Page 20 of Eye of the Beholder
“It dances. Sings. But it really just depends how much you’re willing to pay it.”
His grin widens. “Jack loves dancing hair.”
“Most men do,” I say.
He tilts his head a bit, still smiling, and says, “Can you take it down? How long is it?”
“I’m not cutting my hair,” I say immediately.
He holds his hands up. “You can do whatever you want with your hair. I just wanted to see what it looks like.”
“It’s pretty long,” I say.
He considers me. “It always was when we were kids. Do you remember when our families went to the lake and it got so tangled that you cried when your mom had to brush it out?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You would have cried too. And I was little.”
He just smiles, and I can tell he’s waiting.
I sigh. “Fine. But prepare to be blinded. It’s so blonde that it’s basically neon.” I unwind my hair tie and slip it over my wrist as I uncoil my hair, running my fingers loosely through it. It hits just below my ribcage; I haven’t cut it in years, a fact I’m suddenly self-conscious about.
I look at Cohen, whose smile has widened. “You have atonof hair.”
“I know,” I say ruefully. “I just can’t bring myself to cut it.”
Cohen shrugs, still smiling. “I like it. Why do you wear it up all the time?”
“It’s a pain, for one,” I say, wrestling the hair back into a ponytail. “And the color is just so…bright. It feels like I have a neon sign on top of my head.”
“It works for you,” he says. “Neon sign and all.” He gestures at me. “Now, aren’t you glad we did this?”
I am, but I’m not going to tell him that. Instead I say, “When do you want to start tutoring?”
His expression fades into a grimace as he looks at me. “As soon as possible,” he says, running his thumb over the scar on his upper lip as he thinks. “I can take it two more times, I think, before I really need to have my applications finalized.”
I nod, stepping back into the tiny dressing room. “Well, I’ll get you my work schedule. When do you do football stuff?” I say as I close the door and try on my second shirt. It, too, fits beautifully. Then I get my old clothes back on.
“Afternoons,” he says. “Evenings and weekends are probably best.”
I nod again, even though he can’t see me. “We can do that. How often are you thinking? I guess we should probably see where you are first so we know what needs to be done,” I say, answering my own question.
“Probably,” he agrees.
I step out of the changing room again, pay for my clothes, and then we leave. I determinedly avoid looking at him as we pass back through the cologne section of the department store we entered through. After that we get groceries and stop for gas, and on an impulse—one I should squash, because I know my mom is doing leftover spaghetti for dinner—I pull into the drive-thru at the local taco joint.
“I’m starving,” I say. “Do you want anything? Are you doing anything for dinner?”
“I don’t think so. This sounds great. Let me buy it, though.” He pauses and then says, “Thanks for taking me with you. There’s a church dinner tonight, and there was one last night too. I really didn’t want to go.”
I smile at him, and it’s not as forced as I thought it would be. “Any time.” I hesitate. “Not interested in church dinners?”
“Not interested in church right now, actually.”
I blink, surprised that he’s so forthcoming about it. “Oh.”
“Order me two soft tacos,” he says before I can say any more. His eyes scan the menu. “No sour cream.”
“If you’re not getting sour cream, you don’t deserve tacos,” I say, but I comply anyway and order him his food. I let him pay, because he offered, and I can tell he wants to show that he’s grateful. I park in a parking spot and turn off the car, pulling our food from the bag.
