On an Edge of Glass

how I feel—” He closes his eyes quickly.  “How I felt about you.”
                  I do remember Thanksgiving break, and the park, and everything that came after. 
                  “Oh,” I say softly.
                  Things get awfully quiet for a few minutes. 
    When I can no longer stand it, I say, “So what’s the deal with all the religious billboards?”
                  Ben looks out the window as we pass another massive billboard.  In this one, a likeness of Jesus is standing with his arms spread wide in a welcoming gesture.  It screams in glaring yellow font: Before it’s too late.  
    “I have no idea, but there does seem to be an abundance of them,” he says and laughs appreciatively. 
    “I’m curious to know if there’s any evidence of anyone converting while driving down the highway.”
    “They should have churches combined with the rest stops, just in case,” he offers.  “For the folk.”
    “Folk?” I fish.
    “Yeah.  You know… the folk.  Everyday people.”
    “Ahhh, everyday people.”   Like that explains it.
    “A butcher, a banker, a drummer…”
    I smile, recognizing the song lyrics.  I roll my hands.  “And so on, and so on, and scooby dooby dooby.”
    Ben laughs.  “Exactly.”
    “Are we everyday people?”
    “Well,” he says leaning over the console to reach into the bag of Skittles.  His hand brushes against mine and it’s like being zinged by a socket.  “We’re obviously too weird to be average folk.  You only like the red and purple Skittles and I only like the orange and yellow ones.”
    I glance at the bag.  “What about the greens ones?”
    Ben’s mouth quirks.  “Different strokes for different folks.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
    Bacon is Breakfast Candy
     
     
    You would think that showing up at Ben’s house at nearly one in the morning, and having his mom greet us by the front door while wrapped in a massive bright purple bathrobe with fuzzy slippers on her feet might be awkward. 
    You would be right. 
                  Lisa Hamilton is a shorter, softer version of her son.  Same gold and brown eyes and dark lashes under straight eyebrows.  Same narrow nose.  Same crooked smile.  Same epic dimple. 
    After a hast y and hushed introduction so that we don’t wake any of Ben’s younger brothers, I follow Lisa up a steep flight of creaking stairs bordered by a curling wooden banister.  Floral wallpaper that’s about ten years past its prime is stretched over the bottom half of the wall.  
    Lisa turns right at a braided wool rug that graces the upstairs landing.  She enters the second door and flips a switch as she rounds the doorframe. It takes a moment for my eyes adjust to the overhead light.  It’s a small room with one window facing east.  A room, which I very quickly realize, is Ben’s childhood bedroom.
    A double bed covered in a thin burgundy quilt dominates the space.  Next to it is a small painted table stacked with dog-eared paperbacks, a brass-plated lamp, and a small analog clock that’s shaped like a human head.  The clock face is where the mouth should be. 
    The wall on the far side of the room is covered in posters of bands that I’ve never heard of.  Some of the posters look vintage—browning and dingy in the corners with retro designs in a myriad of muted colors.  There’s a bulletin board suspended on the wall over a dark-stained oak desk.  It’s dotted with snapshots and musical programs and old concert tickets. 
                  Still gripping the handle of my powder blue rolling suitcase, hoping that I won’t tip over, I turn my head and look at Lisa.  “I—uh—I…”
                  She blinks at me.  Then something registers and she smiles purposefully.  “Benjamin is taking the rec room downstairs.  There’s an old pullout down there.”  She walks over to a small trunk under the window and pulls out a folded blanket and sets it at the foot of the bed.  “He thought you’d be more comfortable up here where there’s central heat and a mattress that doesn’t dip all the way to the floor.  I have to agree with him.”
                  This triggers something inside of me.  Ben shouldn’t be sleeping on some crappy couch while I’m up in his room.  How wrong is that?  This is his house. 
    I take a step toward the door, rolling my suitcase on two wheels behind me.  “Mrs.