Page 57 of Eye of the Beholder
What were we thinking? Holding hands? We don’t hold hands. We don’t hug. We don’t do those things. But he said that stuff about his dad, and it felt so natural to take his hand in mine. It felt comfortable, not weird—like we’ve been doing it forever. And even when we weren’t talking about his dad anymore, I didn’t want to let go.
It was nice of him to call me beautiful. I didn’t mind the hug, either. And Ireallydidn’t mind his kiss to the top of my head. That I didn’t mind bothers me almost as much as the hand holding.
Of course, I’m never going to bring that stuff up again. My guess is that he won’t either. So maybe we can just pretend it didn’t happen? Does that ever really work?
I’m willing to try it if he is. And if he isn’t, I’ll try it anyway.
I begin to pull my blinds down and let my gaze drift to Cohen’s window. It’s open, but his room is dark. He must have forgotten to close it.
Or so I think until I glance at the gap between our houses and see that his car is still running. I check my watch. We got back fifteen minutes ago. Why is he still in his car?
I war with myself briefly. On one hand, my bed looks lovely and inviting, and I’m already in my pajamas. On the other hand…why is Cohen still in his car? Because there’s no way he just forgot to turn it off. That doesn’t happen.
I feel curiosity tugging at me. The reality is that if I try to go to bed now, I’m going to be at the window in ten minutes anyway, checking if he’s still out there.
Might as well go see what he’s doing. I’m never going to sleep otherwise, because I am far too nosy for my own good—or anyone else’s, I guess.
I leave my room, turning the light off, and pad softly down the stairs. The house is dark; my parents are asleep by now. I slip out the front door and close it quietly behind me. The air is cold and the wind is high, and now I know how Virginia and Marie felt at the corn maze.
I hurry across my front lawn and down the sidewalk until I arrive at Cohen’s car. I lean down, squinting through the window. Sure enough, he’s there, his forehead resting on the steering wheel. He looks utterly defeated. Or dead. It’s hard to tell in the dark. My guess is that he’s alive, though.
I decide against waiting for an invitation. Instead I pull the passenger door open. Cohen jumps more violently than I’ve ever seen a startled person jump before, turning to me with his eyes wide. When he sees me, he looks away, putting his hand over his heart.
“Come on, Mina. Knock or something. You scared me.”
“Sorry,” I say, sliding into the front seat and closing the door behind me. The warmth of his car immediately envelops me, for which I am extremely grateful. It’scoldout there. I hold my hands up to the vents and let the hot air rush over my hands. Then I turn to Cohen, who’s not looking at me.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” he says, sounding reluctant. He’s staring ahead of him as though he’s driving, even though the car is parked. There are several pieces of folded paper in his lap.
When he doesn’t say anything more, I speak again. “What are you doing out here?”
“Hiding,” he says, his voice flat. His elbow is propped against the windowsill, and he runs his hand through his hair.
I frown. “From what?”
He sighs and finally looks at me. “I don’t know.” He seemingly gets a good look at me for the first time; I watch his gaze run slowly over my ensemble, my tank top and boxer shorts. He raises one brow and gestures at me. “I didn’t think I was ever going to see this again.”
I swallow. “I hoped you wouldn’t notice,” I say, because I don’t know how to tell him that I was too anxious to prod into his business to change clothes.
His serious eyes flash with something like appreciation as they take me in. “I’m ugly, not blind,” he says, his voice low.
I shiver. “You’re not ugly,” I say.
He ignores this. He twists around and leans into his back seat, then turns back to me and tosses me a jacket. “Here,” he says, his voice strained now. “Please.”
His words are sort of odd, but I pull the jacket on gratefully anyway. “Thanks,” I say. He just nods curtly and stares out the window.
“You’re in a bad mood,” I say, keeping my voice soft. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really,” he says, still looking out the window.
I nod, feeling disappointed. I cross my legs. “Do you want me to leave?”
He turns his gaze on me, and something in his eyes makes my breath catch. “Not really.” His voice is low, rough.
I nod again, settling into the seat. “Can I put my feet on your dash?” I say, stretching my legs out.
