On an Edge of Glass

cold water being dumped over me—Ben’s words tangled up in the soft notes of a girl’s voice followed by their joint laughter.
    I don’t move.  I just stand there and listen at the door like a creeper, trying to get my breathing back to normal.  I he ar shuffling and realize that they’re moving toward the door and me.  My heart jackknifes and I jump to my own bedroom door just as the knob twists. 
    And then I’m standing i n a hall that feels about a hundred feet too narrow with Ben and a girl who is holding a guitar in one hand.  She’s petite and dark with a pixie haircut and large fishbowl blue eyes.  The entire look is so ethereal that I sort of expect to see a pair of fairy wings sprout from her back. 
    Ben gruffly introduces the fairy girl as Mia.  I almost feel sorry for Mia because I don’t think she gets how awkward everything is.  Then Ben’s arm brushes against hers and I don’t feel sorry for her anymore. 
    Mia explains to me that she’s going to be playing with Accidental Sweet Tea on occasion because the other guitarist is having some family issues and may need to bail on a few of the gigs.  I realize that it would be polite and normal for me to respond to this but I can’t speak just yet.  I only seem capable of nodding and grunting.
    Ben is watching me closely. Throughout the encounter I’ve avoided looking at him but I can sense him staring at me, all swift gathering clouds and darkness.  As I duck into my bedroom with a snort that I hope Mia can translate as my socially awkward version of “nice to meet you,” I shoot a final glance over my shoulder.  Big mistake.  This time I don’t miss Ben’s eyes, and after weeks of no eye contact at all, the collision is so intense that it steals my breath.  It splits the sky apart like a flash heat lightning.
    He seems almost as affected as me.  The mask slips and the sun breaks through.  Then, almost before I can make sense of the way his face is rearranging itself, his brown eyes go dark, and his mouth draws tight, and we each pull away—Ben to the living room and me to my bedroom. 
    Once I’m s afely inside my hidey-hole—sheltered from the storm—I lean my head back against the closed door and take a deep, calming breath.  Then I do what any faithless moron would do.  I text “Evan the Wanker” and I make plans. 
 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
    Still Here
     
     
    Evan shows up with flowers.  Not gummy bears or jelly beans or cotton candy.  Flowers.  Long stemmed pink roses dotted with a few sprigs of airy baby’s breath. 
    The gesture is sweet and romantic and I can tell that Evan is waiting for me to swoon or gid dily jump into his arms like a normal girl, but all I can manage is a stuttering thank you and a shaky smile.  It’s hardly a convincing performance and he seems disappointed.  I’m hoping that he chalks my behavior up to first date nerves. 
    We stand there for a few moments—him on one side of the door, me on the other.  It’s awkward. 
    “Water,” he says.
    Huh?
    “For the flowers,” he continues, rolling his hands impatiently.
    “Oh,” I mumble .  I am an idiot. 
    Evan follows me inside.  I have to stop and think.  Where would I find a vase?  The kitchen?  Under the sink?  The top shelf of the pantry?  I’m trying to remember where Ainsley put this kind of stuff when we were moving in. 
    I strike out the first two times, but the third place I look—the cabinet above the refrigerator—I find a vase.
                  From the other side of the half-wall, Evan watches me pull the glass vase down and undo the stiff paper that’s tightly wrapped around the bottom of the flower arrangement.  When I get out the scissors to clip the bottoms of the stems, he turns from me and steps into the living room, casually touching things as he takes in his surroundings.  He stoops to peer at the photo of Payton, Ainsley, Hannah, and me taken the day after we moved into the house.   He touches the DVDs on the shelf by the television.
    No one’s home but I don’t like the feeling of being here with Evan , or the way that his finger traces over the stack of music books that Ben left on the coffee table.  I quickly finish with the flowers and grab my coat, indicating that I’m ready.
    At the restaurant that he takes me to, Evan tells me that he’s deciding between grad school and the real world for next year.  He wants to be a political consultant or a lobbyist.  When I