The Edge of Us

by Veronica Larsen

  "You think so?" she asks.

  She sits back, crossing her arms, perhaps in an attempt to keep me from eyeing her ink.

  "I know you don't want to show it to me, but there's the tattoo," I gesture to her arm.

  "Okay, but people get tattoos for lots of reasons."

  "Yes," I agree. "But they were always my thing, not yours. As for me, I never thought I'd start a business. That was your dream, not mine. Now I've started two. And you were never into art before, but Camille tells me you collect paintings now."

  The casual amusement on her face slowly drains to surprise.

  "Coincidences," she says.

  "I don't think so. I think we did it on purpose. We sought each other out, even when we didn't admit it to ourselves…" I pause, remembering what I'd realized a few days ago. "I think we missed each other so much we began to mirror the people we were back then. Maybe it was subconscious, a way to ensure we would never forget each other."

  She goes still, her gaze moving across my face like she's waiting for me to tell her I'm kidding.

  "Don't you think so?" I ask.

  "I don't know. I don't know…"

  She shuts her eyes long enough to take a breath, and then tucks her hair behind her ears. I stare at her through a slow blink, lost for a moment in the memory of her underneath me, mouth parted, eyebrows furrowed, the start of a moan on her lips. I miss her body. I miss the sounds she used to make. I miss the way her eyes would open in surprise right before she came.

  "Will you come back to my studio with me?"

  The question is greedy and selfish. Her coming to see me, sitting in front of me and wanting to listen to me is more than I could've ever imagined would happen. It should be enough. I should let her walk away. But I'm not ready for that. I want everything and anything she will give me. I want to have her to myself, away from the sounds of strangers eating and talking. Away from big tables that separate our bodies. But I know what I'm asking for is too much, and I see the struggle in her eyes as her lips part to speak. I wait for what seems like the longest second of my life before the answer leaves her lips.

  "I can't," she says.

  "You can't because you're with someone else?"

  "No, Cole. I can't…the only reason you're asking me to is because you've ran out of words to say. You've said everything you needed to. This isn't easy for either of us, and I see no reason to draw it out longer than it needs to be."

  She gets to her feet and I stand as well.

  I want to tell her she's wrong, that there's one thing left for me to say. The most important words I could ever speak aloud. But in my struggle to find them, my mouth opens and closes several times until my last chance to change her mind evaporates into thin air. I'm stunned by the difference between what I dared hope would happen and the reality playing out in front of me. I was an idiot to think there was a chance we could brush off the dust on all we went through and find something new. Instead, I've given her the closure she needed to let me go. And now, the only woman I've ever loved—the woman I still love—turns from me and walks away.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  ANDREW

  I WENT OUT LOOKING for Cole this afternoon to get into his head, but he got inside mine instead. Where else would I end up but at a bar to drink all night? I sit, surrounded by drunken strangers, trying to figure out why the hell the things he said won't quit eating away at my skin.

  How is it some people have the power to make you regress? One moment you know exactly who you are, the next you're a teenager again, looking to solve problems with your fists.

  Cole doesn't know me anymore, but it doesn't matter. He'll always remember me as the poorer half of his entourage, the sidekick who grew jealous and bitter, and ultimately betrayed him. I was all those things.

  And standing there in front of him earlier, I was transported back.

  I was that kid again. The kid who took the petty route, because the petty route was all I'd ever known. The kid who agreed to go on a skiing trip he could barely afford just to be around a girl who was into his rich friend.

  The last night of the trip, our group of friends insisted on going to a trendy restaurant and I pretended I had a weigh-in for the wrestling team the next day, because I couldn't afford a damn thing on the menu. Cole knew and he ordered me a plate without asking. When it came, I grew defensive and made a scene, demanding to know why he'd done it. He didn't say, but he didn't have to. Everyone knew.

