The Edge of Us

by Veronica Larsen

  I sigh, shaking my head. "Yes, Camille. I went. I saw it all, and I want to know why you sent me."

  My voice is calm. I expected to speak to her in a clipped tone, reflecting my frustration toward her. But as I stare at her now, it's hard to do. Camille seems fragile, a shadow of the woman I used to know.

  "I—Was it bad?"

  I shut my eyes at her question. Of course. Of course she hadn't seen the exhibit herself. She sold me on going when she had no clue what it was about. Had Cole lied to her?

  "It was bad, but I'm fine now. I just want the truth. Why did you lie to me? Why did tell me it would bring me closure? Was it because it's what he told you to say?"

  "I lied. Cole never sent me an invitation, he only sent me to deliver yours."

  My mouth is slow to part. "You…you said he—"

  "He wanted you to go on your own, he never asked me to convince you. I just…I know you and I knew you wouldn't go. I was trying to fix everything."

  "What's everything?"

  She stares at me, unblinking, her eyes wide and glossy.

  "You…and him…it's my fault, Mila. Everything is my fault."

  I shake my head, not understanding. Camille wasn't with Cole on the day of the wedding. She was with me. She had no idea what happened to her brother, I watched the genuine shock on her face. She might have pieced together the events later, but if she did she kept me in the dark.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "I wasn't a good sister. Growing up, I never protected him from my world. I should've been more careful. I should've…"

  I let out a small breath, impatient. I'm familiar with Camille's remorse. She told me long ago how much guilt she carried over Cole's troubled teenage years. How long would she carry that around? He's a grown man now, just like he was when he left me.

  Camille looks to the ground and blinks a few times. Her arms are still wrapped around her, and she shifts where she sits as though she'd much rather stand.

  "Camille?" My tone is soft, but with a small plea for her to look at me. She does, and I take a step closer and set a hand on her shoulder. "You don't have to fix anything. Cole can't hide behind his childhood. No one made him do the things he's done as an adult. So please, stop looking so guilty. I don't blame you for anything. Except lying to me. That was shitty."

  She nods, biting out a laugh. "Yeah, I know. I just wanted to make sure you went. It meant so much to him. He didn't want anyone to see the exhibit until you did."

  I grind my teeth to keep from telling her what I think of that. It meant so much to him that I experience his cruel feelings of entrapment?

  Camille glances up and notices my face. "Did it not help, at all? Did you not get any answers?"

  "Oh, yeah. I got answers."

  Just not the ones I wanted.

  We watch each other in silence. Every second dread spreads across my insides at the question I know I need to ask, and the answer I know she will give.

  "I hope you don't mind me asking, but are you okay? You don't seem like yourself."

  "Huh?" she asks, true confusion in her eyes. "What do you mean?"

  "You just…you don't seem like yourself. You seem…"

  It's hard to say. Not because I don't have the words, but because we are no longer the friends we used to be.

  "I haven't been taking care of myself," she says, nodding at her own words. "I've been working too hard, not eating enough. I get obsessed sometimes."

  "Okay, okay." I nod too, because I want to believe her. "You'd tell me, right? If you needed help?"

  Her eyes snap to mine. "No, we've got plenty of help."

  "I'm not talking about the bakery."

  She turns her head a fraction, as if wanting to look away from me, but her eyes remain locked onto mine.

  "I better get back to work. We've got a huge catering order to fill this morning."

  My mouth opens but what I want to say is lost in the sudden chill between us. I came here because I wanted to blame her for my decision to go to the exhibit. I came here hoping she'd admit to being in on the torture. But when I turn from her to leave, there's a weight in the pit of my stomach I can't place. Maybe it's the difference between who we used to be back when we told each other everything and the strangers we've become. Even with our feeble attempts to keep in touch, it's never been as obvious that we won't ever be the same. And it's my fault.

