On an Edge of Glass

  The front door opens, and almost before I’ve taken a proper breath, we’re in Ben’s car headed back to school.

  What is the protocol for this situation?

  What should I say?

  Am I supposed to say anything at all?

  Or is it best to keep quiet, and stay drawn together in my seat, staring out the passenger window like none of it matters? Like my head isn’t falling off my body?

  The stereo plays music. The car engine rattles softly. Ben and I continue to stay silent.

  I look out at the cloudless blue of the sky and think about how I’m growing accustomed to the hollowness inside of me. It’s almost like it belongs there.

  After awhile—nearly half the trip—Ben exits the interstate and pulls the car into a gas station. He doesn’t say anything, just pops the lid of the gas tank and steps out of the parked car. I go inside, using the opportunity to go to the bathroom and buy some snacks.

  The woman behind the counter hands me a chintzy plastic bag and three thin paper napkins along with my change. I take the bag and shove the change into the inside pocket of my purse. As I exit the gas station, a man wearing a cowboy hat and scuffed up work boots holds the door for me.

  Hesitantly, I walk up to the car. Ben is leaning back against the driver’s side door with one hand resting on the hood and the other in his pocket. His warm breath is visible in the cold February morning air.

  Like a peace offering, I hold out a bottle of water and a bag of those pretzel chips that he likes so much. Ben pauses as he reaches for the bag almost like he’s being careful not to touch my fingers. He rewards me with a wan smile.

  We climb into our respective seats and then we’re back on the road and back to the nothingness.

  Seven long minutes later, when I don’t think I can take one more second of this without pulling my hair out, I speak. I use a voice that doesn’t sound like mine. “Do you want to talk about it?” I ask.

  Ben starts to shake his head then thinks better of it and stops. He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and flicks a sideways look at me. “I guess so.”

  But neither of us says anything. We drive a few more miles in a strange sort of quiet.

  “Last night,” he says finally, releasing the tightness in his jaw. “It was…”

  I sit up. “It was—”

  “Let me finish,” he says rigidly.

  “Okay…”

  Ben loosens his muscles. Absently, he scratches just below his chin and tucks his hair back. He swallows hard.

  “It’s just that this is embarrassing, but I need to say it.” He gives me a sheepish smile. I take it and return it. “Last night, I don’t know what I was thinking when I came to see you. I meant to just talk to you, and—and one thing led to another… Honestly, I think I had too much to drink when we were at dinner with Scott and Bryant.” He takes a quick, tight breath and holds it. “I probably shouldn’t have driven us home and I’m sorry for that. And I’m sorry for everything that came after. Things never should have gone down like that.”

  This isn’t the explanation that I expected. I remember Ben ordering one beer with dinner, but that’s all. He didn’t seem drunk. He didn’t smell drunk. He didn’t taste drunk. He tasted like toothpaste.

  “Oh.” I let my mind wrap around these thoughts. “I just—I thought…”

  Wow. I realize with a sucking clarity that a part of me thought that Ben still harbored some sliver of feeling for me. That when he said, “it isn’t enough,” maybe he meant that he wanted me in more ways than just physically.

  It’s the shame of rejection, so direct and complete, that echoes inside my chest and stings at the backs of my eyes.

  I feel sick.

  “I think that I had too much to drink also,” I say and look away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  In Spite of Ourselves

  “I don’t know why you don’t try talking to him again.”

  “Huh?” My head jerks up.

  Mark is looking at me. His eyebrows are pulled together making a deep V in the middle of his forehead. “I think you would feel a lot better,” he says. “And I know that I would.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Mark sits back in the desk chair and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Ben. I mean the way that you guys left things hanging after Asheville. It’s been over two weeks Ellie, and I think that you should talk to him again.”

  “Mark,” I say, shaking my head and letting the thoughts tumble all over the place. “Ben and I didn’t leave things hanging. I told you exactly what happened. In no uncertain terms, he said that he didn’t want to be with me, so I don’t understand what more you think there is to talk about.”

