Page 25
Story: On the Edge (SCU Hockey #3)
25
Henri
Zeke is sitting on the floor in the living room, books spread out around him, and laptop balanced on his knee. When I reach the bottom of the stairs, he glances up at me, smiles, and does a double take.
“Are you going out?” he asks, sounding startled. Rightly so, too. I’ve only gone two places since the semester has started: school and hockey practice.
“Yes. I am going to make pottery with Atlas.”
Zeke’s already round eyes widen further. “Really? Like a date?”
“Oh, well, I do not think so,” I hedge, smoothing my hands nervously down the front of my blue polo shirt. “I think it is only a fun thing to do with friends.”
“Huh,” he replies, mouth twisted as he chews on the inside of his cheek. “Pottery, you said?”
I sigh, because I know exactly why he’s asking. “I do not think I have the correct clothing. But Atlas tells me we will be wearing aprons, so I think perhaps this will be fine?”
“You can always do a load of laundry when you get back.”
“True.” Nervously, I comb my fingers through my hair before brushing them down across my jaw. I shaved in preparation for the evening, but perhaps I should have left the hair. Atlas used to like it when I was a little scruffy. “Well, I shall get going. Have a good evening, Zeke.”
“You too! I’ll stay awake and wait for you, so I can hear how everything went.” He smiles cheerfully, and I relax enough to return it.
The arts classrooms aren’t in a building I’ve ever been to. As such, I park in the wrong lot and end up having to walk twice as far as I would have done, had I known where I was going. It’s a good thing I got here thirty minutes early, otherwise I might have been late.
Instead, when I push open the door of the studio, I’m alone except for a young lady who barely glances up at me before she focuses back on her work. Stepping off to the side, I clasp my hands in front of myself and settle in to wait for Atlas. It feels unusually warm in the room, and my heart is beating a little too fast for someone who hasn’t moved in several minutes. I work to regulate my breathing, and have just about managed it, when the door opens and Atlas walks in.
He’s wearing dark jeans and a dark shirt, and his black hair shines in the extreme light of the room. Almond eyes ringed in black find mine like a blow to the stomach. I force myself to smile, because that’s what you do when you greet your friends.
“Hello, Atlas,” I say, far quieter than I’d intended. I hadn’t forgotten that he was beautiful, precisely, but there’s a difference between remembering something and having it right in front of me.
“Hey. Thanks for coming.”
He looks so uneasy, it’s obvious I’m not the only one unsure of how to act. Being friends seemed like a more manageable task when we didn’t have to look one another in the eye.
Atlas’ eyes jump from mine and land on my pants. He doesn’t smile, but I can see the shadow of the expression on his face anyway.
“I’ll get you an apron,” he offers, and some of the tension breaks.
“I would be most appreciative.”
Trailing after him, I try not to stare too obviously at the back of him, but it’s difficult. I want to do more than look. I want to touch. When he turns around to hand me an apron, my face flushes guiltily. Friends don’t look at their friend’s backsides.
“Thank you.”
Atlas looks around the room, notes the presence of the girl, and leads me over to a pair of wheels as far away as the room will allow. Patting the seat to indicate where he wants me, he wanders off through a pair of double doors. Putting my apron on, I sit down and watch for him to return. He doesn’t take long, walking back into the room with two lumps of clay in his hands.
“Here you go,” he says, plopping one down in front of me and settling the second on his own wheel.
When he takes a seat next to me, his leg brushes mine. Fingers clenched painfully together in my lap, I wait for him to walk me through the steps. It is extremely hard to concentrate, particularly when he reaches across me and his arm brushes mine. There is a distinct possibility that I will not survive this night.
“Perhaps you might show me how to do it, before I try for myself?” I suggest. I’ve already forgotten half of the instructions, and it really is very hot in here. My back is sweating.
“Sure.” He sets the wheel to spinning and wets his hand. “You want to make sure you’re sitting close to the wheel, and keep your elbows in tight. Hands like this”—he holds his arms out to show me—“and push the clay forward. Let’s assume we’re making something simple, like a bowl. When you’ve coned up, you can use your thumbs to level the top—like this.”
