Page 14 of Eye of the Beholder

“Yeah. And it caught me off guard. I wasn’t expecting to see him. I don’t know what he’s doing at my house.”

I eye him again as I pull into the outlet mall parking lot. His fists are clenched, his strong jaw flexing. “You’re really angry,” I say.

He rolls his eyes, which I barely see since he’s still staring fixedly at his lap. “Yeah, of course I am, Mina. He left, and yet he’s still acting like things are okay. And now he’s at my house. He has no idea what he did to my mom. She looks terrible. She looks exhausted. He left her to carry the weight of the household on her own.”

I turn off the car, but neither of us move. I can think of things I could say. I can think of things I shouldn’t say. But only one thing enters my mind that feels right.

Somehow, in the space of half a second, my heart accelerates from slightly too fast (because I never exercise) towaytoo fast. I’m not psychic, but I can guarantee he doesn’t want to hear what I’m thinking.

I grit my teeth and prepare myself to say it anyway, because this is my year. And maybe he needs to hear it.

Or maybe he’ll hate me for saying it.

I’m about to find out.

“Maybe you should try to forgive him. You might feel better,” I say. My voice squeaks as I speak.

Another deafening silence, but this one feels a bit colder than the last. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he finally says, his voice tight.

All right. Point taken. “I need to get a few things. You can wait in the car.”

“I don’t want to wait in the car,” he says. His tone is normal again, although something in his eyes hasn’t quite shifted away from the haunted look they had. “You’re not supposed to leave people in the car.”

“I think that’s just babies and dogs,” I say. “And it’s fall. And you’re a grown man. You can open the door if you need to.”

“I’m coming in,” he says, opening his door and stepping out before I can say anything.

I stumble my way out of the car. “No. I just need a few shirts.” No way am I buying clothes with Cohen in tow. I don’t like buying clothes withmyselfin tow.

“Yours aren’t gray enough anymore?”

Once again, I feel my cheeks burn. “You’re hilarious.”

“I’m joking, Willy,” he says, and when I look at him, I see him grinning.

“No, you’re not,” I say. “I’m not taking you with me.”

“You do wear a lot of gray and white,” Cohen says, leaning against my car, arms folded over his chest. He’s eyeing me with interest, his head cocked to one side. I notice he’s totally avoided responding to my insistence that he’s not coming in.

“I like gray and white,” I say. I shove my hands into my pockets, feeling the sudden urge to shield myself from his gaze. I’ve never had this conversation with anyone.

“And…?” he says, looking at me expectantly.

“And what?”

“And why do you like gray and white? They’re the most boring colors.”

“I disagree,” I say, forcing myself to start walking. He’s clearly not going to be talked out of this. I’ll just hurry. “Black is more boring than white.”

“What about gray?” he says, pushing off the car and falling into step next to me. What is he going to do if someone sees us together? Doesn’t that matter to popular people? I mean, Cohen is nice and all; he is. But I don’t know that nice extends to being seen in public with a social outcast.

“Gray…is pretty boring,” I admit.

“So why do you wear it?” he says.

I shake my head. “You’re going to laugh at me.”

“I’m not,” he says, pulling open the department store door and letting me walk through before he follows.

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