  Mark puts his elbows on his thighs and leans forward. “See, I don’t think that’s what he said.”

  I remember Ben’s words in the car clearly. I remember the way that his golden brown eyes hardened and how my chest constricted.

  A short, sharp laugh escapes me. “And you were there? That’s funny, because I didn’t see you. Were you in the backseat hiding under an invisibility cloak loaned to you by Harry Potter?”

  “Don’t be sarcastic Ellie,” Mark says, all seriousness and big brother voice. “I just don’t think Ben was being completely honest about things. And neither were you.”

  My head drops into my hands. “Mark, you’re a good friend. The best. But, you don’t need to worry about Ben and me anymore. That’s over and done with and I don’t want to keep coming back to it.”

  “But—”

  “Do I have to remind you that you’re the one who cautioned me not to become a dweller?” I glance up and brush my bangs out of my eyes. “I’m trying my best to follow your advice and now you’re crawling all over me for that. Asheville was nothing. Ben took me home with him because of timing, and what happened on that last night was an accident. It didn’t mean anything and I’ve accepted that. Why can’t you?”

  “Come on Ellie-bear! You can’t honestly believe that, can you?” Mark’s voice is tinged with exasperation.

  I throw my hands up. “Believe what?”

  “That lame story he gave you about drinking too much.” Mark rolls his eyes. “Wow. Do I really have to spell this out for you?”

  “Apparently so,” I challenge.

  Mark levels his clear gaze at me. “Ben Hamilton is in love with you. And you’re in love with him,” he says, punctuating each word like a hammer driving a nail into wood.

  “No. He’s not.” I pause. My head moves left an inch. I curl my fingers into my palms. “I’m not.”

  Mark rolls his eyes. “Yeah. And I’m straight as a pin.”

  “Mark…”

  “Ellie, you can pull this shit with other people—even yourself—but, don’t pull it with me. I’ve seen the way that you look at him, and I’ve seen the way that he looks at you.”

  “Fine. How does he look at me?” I ask because I want to know. Of course I’ve seen the way that Ben looks at me, but maybe I’m missing something.

  “He looks at you like you’re the only person in the room. Like he’s trapped underwater and you’re an oxygen tank. Like he’s in anaphylactic shock and you’re an EpiPen.” Mark shakes his head. “He looks at you like you’re the last cello left on the planet.”

  “Pfffttt.” I squeeze my fingers tighter. I’m too wound up. Too suspended in insecurity and disbelief. “But, he said…”

  “I don’t care what he said.” Mark points his finger at me. “You also blamed alcohol, and we both know that’s not true.”

  “Because I was embarrassed,” I say, defensiveness straightening my shoulders.

  “Did it cross your mind that Ben might be embarrassed too?”

  “Of course it did, but—”

  Mark won’t let me finish. “You’re the one that broke things off with him. He’s got some pride, you know. It’s not like you’ve made anything particularly easy on the guy.”

  “Since when did you start taking
Ben’s side?” My voice is getting higher and tighter. I feel like I’m slipping. “You’re my friend! You’re supposed to be on my side.”

  Mark looks almost sad for me. “This is me being on your side, Ellie. This is the side that cares about you. The side that doesn’t want to see you keep throwing all the good things in your life away when something doesn’t go exactly like you plan.”

  I rub my fingers against my eyes. I won’t start crying now. It’s too humiliating. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about all of the times that you’ve given up too easily. I’m talking about that night at The Hill when you walked away from Ben without fighting for him. I’m talking about these.” Mark picks up a stack of unopened envelopes from my desk.

  “That’s different,” I object. “Those have nothing to do with Ben.”

  “They have to do with you. Isn’t that enough?” Mark snorts, raising his hand, the envelopes trapped in his fingers. They are the letters that I’ve received from different law schools over the past week. “How many of these do you think are acceptance letters?”

