able to tell the difference between Mozart’s 8
th
and 9
th
concertos.  Deal?”

Ben
stops messing with his phone and looks at me.  “Deal.”

Five rounds later I’m thinking that I should have come up with
a few more ground rules. 

Unsurprised
when he tells me the name of yet another band that I’ve never heard of, I throw my hands up in exasperation.  “I thought you said that you’d take it easy on me!”

Ben
laughs.  There’s a crease in the middle of his forehead.  The top three buttons of his shirt are undone and from where I sit I can see the lines of his neck fading into his chest. 

“Actually I said that I’d
start
off easy on you.  And I did.”  He flicks his turn signal on.  “Who in the hell hasn’t heard of John Prine?”

“
Me,
apparently.  And I’d be willing to bet lots of other people too.”

“Well, he’s a classic Amer
ican singer and songwriter.  Now you know who he is, so at least you’ve gained something of value from this experience.”

I chuckle
at his sarcastic tone.  “You are positively infuriating.”

“Aww, you like me though.”

“I do.”  As the words come out of my mouth, I realize how deliberate and full of double meaning they sound. 

M
y cheeks redden and I’m about to say something ironic to deflect the embarrassment coiling tightly in my chest, when I catch the look on Ben’s face.  There’s a strange fire in his eyes and he’s throwing out a smile so wide and brilliant in wattage that I’d like to save it and keep it in my pocket always. 

Ben
parks the car and turns to look at me.  I can tell that he’s thinking about what he’s going to say. 

“I
think that we’ve already established that I like you too,” he takes a quick breath.  “A lot.”

I smile carefully and hold his gaze.  The air inside of the car seems to heat up.

After a long minute, Ben clears his throat.  “We’ve reached our destination now so…”

I cut my eyes out
over the span of black asphalt parking lot to the large concrete building growing from the pavement.  It is an elongated rectangle with columns of blue-black windows by the entrance.  There is a wide textured dome-shaped roof spanning the center of the building that reminds me of the outside rind of a cantaloupe. 

“You brought me to a
planetarium?” My voice is dangerously close to an Ainsley-type squeal. 

“
Ahhh, yeah.”  He runs his hands along the circumference of the steering wheel.  “You mentioned something about liking space awhile ago.  Once you put your foot down about animal sacrifice, I had to come up with something just as interesting but a little less grotesque.”

“I can’t believe that you remember that I said that
.”  I shake my head and push my bangs back away from my eyes.  “I do love space.  I used to beg my mom and dad to take me to the one in D.C. on Saturdays for the afternoon star show.  It was like an entire galaxy to explore all under one roof.”  I take a deep breath and smile.  “This is wonderful.”

Ben is q
uiet.  Maybe he thinks I’m lame—a space-loving future attorney who dabbles in photography
does
sound lame. 

He
takes my hand and I turn away from the window so that we’re facing each other.  Ben looks directly into my eyes, causing everything inside of me to roll over.  With his fingertips, he reaches out and traces the outline of my mouth.  It feels so good—like a sort of kiss that goes beyond mouths.

I don’t reall
y know what to say.  Saying
thank you
seems beyond strange and anything else feels like it would break the spell of the moment.  After a few seconds, we both wordlessly open our doors and step into the chilly air.

At the entrance, we’re met by a beefy lady with thick glasses who rips our tickets and sends us through the doors into the round projection room.  Maneuvering down the aisle, Ben reaches back and takes my hand in his.  He leads me past a family of six and a couple of teenagers to a spot that’s just to the side of center.  These are planetarium seats—the kind of chairs that tilt back so that you can see the entire dome spread out and shimmering with projected night sky stars above you.  In the center of the room is a raised platform.  That’s where the projector is and where the narrator sits during the show. 

We spend a few minutes playing with the
newness of the seats and talking in low voices to each other.  Our faces are so close that I can feel his breath light and warm as it tangles with my hair and moves across my lips.  When the lights dim further the entire audience goes quiet and our eyes turn upward. 

Ben is still holding
my hand.  His fingers are twisted in mine and his thumb is tracing delicate patterns across the skin of my palm and up over my wrist.  In the darkness, his gentle touch makes my head swim.  I shift my body closer so that my right knee rests against his left one and my head bows toward his shoulder.  Covered by a veil of shadows, his hand finds its way slowly up my arm.  Soundlessly, his lips graze the soft groove on the inside of my elbow. 

M
y breath catches in my throat.  I feel like I could float away.   

Then a
low, male voice comes over the speakers, and the dome screen erupts in glossy light reminding my body to work properly.  When I look over, Ben is leaning back in his chair, attention on the unfolding universe of planets and stars playing out on the screen up above. 

I wonder if I
imagined the delicate graze of his lips against my skin, but in a splinter of spangled light, I catch a small knowing smirk playing on his face.  He looks over and away quickly, but it’s enough to cut through me like a jolt of lightning.

Trying to settle
my pounding heart, I focus my eyes on the show.  It’s all about the Milky Way—about the hostile environment that created the swirling phosphorescent galaxy, and the solar system, and ultimately, us.  I watch, enthralled, as the cosmos is laid out in brilliant hues of purples and reds and silvers.

Later, we stop at this tiny
Italian place between the planetarium and home.  It’s only got one large window at the front.  The walls are painted an awful shade of buttery yellow and the furniture is dingy and worn, but it smells like heaven on earth.