  I make my exit, but not before purchasing a box of sweets for the office. I thought I'd leave feeling better than I had when I woke up this morning, but I don't. There's an unsatisfying swarm of emotions deep in my belly, each too uncomfortable to hold on to long enough to identify.

  TWENTY-TWO

  MILA

  I STALK INTO MY office, frustrated by my own mood, and embarrassed by the glances from the people I pass on my way to the elevators.

  Have they seen a video of my humiliating speech?

  My stomach sinks further. There's also the possibility of a video featuring two men fighting over me like idiots.

  My mood is hard to bury around Andrew. I know I shouldn't dump it all on him, but seeing him right now only reminds me of the most embarrassing night of my life. He knows I'm going to need a little more time to get over it. My professionalism toward him is colder than usual when he joins in on an afternoon meeting with a client. I catch him eyeing me for longer than necessary. When the meeting ends, he walks the client out, engaging in the small talk I've never been good at.

  Andrew returns to my office a few minutes later.

  "Hey, Mila, I forgot to mention…I was looking through my calendar and I don't see any room for that appointment you made."

  I stare at him, my head tilting in confusion.

  "The appointment," he insists. "You know, to be mad at me for the rest of time? Yeah, I checked and I just don't have time for that."

  The teasing catches me off guard and I almost crack a smile. He's getting me right where I'm weakest, my guilt over my own bad mood. Damn it if the guy doesn't know me like the back of his hand.

  "Alright, then," I say, leaning back in my chair. "I guess I'll have to shorten your sentence."

  "Would you? That would be great. You've been cold as ice with me all morning. I'm freezing here."

  "Let's make this all about your feelings then," I say.

  "Can we?"

  Again, I almost smile. The block of resentment I've been trying to hang on to out of principle already pooling at my feet.

  "You're a baby. I've been mad at you for barely a day. I've been known to stay mad at people for decades."

  His expression softens a few degrees, and so does his voice as he lowers it a notch. "I know you have every right to be pissed at me. But I miss touching you."

  I glance down at his chest, then back up to his eyes. I miss touching him, too. Just a few nights ago we'd been right on the cusp of something more, something real. Now it all seems further away. I want to pull it back in. But I also want to push it all away.

  "Come here for a minute," he says. "I've got something to show you."

  His playful tone brings on the vision of his hands on my body. Of our desperate kiss. Of me on his lap and his erection pressing against me.

  My eyes narrow and drop to his crotch before I can catch myself.

  "No, Mila, not that. Though I like where your head's at. I'm talking about something in the break room." He waves me over. "Come on, I'll show you."

  I muster up the energy to get to my feet and around the desk to reach him. He sets a hand on the small of my back and guides me out into the hall. We're quiet the whole walk. Andrew crosses through the door first, and when I follow, cheers erupt across the room. I blink at the sight of my employees crammed around a cake. Both of my hands fly to my chest.

  "Wow," I say.

  "We wanted to make sure you knew how proud of you we are," Andrew says.

  I make my way around the room, thanking people and hearing their kind praise. A genuine smile creeps up on my face and my
spirits lift a fraction. We eat and chat amongst ourselves for well over half an hour. Afterward, Janet walks me back to my office to discuss tomorrow's schedule. As we enter, she mentions watching my speech.

  "Was it painful?" I ask in a flat tone, hiding my concern.

  "What do you mean?"

  Her confusion is too genuine to pass as politeness to spare my feelings. We move behind my desk and she pulls up the video on my computer. At first, I'm sure she's got my speech confused with someone else's. But then the video loads with the image of me in my red dress, my cheeks flushed. I cringe, waiting for the moment when I spot Cole standing in the back of the room. I wait, and I wait, but the moment doesn't come. What plays in front of me is a smooth speech with no interruptions, my stuttering edited out. My pattern of speech accelerates toward the end, but the way it's edited makes it seem like I do this because I'm running out of time, and not because my heart is punching a hole through my ribcage.