Watching carefully, I nod even though his eyes are on his hands and he doesn’t see it. Having him demonstrate was a bad idea. Now, I’m sitting here listening to his voice, and watching his hands, and every inch of my body is aching.
“You see?” he asks, and I nod, even though I do not see. “Give it a try.”
Taking a deep breath, I situate myself in exact mimicry of how he’s positioned. He reaches over and helps me get the wheel spinning, watching as I wet my hands and put them on the clay. The moment I do, I realize this is a lot more difficult than he made it seem. I squeeze too hard and the clay shoots upward into a cone. I try to compensate and end up overdoing it, my thumbs creating a deep indent into the top. I huff.
“Goodness,” I mutter, frowning down at my hands. “This is not right at all.”
“Here, it’s all right.” Atlas reaches over to help me, voice heavy with humor. I breathe hard through my nose as his hands touch mine, gently directing.
I cannot do this. I simply cannot .
“Atlas.” He jolts, even though my voice is low. His hands slide away from mine and he leans back, bending over his own wheel once more.
“Yeah?”
“It is nice to see you. I have missed you.”
This feels like a safe introduction into all the words I’ve been saving for him over the summer. He doesn’t reply right away, but continues molding the clay with sure hands, dark head bent low.
“You know I’m sorry, right?” he mumbles, talking directly to the pottery wheel. I’ve stopped paying any attention to my own; instead, letting the clay spin through my palms aimlessly.
“Yes, Atlas, I know this.” I know it because he’s said it. Many times. Far more times than I needed to hear it. “Thank you. I am sorry, too, that you did not feel as though you could trust me.”
He sighs and sits up a little bit. “I don’t trust anyone , but that’s my problem. I made it yours and treated you like shit, and I’m sorry for that.”
“Thank you,” I repeat. “No more of that, now. I don’t need to hear apologies for things that are forgiven.”
Movements confident, Atlas uses his fingers to create a hole in the center of his project and I watch, mesmerized, as it begins to hollow. He focuses on the clay for a few moments, and I allow him his silence.
“I miss you, too,” he says finally, and if the air hadn’t already been feeling thin in here, it surely is now.
Giving up entirely, I take my hands off the molded lump of clay and reach out to rest one on his forearm. His eyes flick upward toward mine, wary. Luke once said Atlas is a feral alley cat, and I see it now—the cautious stillness of his body and the suspicion in his eyes. Too late, I realize I’ve gotten clay all over his arm.
“Sorry,” I tell him. Slowly, as though giving me the opportunity to push him away, he reaches a hand out to slide his thumb across my jaw. I can feel the wet, cool texture of the clay, a direct opposition to the way my skin feels as though it’s on fire.
“Now we’re even,” he says, and then adds, a little more quietly, “You shaved.”
“Yes, I was very undecided. I was thinking shaving meant I put some effort in, but I am also thinking that you told me you like my scruffy chin.”
Atlas’ lips twitch as though he wants to smile. His fingers are still on my jaw, so gentle he’s barely touching me at all. He gives another swipe of his thumb before dropping his hand and spinning his wheel back into motion. I fear there is no helping my own, so I merely settle in to watch him.
“That sounds like quite the dilemma, but you needn’t have bothered worrying. I like you both ways.”
I smile at the side of his face, unable to decide what I want to watch more: his expressions or his hands.
“Nate told me I should pull my head out of my ass and talk to you.” He exhales harshly. “So, that’s what I’m doing. Because I miss the shit out of you, and things are kind of miserable when you’re not around. I’m going to mess up, though, Henri. I will. And I’m fucking terrified that you’re going to leave me, but me hurting you wasn’t the way to handle that. I know I don’t deserve a second chance, but I’d like to ask for one anyway.”
I wish he’d look at me, but I know why he isn’t. I can’t imagine these words are easy for him to say, if the raw, pained edge to his voice is any indication .