A
s a short woman, with her graying hair in stiff bob, leads us to a two-top against the far wall, Ben grazes his hand over my lower back and promises in a low whisper that the food is wonderful.   

We get a bottle of cheap red wine to split between us.  It tastes a little vinegary
, but neither one of us minds.  It’s such a normal, everyday thing, but I like sitting across from Ben.  As he talks, I watch his mouth move and the way his eyebrows work.  

The waitress
who comes to our table is thin and a tad craggy.  With a frown, she serves us baked pasta in huge gaping bowls that look like they could easily feed five people.  The cheese on the top of my food is still steaming so I peel it back and let the pasta cool for a minute before I risk a bite. 

Ben is right
about this place.  The quality of the décor and the service doesn’t coincide with the way that my dinner tastes.  I’m already thinking about how much Mark would love to come here.  He’s always complaining that you can’t find real Italian food outside of New York.  Or Italy. 

I
t doesn’t take long for me to stuff myself to the brim with manicotti.  I set down my fork and lean back in the wooden chair and listen to Ben describe the crazy conductor that he worked under last year.  I laugh a lot and the conversation bends and weaves the way good conversations tend to do.  We talk about everything—from how I think I did on the LSAT, to which was our favorite Power Ranger when we were growing up, to how we both feel about labeling guidelines for genetically modified foods.

N
ow, as we walk on a narrow cement sidewalk outside the restaurant, we are under a real-life dome of glimmering stars and talk veers back to the planetarium show we saw.  I think about a quote that the narrator used right before the show concluded. 

My head falls back.  My
face is turned up to the night. “Do you remember it?”  I ask Ben.

“I think it was
something Carl Sagan said.”  He stops walking and pulls his cell phone from the pocket of his jacket. 

“
You’re right.  It was definitely a Carl Sagan quote.  Something about DNA and particles or something like that,” I add, rubbing my hands together for warmth and watching the hazy clouds of my breath fading into the darkness.

“
I found it.  We were right about it being Carl Sagan.”  His brown hair drips over his forehead as he reads from his phone.  He is encircled in the flickering light of a dying streetlamp.  “
The nitrogen in our DNA, the calcium in our teeth, the iron in our blood, the carbon in our apple pies were made in the interiors of collapsing stars. We are made of starstuff.”
 

“Starstuff,” I
say, letting the newly discovered word make its way around my mouth so that I can get a feel for it.  I smile to myself.  “I love that.”

Ben reaches over
and covers my cold hands with his and lifts them to his mouth.  He warms them with two short bursts of his breath and then rubs my hands between his palms.  His eyes, when they find mine, are like a confession.  “Me too.” 

We pull up to the house encased in
an absorbing quiet.  Almost apprehensively, Ben walks me inside the empty house.  He’s humming softly.  Slowly, he runs his thumb along the palm of my hand, tracing the chaotic trajectory of lines there. 

Me?  I’m trying
my best to breathe properly and not let my full heart boil over.

At my door,
Ben’s long fingers brush the loose hairs away from my face.  His gold-flecked eyes move lazily up and down my body. 

“Come inside,” I say, grabbing his shirt and pulling him into my body. 

Stopping me, Ben lifts his hands to the wooden door frame, effectively holding himself outside of my room.  I must make a frustrated sound because Ben chuckles and leans down to kiss me softly on my cheek.  His lips graze the spot where my earlobe meets my jaw.  Losing control of myself, I shiver.

“This is our
first date, Ellie,” he whispers harshly.  His mouth is against my skin and I can feel his moist tongue dart out and brush my earlobe.  “I want it to go the way that a first date should.  That includes the traditional first date door drop-off.” 

I step
away from him, lifting my eyebrows high on my forehead.  “You’re kidding, right?”

He shakes his head
unhurriedly.

I groan and stamp my foot against the wood floor.  Ben laughs.

“This is ridiculous.  I’ve already seen what’s under here,” I say, tracing the waistband of his pants. 

Ben chuckles
some more and rolls his eyes.  “Are you going to try to kill me tonight?”

I blow out a long, exasperated breath. 
“Well, what about the traditional first date kiss at the door?”  I ask and innocently bat my eyelashes. 

The smile on his lips as he slips his h
and to my neck and pulls me toward him is teasing.  So is the kiss.  Our mouths barely touch, but even so, everything inside of me ignites like I’ve been doused in kerosene and a match has been thrown at me.

Just wh
en I open my mouth for more, Ben takes a step away.  Disappointment crashes into me like ice cold water.  I touch my fingers to my lips and blink my eyes.  Ben laughs again.

“Are you mocking me?”  I challenge.

He tucks his dark hair back and chews the inside of his mouth.  “No, I’m not mocking you at all.  I’m admiring you, Ellie.”  He takes a deep breath and slips his hands into his pockets.  “This is a lot harder than I thought it would be.”

I scrunch my face up. 
“What’s harder than you thought it would be?  Going on a date with me?”

“
No.  That part is easy.  The hard part is leaving you.”

“Then don’t
leave,” I say with a note of defiance in my tone.

Ben cl
oses his eyes briefly.  “Ellie Glass, you are a dangerous seductress out to ruin all of my good intentions.”

I cock my hip and giggle
.  “Damn straight I am.”

We stand like that for a long moment, just staring at each other from opposite
sides of my bedroom door. 

His face.  His eyes, and nose, and mouth.  I want to memorize all of the parts of him.