Page 58 of Eye of the Beholder

Cohen eyes them for a second, probably noticing how they’re blindingly pale. “Yep,” he says, his voice light. Then he turns his gaze back out the window.

I close my eyes and lean my head back. I feel better being here with him. I don’t know what’s wrong—something with his dad, if I had to guess—but sometimes just having someone there can help. If he wants me here, I’m not leaving.

We sit in silence for a while. Maybe fifteen minutes later, I feel a tap on my arm, and I open my eyes. Cohen is holding the papers that were on his lap, passing them to me. I take them wordlessly and open the first one.

It’s a letter from his dad.

And it’s hard to read. Not because it’s poorly written but because of what it says. The beginning talks about the upcoming wedding. He asks Cohen to come—good luck with that—and tells him about his fiancée. But then his dad moves on to talk about why things didn’t work between him and Cohen’s mom. They’ll always be friends, but they just don’t love each other anymore, they have trouble working together, and so on—it’s well intentioned, I can tell, and it sounds like his dad just wants to explain, but I can immediately understand where Cohen’s mood is coming from. No one wants to hear why their parents’ marriage fell apart.

I tuck that letter into one of the drink holders and then open the second one. It’s nothing more than a piece of paper folded around the wedding invitation. I look at it. Mr. Alexander looks the same as ever. His fiancée—Linda, according to the invite—is beautiful and young. They look happy. I check the paper that was folded over the invitation. Two words: “Please come.”

I put that letter next to the drink holder and shift my body to face Cohen better, pulling my legs down from the dash and folding them under me in the seat. Cohen looks at me.

“Are these the ones from your desk?” I say, running my fingers through my hair. It’s still tangled from being down and in that hood all evening.

Cohen watches me, his eyes following my hands as they move, and he nods.

“When did you read them?”

“A while ago, actually,” he says, sounding tired. “And then I put them in here and tried to forget about them.”

“But you just found them again,” I say, understanding.

He just nods.

“Are you going to go?” I say, keeping my voice carefully neutral.

His eyes come back to mine. “Of course not. I don’t want to see that. She has to be twenty years younger than him.” He shakes his head.

“What about Ian?” I say, mostly thinking out loud. “Do you think he’ll come?”

“I doubt it. He doesn’t live anywhere near here, and he works a lot.”

“And Lydia?”

I sigh. “Yeah, she’s going. She doesn’t seem to have much of a problem with all this. She doesn’t love it, but she’s okay.” He pauses. Then he says, “We didn’t deserve this. And you talk about forgiveness, Mina, but how do you forgive something like this? When people get married, they stay married. They work as hard as they have to to make it work.”

There’s no anger in his voice. Just hurt.

“I don’t have the answers you’re looking for,” I say, my voice soft. “I wish I did, but I don’t. Idoknow that bad things happen to good people all the time, Cohen. And it sucks. What happened with your parents?” I say gently. “It hurts. And that hurt is totally valid and completely understandable. They split, and now your dad is moving on.”

“Get to the point,” Cohen says, his voice a growl.

“But this anger you’re carrying around? It’s going to drown you in misery.” I hesitate. “What’s making you angry? At the root of the issue, what is it that makes you the angriest?”

Cohen heaves a sigh, his jaw clenching. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do,” I say. I hope I’m not pressing the issue too much.

“Fine,” he says, not looking at me. “I’m angry that he gave up. I’m angry that we weren’t incentive enough for him to keep trying to make things work.”

And there it is. My heart breaks for him. I want to take his hand in mine, but I don’t.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “But he does love you. I know he does. And situations like this aren’t as black and white as they seem. They never are. But these things can also make you stronger. Find your source of strength, and rely on that strength. For me, that strength is God. Find your strength. Lean on it. You’ll come out of this stronger.”

Cohen finally looks at me, his expression unreadable as it flits over my face. “Why are you like this?” he finally says.

I blink in surprise. “Like what?”

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