  I know now, too. Hindsight, it gives a hell of a lot of perspective. I realize now he probably thought no one would notice he'd bought me the meal. But that night I seethed. In my immaturity, I was sure he'd done it on purpose to embarrass me. Before I knew it, I was trying to make him look bad in return, telling the girl about Cole dealing drugs at school, even when I knew it was a lie. It was easy to believe because he'd had a reputation for partying, skipping school, and doing what he wanted. But he wasn't into drugs. Not then.

  I didn't know the girl would tell all her friends. I didn't expect for Cole's locker to be searched on the very same day he'd been stashing drugs he was keeping from Camille.

  It was a horrible coincidence, but it didn't matter. No one believed Cole when he swore he wasn't dealing drugs, not the headmaster, not even his own parents. He was expelled from Milton. When he started a new school, I heard he ended up falling into the very things he'd been falsely accused of doing before.

  A part of that is my fault, all because of my damn ego. I know I was just a kid, but thinking about it now makes me feel like a piece of shit.

  So I drink, and I wonder what the hell he meant when he suggested I wasn't worked up about Mila. What is this really about? You can't overlook someone like her for eight years. It's about Mila for me. Of course it's about her. It's about not wanting him to hurt her again. It's about wanting to make her find the happiness she deserves after all the shit she's been through.

  What the hell else would this be about?

  I drain one drink after another until the bartender cuts me off. Next thing I know, I'm riding in a cab, tapping on the glass divider to get the driver's attention.

  "You can leave me right here," I say.

  The man eyes me in his rearview mirror with suspicion. When I pay him, he counts the fare money twice as though I'd switched the bills between now and the first time he counted them.

  After I get out of the car, I stand on the sidewalk and offer the cab a salute as it disappears down the road.

  The walk up to Mila's door is longer than the last time I was here. She answers the door on the fourth ring of the bell, her face full of alarm before realizing it's only me.

  "Mila, hey. Hey, it's me, Andrew," I say, pointing to myself.

  "You scared the shit out of me. What are you doing here?" she asks in a groggy voice. "And why the hell are you attacking my doorbell?"

  She's wearing a white robe and squinting up at me, half asleep.

  Rubbing her eyes, she waves me inside. When I pass her, she shuts the door behind us.

  "I needed to talk to you about something important because I just—wait. Hang on…" I struggle to remove my shoes at her entryway, needing to hold on to the wall for support.

  "Andrew, it's fine." She sounds annoyed. "You don't have to take off your shoes."

  "No, no. You have nice floors," I mutter.

  She follows me into her living room. I resist the urge to plop down on her couch. I need to remain alert. Vigilant. Aware of all the things. I turn to look at Mila but she's not where I left her. She's standing on the other side of me now. My mouth hangs half open, but I've forgotten what I was going to say.

  Her eyes narrow as she assesses me for the first time.

  "Are you drunk?"

  My eyes grow wide at her question, which I realize too late might serve to prove her point. I compensate by narrowing them and shaking my head nice and slow. She won't take me seriously if she knows I've been drinking.

  Mila throws her head back and lets out a breath, m
uttering something like, you've got to be fucking kidding me.

  "I promise I'll make this quick," I say. "I know you'll be pissed when I tell you what I did, but I want you to know we didn't do anything stupid in front of the kids. We, we were classy about it. For the most part."

  Mila's eyes are no longer squinting, but mine still are, for some reason.

  "Andrew, either tell me why the hell you're here in the middle of the night, or I'm shoving you in a cab and sending you to your ex-girlfriend so she can strangle you for me."

  I don't like it when she mentions my ex. I almost say this, but decide not to. It seems I'm not answering quickly enough because Mila's mouth snaps open again, impatient, and so I blurt out what I came to say.

  "I went to see Cole today—"

  "You did what?!"

  "—to tell him to stay the fuck away from you."

  Mila lifts a hand to her face and rubs the area between her eyes.

  "I can't believe this," she says. "You've been acting so possessive ever since we kissed. I knew we shouldn't have crossed that line."

