On an Edge of Glass (33 page)

“It’s not that, Ellie.  You still have a lot left to lose,” she said with authority.   “But you’ve changed, and it’s for the better.  It’s almost like you’ve decided that you’d rather be scared and end up feeling kind of stupid than miss out on the good stuff.”

I’ll admit that t
his didn’t exactly provide me with a sense of comfort.

T
he exhibit is tonight.  Mark and I arrive downtown thirty minutes early so that I can go over final staging with Michaela and have my picture taken with the rest of the night’s featured photographers. 

Mark
parks his car in the back of the gallery between a dark green dumpster and a massive black pick-up truck with tinted windows.  Protecting my brand new high heels, I have to dodge a giant pothole that’s filled with mucky water and a handful of scattered, empty aluminum cans.

“Could you have found a more terrible place to park?”

Mark flares his nostrils.  “Sorry, but I didn’t get the memo that wearing high heels and a sexy dress transforms my best pal into a prima donna.”

I glance down. 
By either a stroke of stupidity, or one of genius, I am wearing Payton’s long-sleeved green dress—the same one that I wore the night that Ben and I fought.  I cringe.  “Do you think this dress was a mistake?”

Mark stops walking.  “No, I don’t.
  You look fabulous Ellie-bear, and you’re going to blow
everyone
—including Benjamin Hamilton—away.”  He grabs my elbow and pulls me into his side.  “Now let’s go find some of those delicious tiny, dough-covered sausages to eat.”

Eight o’clock come
s and goes.  No Ben.  Eight thirty.  No Ben.  By nine, I’m resigned.

             
“I can’t believe this shit!”  Payton exclaims as she pops a sweet and sour meatball into her mouth. 

             
“He might still come,” Ainsley says hopefully, rubbing my upper arm gently and shooting daggers in Payton’s direction.

             
I turn to her and smile sadly.  The back of my eyes sting and my nose is starting to tingle—both are sure signs that tears aren’t far away.  “He probably just forgot or something.”

             
“It’s his loss,” Mark chides, looking up at my collection.  “These all turned out incredible.  I kind of can’t believe that you’re so good at this, Ellie.”

             
“You’ve seen these exact photos before,” I remind him. 

             
“I know that I have.”  Mark shakes his head.  “But not like this.”

             
It’s true.  Michaela must know what she’s doing because even I’ll admit that the collection looks wonderful.  My parents have been telling anyone that will listen that it was their idea to get me that first camera back in middle school.  Brian and Pam Glass, attorneys at law, showed up to the gallery promptly at eight, as per my invitation.  They’ve proven to be far more supportive than I anticipated.  And when I mentioned that I’m looking into the possibility of studying environmental law next year, my mom barely batted her eyelashes. 

See,
I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately.  And I’ve come to the conclusion that I
do
want to go to law school, but maybe I won’t become a corporate attorney like my parents.  I’ve decided to keep my options open and stay away from a plan for awhile.    

             
I shake my head.  Right now they’re engrossed in a discussion with Adam Pratt, the gallery owner, about the legal process of franchising. 

“You’re collection is beautiful, dear.”  A
woman, with watery grayish eyes is speaking to me.  The man next to her has long chin hairs and a bulbous nose. 

I nod.  “Thank you very much.”

“What’s the title?”

“Starstuff.”

“Hmmm.”  

I watch as they wander into the next room of the gallery. 
Starstuff. 
It’s an homage to my first date with Ben and a bit of truth.  Because, like Carl Sagan said, these people—the ones that make my world go round—really are made up of the same stuff as stars.   

There are seven pictures in total.
  All outlined in chunky stark white mats and framed in a thin band of brushed silver.  If you start left to right, the one of Ainsley, caught in profile and backlit by the sun, is positioned first.  In the photograph, a small, secretive smile is drawing up the corners of her mouth and puckering her eyes. 

The second photo is one
that I took of Payton.  It’s a close-up of the lower part of her face as she applies lipstick in a small circular mirror.  In the foreground, her eclectic collection of jewelry is spread out on the top of her dresser.

             
Next, there’s a photo that I took over the Thanksgiving break of my mom and dad.  They are in the kitchen of our D.C. house.  Stilled in time, my parents stand opposite each other, their torsos bent forward over the dark granite of the kitchen island.  They’re both in their work clothes and talking on their cell phones, but they’re relaxed, sharing a smile as my mom pours out two glasses of red wine and my dad loosens his tie with his left hand. 

The fourth picture
is one that I took last week of Mark.  He’s sitting on the wooden top of our favorite bench in the sun-filled Quad and he’s leaning back, his hands clasped and slightly out of focus.  I’ve captured the moment when his mouth is opening while his eyes close on a laugh. 

             
The last three photographs are all of Ben.  There’s him playing his cello in an empty classroom the week of winter exams, and one of him fingering the bass guitar on stage with Accidental Sweet Tea, all sweaty and incredible.  And, of course, the photo that I took at the end of our first official date. 

I blink
and let my eyes refocus.  I know without anyone telling me, that each picture of Ben is somehow incredibly intimate.  It’s the equivalent of me hiring one of those skywriting planes to declare my feelings in white smoke to everyone standing below.  And with Ben being a no-show, it sort of seems like having my chest cut open and my beating heart pulled out and left, exposed and bleeding out on the cold marble floor.

             
I squeeze my eyes shut and turn away.  I trap my breath in my lungs and hold it there before releasing it through my teeth.  When I open my eyes it takes me several seconds to put everything together.  I blink once, then twice, then a third time. 

             
Ben is here. 

