On an Edge of Glass

corner of the living room.  Two open books are on his lap and a third is in his hands.
    Our eyes me et somewhere over the back of the beige couch and stay there.  It’s a kick to the gut because I realize how much I’ve missed looking at them.  And him. 
    Neither one of us blinks .  His brown eyes are earnest and they break inside of me, twisting my nerves into a million tiny knots.  The air around us changes.  I breathe it in.  My heartbeat wobbles—speeding up then slowing down, then speeding up again.  
                  Finally, I turn away and focus on the afternoon light spilling in through the front window.  My traitorous hands are shaking.  I take a long, steeling breath. 
                  I have to do this. 
    I can do this. 
    I’m Ellie Glass.  I’m going to an elite law school in less than a year.  I’m a grown up.  I can handle one conversation with the roommate that I shared a drunken kiss with last week.  I can talk to him even if I’m so attracted to him that I think he could set me on fire from his position across the room. 
    My knees tremble .  I open the refrigerator. 
    “I know, ” I say finally, reaching for a soda.  “I think Ainsley finally got sick of helping Payton find her keys.  She used to lose them about three times a day.”
                  Ben laughs. 
    Popping the tab on the can , I walk into the living room.  I hesitate briefly and then choose a spot in the middle of the couch.  It’s far enough so that I won’t have to look at Ben, but close enough that I can look at him if I deem the situation appropriate. 
                  It’s clear that I’ve interrupted him while he’s studying, but when I sit, Ben pushes his books to one side.  He picks up the remote from the coffee table and flips on the television. 
    For awhile , we both stare straight at the screen.  A thick silence surrounds us.  I consider saying something casual, but the words I come up with in my head are all wrong.  So, I quietly look directly ahead and try my best to ignore the confusion that’s building inside of me.
                  A slamming door shatters the awkward zen of the moment.  Payton launches her purse toward the small table where we keep our mail, but she misses entirely.  The purse skids halfway across the living room floor and winds up upside down next to Ben’s feet.  Lipstick and a pack of mint gum fall out. 
    Before Ben and I can react, Payton throws her body horizontally across the couch.  Her head lands on my thigh and her feet hover over the armrest. 
    “Let ’s all go out tonight,” she says and it comes out sounding more like an order than a question.
    “Out?”  I push her hair aside so that I can see her face.
    “Yeah.”  She blows out a puff of breath.  “I want to go out.”
      So we do.
     
     
    The place that Payton cho oses is loud and crowded—just her style.  Her round hazel eyes swing across the room when we walk in.  Waving her arms, she pushes through a group of gathered girls, and leads the way to the bar. 
    Nights like this I half-envy Payton’s daring style.  She’s layered about four extra coats of mascara on her lashes to compliment the blaring red of the lipstick that she’s chosen.  The ends of her dark hair are spiked with gel so that they rest playfully against her cheekbones.  She’s paired a short grey dress with knee-high black boots.  And, of course, she’s got three silver necklaces piled on and a ring on almost every single finger. 
    People notice her immediately.  Guys literally stop what they’re doing to stare as she walks by. 
    Ainsley has put effort into her appearance as well.   Her long blonde hair falls in perfectly arranged curls over her shoulders, and she’s got on a light pink top that dips dangerously low in the front.
    Glancing down, I feel distinctly dowdy in my dark skinny jeans and a fitted blue top.  Mark would frown grumpily at my utter lack of accessories and my pulled-back, didn’t-really-try-that-hard hair. 
    The second that we get to the bar, Payton shoves a drink in my face.  She claims that she and the bartender are friends.  Judging by the way that he’s ogling her, I have a feeling that this is one of those instances when her definition of “friendship” is fairly flexible.  Uncomfortable, I take a sip and shift on my barstool.
    Ainsley spots two of her sorority sisters, Laurie and Allison, and