Read On an Edge of Glass for Free Online

trust your instincts,” Ben nods in agreement.  His left hip is resting against the counter and his feet are crossed at the ankles.
    Standing here in the kitchen, I’m struck again by the whole of him—the unevenness, the shaggy dark brown hair, the long, lean arms, the scruff along his jaw, and those warm caramel-infused eyes.  I find myself wishing that I could still this moment and keep it in my mind like a picture. 
    I lif t my gaze and catch him looking back at me.  My breath hitches and a warm pink heat rushes to my cheeks.  Before I can embarrass myself anymore, I turn away and busy my hands, rearranging the folded dish towels stacked near the sink. 
    “So what can I do to help?”   I ask hastily.
    If Ben notices that my voice is strange, he’s gracious about it.  He shows me how to chop the parsley we need to add to the rice that’s boiling on the stovetop.  Then, we work on slicing red and green peppers diagonally.  The spaces between his culinary instructions are littered with questions about my life and my plans for the future.
    “ So, why do you want to be a lawyer?”  He asks, sliding the slices of pepper into a large bowl with the blunt edge of the knife he’s been using.  He wipes his hand on a kitchen towel and turns to me.  His face is expectant.
    It’s a simple question .
    It’s a question that I should be able to answer quickly—succinctly.  But, the thing is that no one has ever asked me that before.  There’s no why involved in the formula that is my life plan.  It just is. 
    So I stammer and say s omething that sounds worthwhile.  But, I end up feeling like it’s lacking—like I’m playing a kind of game with myself.  And by the look on Ben’s face as he watches me, he knows it.  That bothers me more than it should.
    Because I like Ben.
    He’s funny.
    He’ s smart.
    He’ s proficient on three instruments and is going to be auditioning for several orchestra placements in the spring.  He’s also the bass guitarist for an indie band that plays local bars a few nights a month.  He bites his lip and his cheeks flush noticeably red when I ask him if he’s hounded by groupies in miniskirts and push-up bras. 
    I like the way that he obsessively tucks his hair behind his ears as he talks, and how his whole body moves when he’s nodding his head.  He’s enthusiastic about the things that he likes, and lately I’ve been noticing that enthusiasm is a rare commodity among a generation of young men that value disengagement and pop their chins and say, “sup” in lieu of a greeting.
    Ben shares stories about his family—about the little brothers that dominate his home life and the mother that rules them all.  I laugh until tears drip onto my cheeks when he tells me about eleven year old Kyle rigging up a homemade zip-line extending from the rooftop of their house to a tree across the street.  Needless to say, it did not end well.  He fell into a neighbor’s trashcan and broke his wrist.
    Payton joins us when she ge ts home from class.  With her presence, the music gets louder and a bottle of wine is opened.  Then we delve into a second bottle. 
    Sometime between dinner and ripping into a bag of Oreos, a deck of cards and a bottle of vanilla flavored vodka are introduced into the mixture. 
    Ben sits next to me on the floor with his long spidery legs crossed in front of his body.  He doesn’t have shoes on and it’s first time I’ve seen his bare feet up close.  I note his narrow toes and the way that he wiggles them against the wood floor while he’s thinking about his cards. 
    Each time his arm brushes against mine, or I ca tch the already familiar soapy scent of him, I try not to lose my way.  I hunch forward, curling my shoulders inward over my chest.  I attempt to stay focused on the playing cards in my hand, and it works.  I end up winning two times in a row. 
    Payton mutters under her breath and throws her cards down , but Ben flashes me a