Page 74 of Eye of the Beholder

Dang it. “Sorry, what?” I say. “I’m sorry. I’m so tired.” I try to smile at him, and he smiles back.

“It’s okay,” he says, turning the car on. “School is rough. I’m exhausted all the time, too. How is your year going?”

We make small talk about school all the way to the restaurant. And it’s like I thought—Jack is nice. He’s really nice.

“I’ve been wanting to ask you out for a bit,” he says as we pull into the restaurant parking lot.

My mind flits to his conversation with Cohen, but I don’t mention that. I don’t want him to know he was on speaker. “Really?” I say.

“Yeah,” he says. Then he looks at me. “You’re really gorgeous, you know that?”

“Gorgeous” is better than “hot” by a long shot, but somehow it doesn’t feel as sincere as when Cohen just used the word “hot.”

I need to stop thinking about Cohen.

Jack’s voice is more gentle with me than it was when he was talking to Cohen, but my guess is that it’s a guy thing. He’s trying to impress a girl rather than talking with his dude/bro/man friend. He’s nice, though.

After we park, we go in and are seated. I don’t know how I feel about the fact that Jack is taking me where he always takes dates, but he did make reservations, which is a point in his favor. He also pulls out my chair for me, which is another point.

“So tell me about yourself,” he says, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the table.

“Oh,” I say, watching him. “Well, I was born and raised here.”

“So you’ve always gone to our school,” he says, and my cheeks burn.

“Yeah,” I say, taking a drink of my water.

“But how did I never notice you?” he says. He gestures at me, grinning. “Have you always looked like this?”

“No,” I say. I think it works out to a compliment, but somehow his words feel slightly insulting. “I’m just really quiet,” I say. I sound more defensive than I should.

He laughs. “I’m glad I’m getting the chance to spend more time with you.”

My face relaxes into a smile. “Me too.”

We continue to talk, but my insides twist with discomfort as I realize there is only one person on my mind right now, and it’s not the guy sitting next to me ordering fettuccini alfredo.

Which is bad.

Not the fettuccini alfredo—I order that too, and it’s incredible. No, the bad part is that all I can think about is Cohen’s hands on my shoulders, his voice in my ear, the utter exhaustion on his face that made me want to tuck him in and force him to get some sleep.

And Cohen was right about this restaurant; it’s nice. The lights are low, and there’s some sort of fancy opera music playing quietly in the background. There are white tablecloths and candles on all the tables, and the chair I’m sitting in has a comfortable cushion. The whole thing is very romantic. I guess Cohen knows that because he’s probably brought girls here too.

Ugh. The uncomfortable feeling in my gut worsens. This is wrong. This is all wrong.

“You know what?” I say, interrupting Jack in the middle of what is possibly a very funny story. “I’m so sorry, Jack. I actually am not feeling very good.”

It’s not technically a lie. I feel awful. I have a headache.

But mostly I have a lot of unexpected emotional baggage that’s trying to force its way out in the form of tears. Why is this happening? When I talked to Jack at lunch, I felt butterflies fluttering in my stomach. Just him and Cohen standing there made me feel it. Our conversation made me a little awkward, but that was just because it was our first time really talking like that. What’s wrong with me?

Jack looks at me, concern etched all over his face. “Do you want me to take you home?” he says. There’s a little crease in his forehead from his frown.

I nod. “Yes, please,” I say, feeling grateful. “I’m so sorry. This has been fun, though, and the food is incredible.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Jack says, nodding. “This place is one of my favorites.”

After Jack pays for our meal, he takes me home. All I can think about now is Cohen’s advice that I don’t let Jack kiss me, and I sincerely hope it doesn’t come to that.

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