  "I've been acting possessive?" The accusation sobers me up, sharpening my focus like a fixed lens. My words are still heavy on my tongue, but the intent behind them clearer. "Why, because I care about you? No, Mila, I'm not acting possessive. I'm acting like a man who you've been leading on."

  The moment I say that, I know it's a mistake.

  She raises her brows and her mouth snaps open in response, then closes again.

  "You know what? No. I'm not having this conversation with you when you're drunk." She points down the hall. "You can sleep it off in the guest room. We'll talk in the morning when you're reasonable."

  "Am I just the sideshow, Mila, or do we really have a shot?"

  She turns from me, but my question whips her back around.

  "We had a shot, Andrew. Then you started acting like this."

  "Bullshit," I spit out. "This isn't about tonight. Or the night of the gala. It's about the fact that you're not over Cole."

  She stares at me, shaking her head slowly.

  "I'm never going to be what you want, am I?" I ask, swallowing back the burn that accompanies that truth.

  "Like I'll ever be what you really want?" she shoots back, losing her temper for the first time. "Like you're over Amber? Because you're not, Andrew. It's so fucking obvious."

  The words are a brick to my face. I take a step back and end up staggering for a few more. She shuts her eyes and presses her lips together before she speaks again.

  "I'm not doing this right now. It's been one of the longest days of my life and I just can't take any more…you need to go sleep this off," she says, her voice low and sad, "Because I can't stand to be around you right now..."

  She walks away, leaving me standing in her living room feeling like I've just been skinned by a dull blade.

  THIRTY-SIX

  MILA

  I HAD NO CHOICE but to push away every single person who reminded me of Cole. Those relationships were tainted. They knew it, I knew it. It was one thing to know people didn't approve of the wedding, it was another to face them when their eyes taunted me with a silent I told you so.

  Andrew never looked at me like that. He'd only had a detached sort of disapproval in his eyes about my ex. But now that Cole is back, the detached disapproval has become a familiar and punishing I can't believe you fell for that guy expression.

  He feels sorry for me, like I'm this pathetic teenage girl trapped in an unhealthy cycle. I'm not. I'm just a woman who's finally pulled her big girl panties on and realized she's done scraping the bottom of the pot. I've gotten to the truth.

  Every damn year, these weeks are hell on earth for me. But this year? This year takes the cake, and not just because Cole is back. Or because of what Tobias and Grant revealed. No. Last night I was hit by the worst realization I've had in a long time. It's no coincidence Andrew and I crossed a line when we did. When the ghosts of our pasts became too hard to ignore, we did what we always do—lean on each other. Only this time, we leaned too far and stumbled into a confusing space.

  All these years I've had Andrew by my side, enjoying his company, secretly craving his touch, he's been the biggest part of the problem. And lately? I've been the biggest part of his.

  Comfort.

  We give each other a level of comfort that stagnates us both. It's robbed us of the urgency to deal with all the things we will never be able to outrun. All the things that have already caught up with me.

  My heart is heavy when I come to a stop in front of the guest room. The door is ajar and Andrew's passed out on top of the blanket, his work suit still on.

  Shaking my head, I move to the window and pull the blinds open. Light streams down onto his handsome features. He stirs, eyes opening up a sliver before shutting tighter. He lifts a hand over his face and groans.

  "Stop it, what is this?"

  "This is called reality. It's time we became acquainted."

  I set a glass of water on the table and cross my arms. Andrew squints at me a few times before pulling himself up and sitting on the edge of the bed in front of me.

  "Here," I say, lifting his hand to the glass as though he were a lifeless body. "Drink some water."

  He takes the glass and drains it in a couple of noisy gulps. He shuts his eyes again.

  "Does it have to be so bright in here?" he asks.

  "Yes. Because we need to talk."

  He looks at me, then at his surroundings as though realizing for the first time where he is. I can see the moment the memory of last night hits him.

  "Damn," he says. "I fucked up."

  "No, I fucked up. I've been fucking up for a long time."