  Unceremoniously, I cross the distance and snatch the envelopes away. “You should just go home.”

  Mark blinks. “I love you Ellie, but you can be an ass sometimes.”

  “Right back at you.”

  Mark stands. He lets go of a strong sigh. “I hate to be the one to break this to you, but you have to get over this idea you have that everything in the world needs to fit inside a tiny, perfectly square box. If you don’t, you’re never going to be satisfied. Life is unpredictable and it doesn’t follow a map. Columbia’s out. So, get a new, revised dream. You still want to go to law school? All you have to do is open one of these envelopes.” He touches my shoulder lightly. “And the same goes for Ben. If he’s not the kind of guy that you thought that you’d end up with—who cares? I know that the way that you feel about him scares the crap out of you, but if you love him like I think you do then you have to tell him so.”

  “It’s not that simple,” I say.

  “Maybe… Maybe not.” Mark smiles, scanty and asymmetrical. “Happiness isn’t something that you can plan for. It comes knocking unexpectedly, just like opportunity. And it’s up to you to answer the door and invite it inside.”

  “Mark… I—I—” My voice is shapeless.

  He leans in and kisses my cheek. His fingers squeeze my hand—the one that’s holding the envelopes. “Just think about it, Ellie. Okay?”

  I swallow hard and screw my eyes shut to keep the tears inside. “Okay.”

  I’m at my desk. The small light is flipped on, casting my bedroom in a warm brownish glow. The first envelope that I pick up is from Vanderbilt. My fingers fumble as I tear along the seam and pull out the folded two-page letter. My name is braced across the top. I scan down.

  We are pleased to offer you placement…

  I don’t even get through the first line before my vision blurs and my breath catches in my throat. Everything inside of me is toppling. It’s like I’m being pushed over by possibilities that I hadn’t dared to let myself imagine.

  The next envelope on my desk is from William and Mary. Heart hammering, I slide my finger under the fold, less cautious this time.

  Congratulations! Our Admissions Committee is pleased to inform you…

  The postmark on the third envelope tells me that it’s from Boston University.

  On behalf of the Dean, faculty and students, it is my pleasure…

  Then I pick up the envelopes from Pepperdine, and Emory, and Fordham. I rip into all of them, my stomach knotted in anticipation and my fingers tight with excitement. Each one is an acceptance letter. Each one is a soft knock on the door. Each one is a heartbeat tapped out against my breastbone.

  Finishing the pile, I open the top drawer of my desk to look for a stray rubber band to bind the envelopes together. You can always find those things in drawers. Paper clips, safety pins, rubber bands. It doesn’t matter that I don’t ever remember buying them. They always just seem to appear out of thin air, stuffed in the far reaches of a little-used drawer.

  Seeking a rubber band, I stumble across something else entirely. It takes me a second to recognize the piece of paper, and when I do, I hold onto it for a long time, my eyes lingering on the words. And slowly, like water drizzling from a leaky faucet, a new sensation fills me.

  I find him in the coffee shop like I knew that I would. With the weather still a bit chilly to be outdoors for long, this is his favorite Wednesday afternoon hangout spot.

  The rich scent of dark roast fills my nose as I walk by a few tables to where he’s bent over, rifling through a book—probably research for that paper that he mentioned last week.

  “I need your help, and I’m so, so sorry, and you were right about everything.” The words come out all crushed together like they’re in a mad dash to get out of my mouth.

  Mark’s head comes up. He pushes a stray blond curl away from his eyes. He doesn’t say anything, just stares at me with his eyes round and glassy.

  “I—I’m sorry,” I say again, flustered, feeling the warmth gushing to my cheeks. “And you were right about me. About Ben. About law school. All of it.”

  Mark looks at me intently for a few more seconds. Then he says, “I like the way that you’re wearing your hair today.” And just like that, I know that we’re okay.

  I sit down in a chair across from him. “I have an idea to run past you,” I say, finding a shaky smile. “And it’s going to require your help.”