             
He’s centered in the threshold of the gallery hall staring at my photographs.  He’s wearing a plain white button-down shirt under a tailored black jacket.  Dark corduroy pants cover his long, lean legs.  Everything fits him in exactly the right places.  His chocolate brown hair is loose, brushing his shoulders.  He’s clean-shaven

             
He pivots his head toward me and I stop breathing.  The air in the room stills.  It feels like the walls are full of blinking eyes and they’re all trained on me.

Ben
’s pink mouth is a straight line slashed across his face.  He’s squinting at me like he doesn’t understand what he’s seeing.  I want to reach out and touch him from across the room.  I want to smooth out the tiny lines around his eyes and I desperately want him to understand—to see the words beyond the photographs
. 
 

             
I walk toward him and offer an unsteady smile because it’s the only kind I’ve got right now. 

“I
thought maybe you weren’t going to make it,” I say quietly, stepping up beside him.

He looks between me and the photographs framed on the wall.  “I told you that I wouldn’t miss it.”  He lifts his hand and then lets it fall back against his leg.  “I’m glad that I got to see this.”

I take in a huge breath.  “I’m glad too.  Because, no matter what happens after tonight, I want—no, that’s not right. I
need
you to know how I really feel.”  I pause.  God, my voice is as shaky as the rest of me.  “What happened before—all of it was…  I-I guess what I’m trying to say is…”

Oh my God.  Could I possibly botch this some more? 
Ben’s eyes are drilling into mine.  His mouth is parted and his chest is rising and falling visibly.  I reach out and brush my fingers over his.  He pulls his hand back.

             
“I’m trying to say…”  I start again. 
What am I trying to say? 
I know that I mapped out all of this, but it’s like I’ve forgotten everything.  Maybe all of the important words are somewhere else, in some other girl’s head.  I let my eyes fall to the floor—to the toes of my fancy new high heels which are almost touching Ben’s shoes.  Hot tears pinch the backs of my eyes. 

“I’m
in love with you, Ben.”  The sentence comes out of me like a puff of air.  I’m not even sure Ben heard me.  He’s looking down at me with this strange expression.  I watch his throat move and his shoulders tighten. 

Then, without
saying a single word, he turns and walks away from me.

Heart of Glass

If the question is: what’s more mortifying than professing your love to a boy and having him turn and walk away
from you?

             
The answer is: professing your love to a boy, while standing in front of your friends, parents and a hundred strangers, and having him turn and walk away from you.

             
My humiliation is complete.  I’m sitting in the passenger seat of Mark’s car.  The exhibit ended twenty minutes ago.  Ainsley and Payton went home.  My parents hugged me before getting in the car and driving to their hotel.  I shook a thousand hands and said a million goodbyes.  I know what everyone was thinking.  I know that they all witnessed my heart get flattened by Ben.  I know that I’m wearing embarrassment all around me like a gaudy winter coat.  I know all of it, but I still can’t be sorry.

             
Because even after what happened tonight, I think that Ainsley was right.  Sure, just now things feel shitty and I’ve got this huge gaping hole inside of me.  But at least I can say that when I had the chance, I took it. 

And, you know, when all is said and done, it really is
better to wind up feeling scared and stupid than not feel anything at all. 

The movement of the car changes abruptly.  I look up.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I say, my voice laced with disbelief.  I turn in my seat to face Mark.  “You’re joking, right?”

“What?”

“
What
?  Ummm… Let’s see.  I’ve just been publicly shot down by the boy that I love and you want to stop for a cappuccino at the place where I first met the aforementioned boy?”  I sweep my hair away from my face so that I can glare at him properly.  “Are you seriously going to pretend like you don’t know what my problem is?”

Mark drops his ear to his
shoulder and lifts his hands.  “Well, you didn’t technically
meet
him at this coffee shop, so…”

I level my eyes at him.  “Mark.”

“Ellie.”

“Mark.”

“Ellie.”

I sigh.  We could go back and forth
like this all night.  “Are they even open?  And, don’t you think it’s a little late for caffeine?”

“They’re open until eleven.”  He
grins and steps out of the car.  I follow.  “And, frankly, I think it’s always the right time for caffeine.  But if it will make you feel better, I’ll order a decaf.”

I roll my eyes. 
“Fine.  But, please let the record show that I am not happy about this.”

“Duly noted,” he says as
he takes my hand and pulls me along the sidewalk.  “Cheer up buckaroo.  We’ll get you a hot chocolate and you’ll feel much better.  I promise.”

“Mark, I’m pretty sure that this is a situation that hot chocolate can’t solve.
”

He fr
owns.  “I think that you’re drastically underestimating the power of hot chocolate.”

The coffee shop is virtually empty.
Obviously, most people haven’t heard Mark Temple’s mantra about caffeine.  Pressing down on my shoulder, Mark settles me into a chair at a small table against the back wall and goes up to the counter to order our drinks.  I get my phone out of my purse and start messing around—checking my texts and my Facebook account.  It’s mostly stuff about tonight’s gallery show.  

             
“Is this seat taken?”  A familiar voice asks.  It’s deep, with a slight drawl that makes stomach churn and my heart dip. 

I look up.  Way up. 

I’m so stunned that it takes me a moment to realize what’s happening.  My face probably looks ridiculous.  I think that my bottom jaw is hovering about an inch off the floor.

“You’ll catch flies that way,”
Ben says as he casually sits in the chair across from me.  He’s taken off the dark jacket and the sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up nearly to his elbows.  He’s got on the same leather cuff that he was wearing the first time that I saw him.