Page 59 of Eye of the Beholder
“You’re so…I don’t know. I see Virginia do this ridiculous thing to you, and you don’t yell or snap or anything. You just try to give her the benefit of the doubt. You’re doing the same with my dad. You’re nice to people.”
I frown. “You should see the thoughts I’ve been having about Virginia. You would recant that statement immediately.”
His face breaks into a small, reluctant smile. “I don’t think anyone would blame you. And yet my guess is you’re still giving her the benefit of the doubt.”
A smile! He’s smiling! I can work with that.
He still looks at me sideways. “You know Virginia doesn’t matter, right?” His voice is casual, but his eyes aren’t.
“Yeah,” I say, keeping my voice light. “I know.”
And I do know that. I do. I think of my list—of my promise to remember my worth. My worth is not dictated by Virginia’s opinion of me. I know she’s petty and jealous and not worth my grief. But—
“Because you don’t need to look like her or be like her,” he says. “You don’t have to have eyes that are the same color or any of that stuff.” He hesitates. “I actually really like your eyes, for what it’s worth.”
“Thank you,” I say. It’s little more than a whisper.
He leans his head back against his seat and closes his eyes. “You’re good the way you are. You’re enough.”
My mind flits to the doodle hanging above my desk in my room, and I smile. “I know,” I say.
“Good.”
“And you know the same, don’t you?” I say, not looking at him. I stare out the window instead. “You’re enough. Whatever happened between your parents, they didn’t split because they didn’t love you enough to keep trying.”
“I know,” Cohen says, his voice quiet. He sighs and finally removes his key from the ignition. “We should go. People are going to think we’re up to no good in here.”
“There’s no one around,” I point out. “And ew.”
He grins suddenly, and relief floods me at the sight. Sad Cohen is hard to see. “What, is kissing me such an awful thought?” he says. “It’s the nose, isn’t it. Or is it the scar?” His grin widens.
I hope the darkness covers how red my face undoubtedly is. Because truthfully? The thought of kissing him isn’t awful.
Like, at all.
Where did that come from? He’s not Jack. I likeJack. Right?
“Um,” I say, because I am a grown, well-spoken woman. It’s incredible how much squeak can fit into just one syllable. “Not an awful thought.”
His grin widens, and he leans toward me slowly. I try to move, to scoot back, but I guess I don’t try very hard. His face looms closer to mine until he’s only inches away. I’m probably not breathing at this point; I can’t say for sure because I barely even know my name right now. Breathing is well out of my realm of current awareness. What’swrongwith me? It’s just Cohen.
And fine. All right. I get it. I get why he doesn’t have trouble getting a date. The strength of his jaw, the amber flecks in his dark eyes, his perpetually mussed hair—I get it. But still.
“Don’t let Jack hear you say that,” he says in a low voice, still grinning wickedly. His eyes dart back and forth between mine, and I feel his breath on my lips.
I have no response. Not one. All I can think is that my brain and I are going to have a long talk later about how it seems to have deserted me in my time of need.
I watch, frozen, as his grin fades slowly. The look in his eyes changes as the teasing gives way to…something. Something different, something that makes my heart go as still as the rest of me. His gaze flits to my lips. When he looks back into my eyes, his eyes widen—so infinitesimally that I might not notice if he weren’t an inch away. He leans back quickly, and then he turns around and pushes his car door open, all but scrambling out. He sticks his head back in to say, “Out.”
“Bossy,” I say, but I get out with a sigh of relief. Outside the car seems safer than inside the car, where I have feelings that don’t completely make sense. The wind whips my hair around my face, and I fold my arms across my chest to preserve even a tiny fraction of body heat.
Cohen joins me on the sidewalk. I quickly slip out of his jacket and hand it to him.
“Thanks for that,” I say, praying that he’ll just take it and go. We don’t need to talk about what just happened. We don’t need to talk about anything that has happened today. Ever.
He takes the jacket, his eyes lingering on me, and then he smiles and shakes his head.
“What?” I say, looking down self-consciously.
