Page 47 of Eye of the Beholder

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Page 47 of Eye of the Beholder

He shrugs. “Sure, I could. You can’t be more than—”

“Stop,” I say, cutting him off. “Stop. Add that to the list of things you shouldn’t say to a woman. Never make any guesses about her weight. Ever. If you overshoot we feel bad about ourselves. If you undershoot we feel bad that it’s not true. There’s no way you can win.”

“I did know that one, actually,” Cohen says, folding his arms. “My bad. Are you really going to get up on my shoulders?”

I rub my hands together against the cold. Even though the wind is reduced in the maze, it’s still starting to get chilly. “Do you have any better ideas?” I say.

“We could just wander around,” he says, sounding far too reasonable. “And do the maze like you’re supposed to do mazes.”

“Please let me exert some measure of control over this situation,” I say. “It makes me feel calmer instead of worrying about whether Virginia is sticking her tongue down Jack’s throat right now.”

I see Cohen wrinkle his nose. “I could have done without that last bit.”

“You dated her too, you know,” I say.

“Yeah, well, we all have regrets.” He crouches down and beckons me to come closer. “Come on,” he says. “Get on my shoulders.”

I approach him cautiously—although there’s really no reason to be nervous—and hesitantly swing one leg over his shoulder. He holds up one hand for me to hold on to, and it’s as cold from the chilled air as I know my own hand is. His shoulders are somehow broader than I’d realized.

When I’m sitting on his shoulders—feeling incredibly awkward, I might add—he stands, holding my legs as he does so. I’m grateful for that. Falling from heights is not my favorite way to spend my time.

“Lift with your legs,” I tell him, but he just snorts.

“I’ve got it, thanks.” I can’t see his face anymore, just the top of his head, but I hear the grin in his voice.

“Someone’s cocky.”

“Someoneis merely confident in his ability to carry tiny people on his shoulders.”

“I’m not tiny,” I say, frowning. “I’m 5’5”.

“I’m 6’0”,” he says. “To me you’re tiny. Move your hands up. You’re pushing my eyebrows down over my eyes.”

“Oops,” I say, adjusting my grip. “Sorry.”

“Okay,” he says, tilting his head back to look up at me. “Can you see anything?”

“Does your hair do this naturally?” I say, clearly very focused on what he’s asking me. But his wavy hair is soft as I run my fingers through it. I thought he would have styled it to get it to look like this, but there’s no hint of gel.

“Do what?” he says. “Stick up?”

“Yeah,” I say, still running my fingers through it.

“Stop that,” he says, shaking his head as though I’m an annoying gnat he’s trying to shake off. “It sticks up on its own. It’s getting it to smooth down that’s the problem. I just don’t try. I don’t have that kind of time and product.”

I smile at the top of his head. “You don’t need it. You have nice hair.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, “Really?”

“Yeah,” I say, feeling awkward. So I turn my eyes to the sky instead. The stars stretch endlessly above us, even more visible here than in the heart of our town, although Stone Springs is so small that they’re always easy to see. The sky is an inky, velvety black—a blanket being draped over the night, covering us in darkness.

I tear my eyes away and crane my neck, looking all around us. This field is huge, although there’s no way the maze takes up the whole field. There’s some sort of old building in the direction we’re facing, along with a definite increase in lights. When I look over my shoulder, I can see the lights of the parking lot behind us. Miraculously, we’re headed in the right direction.

“We’re good,” I call down to Cohen. “It’s that way.” I point.

He starts walking, and I feel the motion as a sort of lurch. I tighten my hold around his head, and I feel his grip on my legs tighten.

“Ow,” he says, shaking his head again. “Your fingernails are digging into me. Just relax up there. Enjoy the view.”