Page 55 of Eye of the Beholder

“Oh, Cohen,” she says from somewhere above me. Her voice is tinged with…well, not quite pity, which is good, because I can’t stand pity. Sadness, maybe. I hear her shuffling around and then hear her sit on the floor next to me. She places one hand on my arm—probably aiming randomly in the dark—and then slides her hand down my arm until she slips her hand into mine. It’s small and warm and pleasant, and I tighten my grip without really thinking about it. I feel the heat from her body as she scoots closer to me, her shoulder pressing against mine. She still smells like flowers.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly.

I shrug, but the movement is sort of jerky. I try to stifle the anger I feel. “Nothing I can do about it,” I say, rubbing my thumb absently over the back of her hand.

“Maybe not,” she says, her voice still quiet. “But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

She’s right. And in the darkness, I have the sudden sensation—as illogical as it is—that this room could be not tiny but instead infinitely large, ready to consume us, and her hand feels like it could be all that’s anchoring me to the ground. I squeeze her hand more tightly, and she doesn’t object.

I feel her moving next to me, and then I feel something on my arm, on my shoulder; she’s rested her head there, and I almost smile when I realize it. The darkness has made her bold. She would never do this if she could see me. Of course, I wouldn’t be holding her hand, either. It’s nothing romantic, I’m sure; it just feels like a means of connection, something we probably both crave in a place this creepy.

I let my head rest against her own, and she snuggles in. It’s sort of cute. “You smell good,” I say without thinking.

“So do you. I keep your cologne in my room, you know.” She’s quiet for the briefest second before she says, “Not because it’s yours.” I can practically hear her face turning red. “And not a bottle. Just the cards from whenever I’m in the department store. It’s a calming scent.”

I grin. “Go on—you can tell me. You have a poster of me above your bed, don’t you? You have my face plastered all over your walls.”

“Absolutely,” she says, her voice dry now. “You got me.” She pauses, and I can sense her hesitation. “Actually, though, I did have a thing for you when we were kids. You were always nice to me.”

I turn to look at her before I realize that I can’t see anything. “Really? I just thought you were born in love with Jack.”

“I can hear you wearing that stupid grin,” she says. “Stop it.”

She’s right. ‘That stupid grin’ grows wider. “Look at you. Baby Mina crushing on baby Cohen.”

I feel her shrug. “Yeah, well.” She swallows; I can hear it.

“My face wasn’t off-putting?” I say, interested to hear her answer.

I feel her shrug. “I didn’t really pay attention to that,” she says, and her voice is odd. “I actually sort of thought you were cute. You still are.”

She’s obviously lying. We’re quiet for a second, but the space between us has changed; there’s some sort of tension that wasn’t present a minute ago. “As your mentor—”

She groans. “Not this again.”

“As your mentor,” I say, more loudly this time to drown out her protests, “I can admit that you, too, are…” What word am I looking for?

“Dressed like a skeleton?” she says.

“Beautiful,” I finally say. “You’re beautiful.” I frown, more at myself than at her. “And I never realized it. That’s been sort of weird for me. I feel kind of like a completely shallow idiot.”

We’ve strayedwellinto the territory of things I would never say if I could see her—and things I will probably never admit I’ve said—but strangely, I don’t mind. This situation almost doesn’t even feel real.

“You’re not an idiot,” Mina says. “I didn’t realize it either. I mean, I wouldn’t say beautiful, but it’s sort of like one of those teen movies where the girl takes off her glasses and is suddenly gorgeous. Only I keep my glasses on.”

“Andtibiahonest, you’re still pretty.”

There’s a second of silence, and then she’s laughing. I can’t help it; I smile. I knew that would get her.

“You said ‘beautiful’ before,” she says, and I can hear her smile lingering. “And now I will accept nothing less.”

I ignore my sudden and strange impulse to bring the back of her hand to my lips and kiss it. “Duly noted,” I say.

There’s more silence, and I’m aware of every millisecond of it. I hear every breath she takes, am aware of tiny twitch of her hand. Among her floral scent, some sort of clean smell lingers. That might be shampoo or something. Did she take her hood off?

“We’re holding hands,” she says out of nowhere. Her words are quiet.

I hesitate before answering. “Yeah,” I say. It comes out sounding awkwardly strangled. My awareness of her hand in mine is suddenly increased tenfold.

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