Page 83 of Eye of the Beholder
When did this happen?
I don’t know about Jack. I have no idea how I feel about him. And I don’t even want to think about it. Not right now.
My phone rings, and I jump. My hand flies to my chest, my heart suddenly racing. I give a weak laugh at how ridiculous it is that my phone has managed to scare me out of my wits.
My insides twist when I see that it’s Cohen.
“Hi,” I say. I try to sound normal rather than like I’m staring at my ceiling trying not to cry.
“Hi,” Cohen says, his voice soft. “Lydia says you could use a hug.”
“I don’t need a hug,” I say. Ten hugs, maybe. Therapy or a professional feelings interpreter, definitely.
“I think you’re lying,” Cohen says, and I can picture the exact quirk of his lips. “I’m in your back yard. Come on out.”
“It’s cold,” I say, but I’m already getting up. “Let me put on my hat and gloves.”
“I’ll wait,” he says. He sounds perfectly comfortable, like he has all the time in the world to sit in the snow in my yard and wait for my emotionally needy self.
Once I’ve got my hat and gloves on, I pull my boots back on, even though I just got all of this off only moments ago. Then I exit the house through the back door and step into the night.
Cohen is leaning against the trunk of the large tree in the back corner of our yard, his arms crossed over his chest. When I step outside and the light from indoors spills out into the snow, he looks up. He smiles when he sees me, and I resist running to him. I don’t throw myself into men’s arms.
So I amble slowly to him instead. He doesn’t move; he just watches me, a little smile on his face. When I’m right in front of him, he straightens, and in one fluid motion he pulls me into his arms. I lay my head against his chest, listening to the steady, comforting beat of his heart. He strokes my hair.
“What’s wrong, Willy?” he says quietly, and I smile at his use of the name.
“Jack kissed me,” I say, deciding to tell him after all.
I feel his arms tighten convulsively, feel the subtle catch of his breath. His hand ceases stroking my hair for a second, and then it resumes.
“Why is that bad?” he says. His voice sounds tight.
“I don’t know,” I say into his chest. My confusion, my swirling thoughts—they compound until I can’t swallow past the lump in my throat. My eyes prickle, and I feel a few tears escape, freezing on my cheeks.
Cohen puts his hands on my shoulders and steps back, looking at me carefully from arm’s length. “He kissed you.”
I nod, looking at the ground. It’s snowing now.
“But that’s bad?” Cohen says.
I don’t answer. I can’t pull my eyes from the ground, because I don’t want him to see me cry. I don’t want him to see me like this—confused and hollow and desperately craving him.
But he puts a finger under my chin and tilts my face up to look at him. His eyes search my face, asking questions I don’t understand and don’t know the answer to. He gently wipes the tears from my cheeks. Where did he learn to do this? Is there a manual on how to comfort crying women? How to dry tears: Christmas edition?
“I don’t know,” I say, even though he hasn’t asked me anything. “I don’t know anything. I don’t know what I want.” My breathing is becoming more uneven as the tears come faster. “I thought I knew, Cohen. But when he asked me to the dance—when he kissed me—all I felt was—was alone.” I’m ugly crying now. Like,ugly. I am not a cute crier.
Cohen pulls me back to his chest, not saying anything. I wrap my arms around his waist—he’s something I can hold onto, something to steady me. I feel his hand in my hair again. It’s a rhythmic, calming sensation, and I focus on it, steadying my breathing until I’ve finally calmed down.
I tilt my head up to look at him, not loosening my grip on him. He smiles at me gently.
“Better?” he says, tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear. His fingers trail down my cheek.
“A little,” I say, my voice a whisper.
He just looks at me for a moment longer. “You’re never alone, Mina,” he finally says. His eyes are steady on mine, and they’re telling me something. They flit to my lips. He hesitates, and then he leans in and kisses me not on the lips but on the cheek, right at the corner of my mouth. My skin burns where his lips touch, and my world spins.
“Merry Christmas, Willy,” he says. He releases me, takes a step back, nods at me, and then turns and begins to walk away. “Oh,” he says, stopping and turning back for a second. “I think…I might go to my dad’s wedding.”
