Page 77 of Eye of the Beholder
I wait in silence for a second, but Cohen doesn’t say anything else, so I say, “And?”
“And you didn’t back away from me. You couldn’t tell me when you’re seeing him again. Your voice squeaked. And,” he says, “you were staring at my lips. You’re lukewarm toward Jack at best.” He shrugs. “I just wanted to know.”
I clench my teeth. “Then you should have asked,” I say. I’m not going to dignify the rest of that nonsense with an answer.
“You would have said you really like him,” Cohen says, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet on his bed.
“Because I do,” I say, shoving his feet back off the bed. “Don’t be a jerk. You’re making me forget that I missed you while we were avoiding each other for reasons I don’t fully understand.”
Cohen stops in the middle of trying to maneuver his feet back onto the bed and looks at me. Then he smiles. “Did you really?”
“Yes,” I say, tears pricking at my eyes. I sit on the edge of his bed. “I missed you.” My voice is softer than I intended, which is highly embarrassing.
Cohen’s smile changes into something I haven’t seen before. It’s hesitant—vulnerable. I like it. “I missed you too,” he confesses. He leans forward and wipes away the single tear that’s making its way down my cheek, and a pleasant warmth spreads through me, making me feel stupidly giddy. He just looks at me, and for a second it seems like he’s going to say something more, but then he holds up the flashcards. “Ready?” he says.
I take a deep breath. It’s not as subtle as I hope. “Ready,” I say. He tosses me the flashcards, and I let him put his feet back on the bed.
We go through punctuation and parts of speech, and he only misses a few the first time around. The second time through the cards, he gets them all.
“You’ll do great,” I say, standing up to leave.
“If you tell anyone I said I missed you—”
“Too late,” I say, grinning, hoping to play it off with casualness. “I’m going to write it on a poster. ‘Cohen missed Wet Willy.’ I’m going to take it to all your games—”
He shoves my shoulder playfully, and I laugh.
“I’ll walk you home,” he says, and I raise my eyebrows.
“Afraid I’ll get lost?”
He grins. “It’s a long way from my house to yours.”
Like I’m going to say no.
The December air is frigid, and I can see my breath. Cohen and I walk in silence, but I don’t mind. And I’m not sure why he’s walking with me, but I don’t mind that, either.
My front path is narrow, so I slip ahead of Cohen to walk in front of him when we get there. I’m almost to my front door—but out of nowhere, I feel something cold and wet splat on the back of my head.
Oh, no. He did not just throw a snowball at my head.
I turn around slowly to look at him. He’s laughing so hard his face is turning red—or maybe that’s the cold.
If he thinks he can throw a snowball at my head and get away with it, he’s sorely mistaken.
I form a snowball with my bare hands—not a great feeling, but I’m willing to suffer in the name of retribution—and then throw it at him. My aim usually isn’t great, but I’m close enough that the snow finds its target: Cohen’s face.
I grin smugly. “That will—”
I break off as he steps forward, hauls me over his shoulder with ease—like I’m a sack of flour—and makes his way back toward my yard. I beat my fists against his back and try to kick my legs, but I’m laughing too hard to put any real effort into it.
We reach the sidewalk, and Cohen dumps me into the snowbank by the mailbox.
“Oh!” I say, gasping between my laughs. “Cold. Cold.”
Cohen leans forward, his hands on his knees, looking at me with wicked amusement on his face. “You were saying?” he says.
Let’s see. If I do this just right…