  I sit back in my chair, disbelief and gratitude swelling up in my chest. I didn't realize these speeches were altered. Edited so well between shots of the crowd, you wouldn't be able to tell unless you watched the speech live. It's a small consolation that the hundred and twenty-five thousand people who watched the video didn't have to witness what really happened last night.

  I wish I could have my memory edited as well.

  Picking up the schedule Janet dropped on my desk, I tap the end of a pen to one of the names.

  "Hey, Janet?" I call out as she steps into the hall. "What is this lunch meeting with Grant Kreisler tomorrow?"

  "His assistant called first thing this morning asking for your next availability. It sounded urgent, and he said you've been waiting to hear from him."

  I nod. "Yes, thank you."

  I watch her walk away before turning my attention back to the schedule. The request could only mean Tobias came to a decision about his son's inheritance. But would Grant be ready to discuss PR strategies this soon? He should take time to process his father's news. Regardless, I dread having to speak with him. Now that I know Cole is back, Grant Kreisler's name has moved to the position of the second-to-last person on this earth I want to see.

  Those two have always been attached at the hip, and I've never understood why. Grant lives for thrills and immediate pleasures. And though I've heard of Cole's wild days, the man I knew seemed grounded and not as sheltered by his family's fortune. I'd been drawn to the deliberate way he lived his life, taking everything in as if fearing he could drift away at any moment. Then again, he did just that. And come to think of it, Grant Kreisler might be the only person who knows exactly why.

  TWENTY-THREE

  COLE

  MY EARS RING WITH the words chanted around me, the ones rumbling from my own throat. When I finish, the final words leave a bitter taste on my tongue. I don't want serenity tonight. I don't want to accept the things I cannot change.

  I sit with my legs parted wide, my forearms resting on them and my head bowed toward my hands. There's a man to my right and another to my left. We sit in a close circle and though the floor is open for sharing, silence stretches out between us instead. It's a comfortable silence, the type needed for someone to muster the fortitude to speak the traditional opening line.

  The one we've all said aloud countless times, but never seizes to ground me in its truth.

  "My name is Ethan, and I'm an addict," says a deep baritone voice.

  I glance up, surprised to see who the sound came from. Ethan's come to the last three meetings without uttering a word. Not that I have either. I've been going to different meetings for years, back in Chicago and here in New York. But I've never been one to share much.

  I get more out of listening.

  Ethan shifts for a moment, as the attention in the room settles on him. His eyes sweep across the rest of us, their light blue hue a sharp contrast to his deep olive skin. His white t-shirt hangs on him, making him look younger than he already does. He clasps a hand over his opposite arm, fingers twitching over his skin. In that movement, I see myself in him. I can imagine the way his skin is crawling.

  I felt the same way the first time I went to a meeting. Until I realized this isn't a place for shame. It's a place of strength. A place for self-awareness and reflection.

  Ethan lowers his gaze to the floor between us before speaking again.

  "I almost used last night. It's been four months and I was doing pretty good. I put all my energy into my poetry, you know, just getting all that poison out of me. I'd wake up in the middle of the night shaking, and I'd just grab a pen and start writing until the words came out steady. That was really working for me…" He pauses, nodding at his own words. His gaze darts around the floor. "Last night, I went to a jam session—it's where I perform my poems, because saying the words out-loud was helping too. But then I saw her again. Olivia—she's my ex—she was there, on the stage. I don't think she even saw me, but she stood up there and just slaughtered me with her words like she hoped I'd hear them." He rubs his arm. Silence rings in the room, and nobody moves. "I've tried to stay away from her, you know, because…because I'm no good for her. And I just ruin her. I ruined her. But she came looking for me last night, and I don't know, man…I don't know if I can forget I need her. Because she's the one thing I want more than heroin. But she's also the one thing that can break me enough to get me to start using again."