“But even if that’s not possible, maybe we could stay friends,” he adds, sounding resigned and hopelessly sad.
“B?rchen, I am really wishing you spoke German so I could say romantic things without sounding like a fool.” I succeed in teasing a smile out of him at that, and some of the tension melts out of his shoulders. “But I will have to do my best. You are always talking about me leaving, always worried about this. But you told me to go at the end of last semester, did you not? And if you will remember, I did not go far. I messaged you and called you and bothered you all summer, yes?”
A soft chuckle, and he sits up to look at me fully. I lean a little closer to him, scuffing my stool across the concrete floor. The clay on my face has dried, and is starting to harden on my hands as well. Neither one of us seems overly invested in pottery at the moment.
“I know it is hard to believe when people tell you things, so I will not do that. I will show you, yes? I won’t tell you that I won’t leave you. I will simply stay, and perhaps that will speak for itself. I am sorry for the people who have not treated you well, because they no longer get to know you and that is a terrible thing.”
“Fuck,” he says on an exhale, swiping his hand across his cheek and smearing clay. I hurry to continue, because I’m not quite finished yet.
“I am not this person who gets bored and goes looking for someone new. I am never wondering if there are better people out there for me. I have only ever wanted you, Atlas.”
“ Fuck ,” he says again, and reaches for me. Dirty hands clasped tight to my face, he pulls me to him.
Balanced as we are on uneven metal stools, the kiss is awkward. I can’t get my hands on him the way I want to, and I can’t pull his body into mine. But he tastes just how I remember, and when I brush my tongue across his lips, he makes a desperate sound and kisses me harder.
“Sorry. I’m sorry,” he says on a gasp, pulling away sharply. “I should have asked first. I know you don’t always want… Sorry.”
Those lovely eyes are wide, lashes unbelievably dark on his pale face. There’s clay in the hair around his ears, and brushed across his cheekbones. I’m sure I don’t look much better. I touch the pad of a finger to the side of his chin, wishing I could tell him that I love him.
“One day, I will tell you something,” I promise. “You will not believe me if I say it today, so I will wait for now. But, one day.”
He looks quizzical at that, but doesn’t press me. I sit forward to kiss him again, because apparently that is allowed.
“What’re you making, there?” he murmurs against my mouth. We look down at the misshapen pile of clay on my pottery wheel.
“Abstract art,” I say confidently, making Atlas snort. “It will speak to everyone differently.”
“Mm,” he hums, a teasing tilt to his mouth as he looks at me. “And what does it say to you?”
“It says let us leave the pottery to Atlas, who is a professional .”
I get a laugh, a full smile, and a kiss from that joke, which leaves me feeling very pleased with myself. Atlas bends over his wheel, fingers flying confidently through steps he hadn’t gotten around to showing me yet. I watch silently, every now and then locking eyes with him when he glances over at me. There is a very faint flush on his cheeks, as though he’s uncomfortable with my scrutiny.
“Okay,” he mutters to himself, wiping his hands down the apron and reaching for a wire. Fascinated, I watch as he removes the clay from the wheel. The steps are completed so quickly, it’s apparent he’s done them dozens of times before.
“What did you make?” I ask him. He shrugs.
“I guess just a bowl. I didn’t set out to make anything specific. The open studio thing was just a ploy to hang out with you and talk. I didn’t actually expect us to take the pottery part seriously.”
Chuckling, I look down at my filthy hands and back up to Atlas’ face, which is covered in the remnants as well. I really don’t want the evening to end here. I want to get him alone and make up for a summer’s worth of kissing. I want to fall asleep the way we’ve done a handful of times, breath mingling and skin touching.
“Do you want to come back to my place?” he asks carefully, picking at his fingernails nervously. “We could clean up and maybe hang out for a bit… Or not, it’s up to you.”
“Yes,” I answer swiftly. He could have suggested we find the nearest body of water to clean off that way, and I would have agreed. As long as we remain together, I am up for anything. “Yes, that sounds excellent. I shall drive, yes?”