Page 37 of Eye of the Beholder
I smile. “No.” And it’s not completely a lie.
“Good,” she says. “It should be about you. You’re lovely. Now, do you want some dinner?”
I’m not hungry, for some reason, so I say, “No. I’m going to do homework, and then I’m going to bed. I’m tired.”
“All right,” she says. She gives me a hug goodnight, and I make my way upstairs. Before I do anything else, I put my pajamas on—I am a creature of comfort. Then I flop down on my bed.
A mistake—I’m going to fall asleep if I don’t get up, and I don’t want to have to do my homework on Sunday, so I force myself to sit up. My window is still open, so I cross the room to close it…
And see Cohen doing the same. Only he’s not wearing a shirt—hello, muscles—and I’m wearing nothing but a tank top and boxer shorts.
Our eyes meet at the same time.
12
Cohen
Ihave only one thought when I see Mina about to pull down her blinds:
Crap. She looks good.
I had the same unbidden thought earlier when I saw her after Lydia’s forever-long makeover; I was hoping it wouldn’t happen again, because it could get problematic. Because I have no right to be attracted to her. Not even a little bit. But apparently I’m more shallow than I thought I was. That’s not a great realization; I feel strangely like I’ve let myself down.
I keep my eyes firmly on her face and don’t let them stray anywhere else, like they keep wanting to, and I watch her as she watches me. We just stare at each other for a second that feels a lot longer than a second. Her eyes are wide, her hand frozen on her blinds, and her jaw is slightly dropped.
Then I realize with a start that I’m shirtless; that’s why she’s staring at me.
I’m suddenly glad football keeps me in good shape, and I can’t stop a grin from spreading over my face. I grab my shirt from my bed and pull it on, and when I go back to the window Mina is slipping into a robe. I pick up my phone and call her.
I watch her as she answers.
“Hi,” she says, leaning sort of sideways against the window.
“Hi,” I say, and it occurs to me for the first time that there’s no purpose for this call. Why am I calling her?
“Um,” she says.
I think quickly, wanting to dispel the awkward tension between us. I shouldn’t have called her. “Jack was definitely interested in you. Or at least interested in being interested.”
She looks relieved at the topic of conversation. “I know,” she says, her voice musing. “I mean, I thought maybe he was. I don’t know what to do with that, though.”
“Lydia and I are going to teach you how to flirt,” I say, watching her.
She gives a snort of laughter. “Good luck. I’m not sure I’ve ever known how to flirt.”
I shrug, sitting on the edge of my bed, which is directly next to the window. “We’ll figure it out. You’ll be fine. Just smile a lot. Laugh at his jokes.”
She tilts her head to one side. “What if they’re not funny?”
“You can make that call. People usually think he’s funny, though, so I wouldn’t worry about it.”
She just looks at me for a second, and even though she’s not particularly close to me, something about that look makes me nervous. Then, her voice soft, she says, “Did you ever find out what your dad was doing at your house?” She pauses. “I saw the letters on your desk.”
I look at my desk without thinking. The letters are still there, of course, because I haven’t moved them.
“My mom says he wanted to talk to me,” I say absently as I stare at the stack.
“Are you going to open those?” she says.