  He stops abruptly, looking around at the rest of us. There's not a single ounce of judgment on anyone's face. No one speaks, but a few people offer him nods of encouragement.

  Outside of this room, these men are strangers. But in here? We share the same struggle, a fight we endure every single day. Despite how different our stories may be, this is a safe place to speak about our deepest hopes and desperations. It took me a long time to realize this type of vulnerability can only come from a place of courage. Recovery requires courage.

  "Anyway," Ethan starts again, running a hand over the back of his neck. "That's it. I just, I just wanted to say I really wanted to use, but I didn't. I'm still clean. Thanks for letting me share." He mumbles the last words.

  "Thank you for sharing," the room erupts in chorus.

  I try to join in, but my mouth has gone dry.

  Everyone goes quiet. I glance down at my hands as Ethan's words continue to burrow under my skin in the silence.

  There's no pressure to fill the lull, even as entire minutes tick past. It could stretch out for the rest of the hour and we would know our time was better spent here than it would've been anywhere else.

  I clear my throat, then hear myself speak.

  "My name is Cole, and I'm an addict…"

  A few people look up at me, the thinly veiled surprise on their faces reminding me I rarely speak. But it's been a while since I've had as much on my mind as I do tonight.

  "I've been sober three years. I didn't realize until just now, listening to Ethan, it's been my art keeping me clean." I pause, meeting his eyes. He nods then looks away. I go on, "He's right. It does help to get all the poison out of your head. I started out like him, just wanting to do something with my hands when the cravings hit. I started making things I never knew I could, and it grew into a lot more than I imagined it would. I started my own business. I even designed an exhibit to showcase everything I'd been working on. When I finally finished, I realized there was only one person who I really wanted to see it. She's a woman I hurt badly. And for a long time, I wasn't strong enough to face her, even if just to apologize. Seeing her again would've shattered me, undoing all my progress. But I'm finally in a good place. I'm finally strong enough to show her what's inside of me." I swallow, then shake my head. It's strange, the slow build of energy coming over me as I speak, as if a truth I never expected is now piecing together in my head, one syllable at a time. And something's shifting in me. The hopelessness is settling into determination. The pain into fuel. "I didn't come here to get her back. Honestly, I never thought I could. Even when I was with her, I knew I didn't
deserve her. I still don't. But last night, I saw her again for the first time in years, and I swear it was like stumbling right off the edge of everything we used to be. She wasn't the woman I remembered. She was…more. And yet, she was familiar enough to remind me of why I haven't been able to move on." I stare at the floor, my own words washing over me as if someone else had spoken them. "She's with another guy now, but I don't think she loves him. And I know I didn't come to get her back, but now it's all I can think about. If there's a chance she'd forgive me for what I did, then I can't walk away. Because it's been eight years, and I still can't get her out of my system."

  TWENTY-FOUR

  MILA

  FOR WHO KNOWS HOW long, I've walked through the streets of Manhattan without the slightest inkling that Cole moved through them as well. I was doing just fine then, and I'm going to be fine now. The city is big enough for the both of us, and if I've gone this long without running into him, I can go twice as long without ever having to see him again.

  I pack my bag with pens, my tablet, and a notepad, and head out to my meeting with Grant. Outside, the sun glows from behind the thick white clouds, making the overcast skies impossibly bright.

  I reach the cafe where Janet arranged for us to have lunch. He's not here yet, but I'm not surprised, the guy's never been known for his punctuality. I order a coffee and a sandwich and sit by the entrance. I busy myself checking through emails on my tablet.

  The door chimes behind me for the third time since I've sat down. I resist the urge to check to see if it's Grant. He's five minutes late and I suspect he's not showing up for at least another five. What he'll find when he gets here will be of his own doing. My annoyance is bubbling up by the second.

  The rush of air from the closing door brings with it the traces of a scent that knocks into me, sending chills up my arms. I freeze with the cup of coffee halfway to my mouth then set it back down without taking a sip.