  “I’m all yours,” Mark replies.

  An hour later, Mark’s pushing me down the walkway toward the front door of my house. He texted Payton and Ainsley fifteen minutes ago with a directive meet us in the living room for what he described as a summit. Ben is at band practice and won’t be home for a few hours.

  “You don’t think it’s a ridiculously idiotic plan?” I ask over my shoulder.

  “I thought we went over this already. I told you not to call it a plan. You’re through planning for things Ellie-bear,” he says stoutly and adjusts his jacket. “And, honestly, I think that most grand romantic gestures are supposed to be that way. They wouldn’t be grand if they weren’t at least a little bit idiotic.”

  “Ah, great,” I say, shaking my head. I realize that he’s just telling me the truth. But, it’s one thing to think the truth. It’s an entirely different thing to hear it said out loud. “That’s just what I want to hear when I’m about to put my heart out on the line.”

  Mark laughs, and it’s an unsteady sound that rises from deep within his chest. “You’re the one that asked.”

  “I did,” I say softly, brushing my fingers across the doorknob and pushing forward.

  Ainsley and Payton are sitting on the floor in matching positions. Their backs are resting against the low half-wall that separates the dining room from the kitchen, and their knees are pulled up off the ground. Neither one of them is wearing shoes.

  “What’s going on?” Ainsley asks. Her face is pinched with concern. She’s got her long blonde hair pulled up into a high ponytail.

  “Yeah,” Payton adds moodily. “Your text woke me up.”

  Mark strides through the door. Five feet into the house, he spins and waves his hands theatrically in the air. “Girls,” he proclaims. “We have a project!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  An Idea is Afoot

  It gets finished the way most great works do—as a collaborative effort. Mark, Payton and Ainsley all skip out on their Thursday classes to help me. Mark dictates. Payton jokes. Ainsley makes a run to get us all lunch. Even Hal, Mark’s boyfriend, plays a part. He knows a guy who knows a girl who works at the campus printing lab. Using some pretty epic flirting, he convinces her to get my oversized prints done in record time.

  I have just over twenty-four hours to complete the collection. The flyer that Ben left for me weeks ago—the one that I found when I was going through my law school acceptance letters—says
that all submissions must be dropped off to Michaela Fincher’s office in Reamer Hall by Thursday at six o’clock. According to the University website, Fincher is head of the school’s Photography Department.

  I know what this means. I know that my amateurish photos are going to be up against photos shot by people that have been studying photography as a career—people that understand balance and lighting and subject matter. I know that the odds of my collection being chosen for the gallery showing are slim. I probably won’t hear back from Michaela Fincher at all.

  I’m going to try anyway.

  It’s five fifty-four on Thursday. Her office is on the third floor of Reamer Hall, down a hallway lit by florescent light and past a row of classrooms. The door is only partially closed. I knock lightly and it glides open on its hinges.

  “Sorry,” I say quickly, and start to pull the handle back toward me.

  A woman with large, blinking owl eyes and a slight overbite stands from a chair. “No worries. Come in please.”

  My eyes dart around the room. A low, modern desk with sleek black legs and a matching chair fill the center of the space. There’s a small two-seat leather couch against one wall. A colorful mosaic mural is hung above it. The other walls are filled with framed photos, mostly black and white landscapes.

  “Can I help you?” The woman asks politely as she comes around the desk. Her dark blonde hair is pulled back. She’s wearing a stylish black pencil skirt paired with heels. Her off-white blouse has a mandarin collar and no sleeves and I spot a matching jacket slung over the couch.

  “I—I—” I hold up the black leather portfolio in lieu of a proper greeting. Payton’s friend Dominic let me borrow it. “I have a submission for the Pratt Gallery’s showing.”

  The woman glances at an analog clock mounted over the door and smiles. “Alright then,” she says and holds out her hand. “I’m Michaela Fincher. Call me Michaela.”