Page 71 of Eye of the Beholder
“I love Italian,” I say, smiling. I was wondering where my smile was. I’m glad it showed up.
Cohen rolls his eyes, and I wave my hand in a gesture that somehow means, “Leave me alone and don’t make fun of me.”
“Great!” Jack says, sounding genuinely happy. “Can I pick you up at six?”
I nod, but realizing he can’t see me, I say, “Yeah, that sounds good.”
“Awesome. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mina.”
“See you tomorrow.”
We hang up, and I look at Cohen. “Your silent commentary was highly unnecessary,” I say to him.
“Sorry,” Cohen says, his eyes back on his practice test again.
“You don’t sound sorry,” I say, my voice dry. “You sound annoyed.”
He doesn’t respond.
“All right, well, since you’re not going to ask, I’ll tell you. We’re going out tomorrow. He’s taking me to dinner at some Italian place—”
“Florentino’s,” Cohen says, cutting me off. He sighs. “He’s taking you to Florentino’s. It’s nice,” he says, eyeing my outfit. “No jeans.”
“How do you know he’s taking me there?” I say, frowning at him and leaning back against his headboard.
Cohen rubs his temples like he has a headache. “Because that’s where he likes to take dates. It’s romantic.”
I swallow. I honestly don’t know what to say that. There are so many possible responses running through my head.
I choose the first one that I can latch onto. “How many girls has he dated, do you think?”
Cohen eyes me, looking wary. “Does it matter?”
“I guess not,” I say. Then something occurs to me. “How many girls haveyoudated?”
Cohen shakes his head immediately. “I’m not answering that.”
“Come on,” I say. It’s suddenly important to me to know this. “It has to be a lot.”
“I’d think the same looking at you, but you haven’t dated anyone,” Cohen says.
I ignore the flush in my cheeks. “Not a lot, then? I know you went out with Virginia”—Cohen shudders—“but we’re not counting she-devils, so I can’t think of anyone.”
Cohen laughs, and some of the tension I didn’t even realize was here dissipates. “Three,” he says finally, looking at me with amusement. He leans back in his swivel chair and props his feet up on his bed.
I raise my eyebrows. “That’s it?”
“Yep,” he says, a smile crooking the corner of his mouth. “Just three.”
I swallow. “And how many girls have you kissed?”
Cohen’s smile fades, and an intensity I’ve never seen enters his eyes. He shakes his head slowly. “I don’t want to tell you that.” He hasn’t moved an inch, but his posture isn’t relaxed anymore—he rests stiffly, his body tense.
“Okay,” I say. My voice is barely above a whisper, and I feel like crying all over again. The number has to be high for him to not want to tell me.
“Because I don’t want you to think less of me,” he says, his eyes still boring into mine.
I can’t look at him. “Oh, Cohen,” I say, rubbing my eyes and willing them to stop prickling. “I’m not going to judge you. But you don’t have to tell me. It’s none of my business.”
