On an Edge of Glass (4 page)

             
Mark’s right hand goes to his hip and he kicks out his foot.  “Yet here you stand, worked up and blushing like a schoolgirl.”

             
I stick my tongue out at him.  “Have I told you before that you’re obnoxious?”

             
“At least a thousand times.”  Mark slips my hand over his arm and pulls me up the walk, rocking his body so that his hip bumps into mine.  “Now tell me all the good parts.”

             
“Umm… I thought that’s what I just did.”

             
He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth.  “I mean... the
good stuff. 
Height?  Build?  Eye color?  Lefty or righty?”

             
“God Mark!  Get your mind out of the gutter!”  I laugh and duck my head sheepishly.

             
Mark adjusts his grip on my arm.  “Look, if your exceptionally handsome super BFF isn’t going to ask you these questions, who will?”

             
I open the front door, my thoughts running through the memory of the guy.  “Tall… v
ery
tall and lanky, but not awkward looking,” I say decidedly.  “He had long dark brown hair and almond-shaped eyes that were just a few shades lighter than his hair.”

I think about his mouth.  It was curved and sensual, but I can’t say that out loud.
  Mark would never let me live it down.  I sigh.  “He was sort of edgy—like maybe an artist, or a writer, or something like that.”

“The kind of guy that would look at home in Brooklyn?”

I laugh.  “Yeah, I guess so.  He had on a leather bracelet.” 

I shiver and turn
to face the small table by the front door.  Ainsley set up a system of wire mesh baskets for sorting the mail between us and she does not like any deviation from the agreed upon arrangement.

             
“Huh.  So a tall and sexy bracelet-wearer?”

             
I blow my bangs out of my eyes and nod.  “Well I didn’t
say
sexy, but yeah.”

             
“And long hair?”  Mark leans with his back against the front door and his arms folded across his chest.  His blond eyebrows are drawn in so that they’re hidden behind his thick eyeglass frames. 

             
I flip an envelope into Payton’s basket.  “Yes, almost to his shoulders.  He was a bit…
scruffy
.  You know that isn’t my normal thing, but this guy was different somehow.”

             
“I see… 
Different
how?  Like that guy?”  He tips his chin toward the kitchen. 

             
I turn my body in the direction that Mark indicates and everything slips—like I’m looking at and through the scene playing out in my kitchen at the same time.  I open my mouth and my heart falls down my throat. 

He’s here
.  My coffee shop rescuer is in
my
freaking kitchen.  And he’s loading glasses into
my
dishwasher like he belongs here. 

His hair is rumple
d and he’s wearing a muted red shirt over jeans and that same leather cuff on his wrist.  He’s tapping his fingers against his leg and moving his feet across the grey linoleum floor almost like he’s dancing to music.

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. 

W
hen 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.

Coriander-less Kabobs

There a
re 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. 

T
his 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.