The Edge of Falling Read Online Free PDF

she’d be able to tell you exactly what species it was, where it came from, what color its wings were. That was the kind of kid she was. She really cared about the things she cared about.
    In May, after the incident, I found a bunch of supplies still in Hayley’s studio. There were her paintings, all wrapped in bubble paper, but then some unused stuff too. Unopened oil paints, a bowl still coated in her favorite shade of fuchsia. The one she had mixed up herself.
    I’m still not sure what to do with it all. I can’t quite bring myself to throw it out. It was her life dream to be a painter. Every time I try to clean up in there, I imagine her standing in the doorway, her hands on her hips. What do you think you’re doing? she’d say. I’m not finished with that.
    Peter nods. “I miss her too, Caggs. But we shouldn’t pretend like we can close the door on that. It isn’t something to lock up.”
    “Yeah.” I slide past him. “Look, I’m going to get some stuff organized for tomorrow. But we could grab dinner later if you wanted to.”
    “Definos?”
    “You know it.”
    He puts his hand up and I tap it with my palm. “Call Felicia,” I tell him on my way out.
    He rolls his eyes but I can see a smile on his lips. “Okay, boss.”
    I wander back to my room thinking about Trevor. A million thoughts flash through my mind at once. He’s back. Why hasn’t he called? Why would he call? Is he mad atme? Where did he go? And then: Does he want to get back together?
    No, he doesn’t want to get back together. Why would he? He hasn’t so much as sent me an e-mail to let me know he’s alive.
    But when I walk into my room, I don’t have to think about where he is, or whether he’s going to call, because he’s standing right there. He’s facing the window in my bedroom, and he doesn’t immediately turn around. I just stand in my doorway, looking at the back of him—the curve of his neck, the shape of his arms. Arms that wrapped around me. I used to think that if he held me as tight as he could it would keep everything in place. It would keep my mind from running away, from remembering. I was wrong.
    I clear my throat. “Hi,” I say.
    He spins around, and when he does, I’m reminded of the first time I saw him. It was freshman year, the first day at Kensington, and I wasn’t expecting to see too many foreign faces. Most of the kids I already knew. They were kids I had gone to Wheatley with, grown up with. They were my neighbors. But then I spotted this boy standing by the admissions office, leaning against the wall by the door. He was flipping through a course catalog, and he had this light brown hair and tanned skin and the bluest eyes I had ever seen. They seemed to soften when he looked at me, likethey went from being fixed sapphires to tiny pools of water with a single glance.
    We didn’t become friends then. We didn’t even speak at all. But I’ll never forget the way he looked at me. Like he was melting.
    “Hey, Caggs.” His face is soft, and I notice his hair has grown longer this summer. It’s always wavy, kind of floppy in the front, but it sweeps down below his ears now. He runs a hand through, lifting it up off his forehead.
    “How did you get in?” I ask. My voice cracks on the last word.
    “You always said I shouldn’t knock,” he says. He smiles, but it’s just slight.
    He moves closer to me, and my heart starts hammering. I forgot how attractive he is. How even now, with so much terrible history between us, a huge part of me just wants to kiss him. To run my hands through his hair and feel his breath against my ear.
    Trevor pauses in the middle of my room. “How was your summer?” he asks.
    “How was my summer?”
    He drops his eyes to the carpet. “Yeah, I mean . . .”
    “Trevor, I haven’t spoken to you in two months.”
    “I just thought . . .” He stops, starts again: “I just wanted to see how you were.”
    I cross my arms. “I’m fine.”
    “I can see that.”