On an Edge of Glass (5 page)

Just t
hink 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 gi
ve 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 lif
t 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 s
omething 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 ge
ts 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 vanilla 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 ca
tch 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. 

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, h
e 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.