  "What are you talking about?" he asks, blinking a few times and rubbing his temple.

  "Drew, we've been using each other."

  His hand drops and his posture changes. He gets to his feet and takes a step toward me.

  "What? How could you say that?"

  "You know it's true. Think about it."

  He shakes his head, lifting a hand to the side of my face. I shut my eyes. I don't realize how empty I am until Andrew puts his hands on me. His touch lights up a yearning in my chest, one that aches in familiar ways.

  "It's not true," he says.

  He comes closer, slipping his arms around me in an intimate hug. His breath washes over my neck as he lowers his face there. He inhales me. My insides lift, tugged by how much he wants me. It's all there, in his touch. But the things we want aren't always the things we need.

  I shut my eyes and let him hold me, but the truth can't be dissuaded.

  "We've been using each other," I say again. "Like crutches. That's why we can't move on. That's why we're both stuck."

  His body tenses, but his shoulders sink when he exhales and I know he understands.

  "We're so good together, Mila," he says, somewhere over my head. "We make so much sense. How can't you see that?"

  "We do, but only if we ignore the circumstances that brought us together in the first place. The feelings, they might be real. But the intentions…they aren't. Because nothing real can grow from the wish to suppress another truth. We could give this a try, but all the while we would know that the other person's heart isn't in it all the way. We'd know we aren't what the other person really wants." I swallow. "You were right last night, the things you said."

  "No. I was drunk."

  "You're a wise drunk."

  His chest rumbles with a soft laugh. I know because my face is pressed against it as he hugs me.

  "That, I can't disagree with."

  I sigh.

  "I don't want to lose you," I say, for the second time in just a few days. I can't repeat the phrase enough.

  "Does it look like I'm going anywhere?"

  "I'm scared to look."

  He pulls back and takes my chin in his hand. I open my eyes. His face hovers over mine, his body pressed to mine. And I can't pretend I don't think, for a brief second, h
ow blissful it would be to just give in to our attraction and forget our troubles. But we've always known the truth. The reason we've never crossed that line. We could only cross it once, and we'd never be the same.

  We stare at each other for a few seconds, then I blink away and look at the floor.

  "We never had a chance," he says in a low voice.

  His tone scrapes at my insides, because I can hear how badly he wishes we did. And honest to God, I wish we did, too. He and I? We could be great together. In another life. But the truth is neither one of us had a chance with anyone, or anything, anywhere at anytime until we dealt with our own mess.

  "We need to stop hugging like this," I say.

  "Right." He steps back, his hands falling to his sides. "Don't want to tempt you into dry humping me again."

  My mouth falls open. "You're such an ass."

  He chuckles. When the sound fades, his expression turns somber.

  "Does this mean I've lost you to Cole?"

  "I can't believe you just asked me that. I'm not a piece of property you can land on top of and stick your flag into."

  He smiles, amused.

  "Yeah, yeah," I say, rubbing the space between my eyes. "I get how that sounded. But I'm serious. I don't like that you went looking for him, banging on your chest and warning him away from me."

  "Just tell me he doesn't have a chance with you. Please, Mila. It would give me peace of mind."

  "Your peace of mind isn't my responsibility, Andrew. I'm sorry," I say. "But, to be honest, I just don't see how Cole and I could ever go back."

  It's the truth. I mean it with all my soul. But what I don't say is that I wish we could go back. With the exception of meeting Andrew, I wish the last eight years hadn't happened. I also don't say how I stayed up all night thinking about Cole. Or how I tossed and turned, trying to understand why, no matter how hard I try—no matter how much logic screams at me—I just can't shake him off my heart.

  And I can't shake the pull to go looking for him again.

  Andrew and I go still and quiet, with only the sounds of the morning trickling in from behind the windowpane. The words I spoke leave an opening. I only realize this when Andrew stares down at my mouth, like he's a thought away from kissing me. And for a wild second, I'm a thought away from letting him.