Page 85 of Eye of the Beholder
“She’s not going to keep this thing with Jack going,” Lydia says. “She’s confused right now. She doesn’t think she knows what she wants. But she’ll get there. And I don’t think Jack is who she wants.”
“Right,” I say, taking a deep breath. “Right.” I turn to go, but then I say, “I will deny this conversation ever happened.”
Lydia smiles. “I know.”
I nod. “Right,” I say again. I clear my throat. “Thanks, Lyd.”
Lydia eyes me. “Have you ever been in love?”
“I am not having this conversation,” I say firmly. “Good night.”
She grins. The look is entirely too knowing for my comfort. “Good night,” she says.
I go to my room and flop down on my bed, not even taking off my coat. I close my eyes, but all I can see is Jack kissing Mina. I push back my jealousy, not entirely successfully, and try to focus on something else. Anything else. Because whatever else I see behind my closed eyelids, anything is better than Mina kissing someone else.
My dad’s wedding. I can think about that. I need to think about that. And it says something that I’d rather think about the wedding than Mina kissing Jack.
My mind drifts to what Mina said about how I encouraged her to apply to the university she was considering. I think about how she encouraged me earlier to go to the wedding. And more than that, I think about forgiveness. I let the word swirl lazily around my thoughts.
Being angry takes energy. And I’m tired. I’m confused and stressed and possibly falling in love for the first time in my life. I don’t have the energy for anger right now. And my mom and Mina are right, as much as it pains me to admit it; everyone deserves forgiveness. I haven’t been going to church, but I believe that. And I certainly believe that I can’t want forgiveness for my mistakes and simultaneously withhold it from others.
I remember, unbidden, the time when I was nine that I broke my dad’s windshield with a baseball. I’d run, locked myself in the bathroom, and refused to come out for hours because I was so afraid of why my parents would say.
But they didn’t yell at me. My dad just had me help him clean the glass up. He’d hugged me and told me he loved me.
I think of Mina, of her encouragement. I think of her bravery in stepping out of her comfort zone. If she can apply to college, I can go to my dad’s wedding. Right? It will be scary—something I won’t admit to anyone—but I can try. If not for my dad, then for me. Mina was right; anger is painful to carry around. I can’t force my anger away, but I can stop obsessing about it. Or at very least, I can try.
I take a deep breath, clenching and unclenching my jaw. Then I pull out my phone, and before I can chicken out, I text my dad two words:I’ll come.
***
Christmas is quiet, and I like it that way. New Year’s Eve, however, is not going to be quiet. I know this because it never is. Every year Jack has a party on New Year’s Eve. He’s done it for the last three years, and I’ve always gone, but for some reason the idea isn’t as appealing as it used to be. I don’t have to go, I guess. But I would want to go if Mina were going. I wouldn’t want to abandon her to that.
I call Mina the morning of New Year’s Eve, feeling strangely nervous. I guess I’ve been reduced to a twelve-year-old boy talking to his first crush. I don’t love the feeling.
“Are you going to Jack’s tonight?” I say.
“Yeah,” she says, sounding sort of miserable.
I smile. “Don’t sound so excited.”
“I hate parties,” she says with a sigh.
I shrug even though she can’t see me. “So don’t go. Stay home and read a book.” That’s her ideal evening.
“Eh, I’ll go. I sort of feel like I should now that we’re going to the dance together.”
She hasn’t talked much about the dance, and I haven’t asked. I like it better that way. “Well, do you want a ride?” I say.
“Oh,” she says, sounding surprised. “That would be great, actually. Jack can’t pick me up, and I really don’t like parallel parking.”
I swallow. “How are things going with you guys?” I say, trying to sound casual.
“I don’t know,” she says. “And I don’t really want to talk about it.”
I back off immediately. “We don’t have to talk about it. Just meet me at my car tonight at eight. Is that good?”
“Yeah,” she says, sounding relieved. “Thanks, Cohen.”
