Page 75 of Eye of the Beholder

“I’m sorry you’re not feeling well,” Jack says, leading me up to my front door with his hand on the small of my back.

“I’m sure I’ll be better soon,” I say, embracing every drop of guilt I feel at lying, because I deserve to feel miserable right now. “Thank you so much for the evening.”

“Of course,” Jack says, smiling warmly at me. “I’d like to take you out again sometime, if you’re interested.”

Gah. What do I say? What do I say to that?

“I’ll look at my schedule,” I say, smiling. It’s the best I’ve got. Not quite an acceptance, but not rude.

Jack nods. He leans in and kisses me on the cheek, which is a relief, because I was so frozen in place that if he’d gone for my lips I wouldn’t have moved. Then he gives me a smile, wishes me goodnight, and waves over his shoulder.

I go inside, close the door behind me, and lean back against it gratefully, fighting the tears. I have to be going insane; I’ve cried more this week than I have in a long time.

A bit more won’t hurt, I guess. I let the tears come.

23

Mina

Idon’t see or hear from Cohen at all the next week.

I mean, I see him in the cafeteria at lunch. But our gazes brush over each other and then dart away again. When he and Lydia go to their grandparents’ for Thanksgiving, I don’t even see them going in and out of their house, and I’m grateful. I want to call him, to demand to know what’s going on, but I can’t. Because as much as it seems Cohen needs space from me, I need that space, too. I need to get my head on straight.

Lydia can tell something is weird, but when I tell her it’s hard to explain and that I don’t want to talk about it, she drops it. She’s honestly an angel of a human being.

Jack asks me to go to a movie with him over Thanksgiving break, and I say yes, hoping to relocate my feelings for him. Because he genuinely is so nice. I was just distracted on our last date. It will be good to spend time with him again.

It’s an action movie, which is not my thing, but it’s better than a romantic movie. When I jump at an explosion, he puts his hand on my knee and leaves it there for the rest of the movie. He looks tentatively at me when he does it, which is sweet. I don’t shy away, but I can’t bring myself to reciprocate in any way.

But it’s not that I don’t have feelings for him anymore. I have to. I do! He still makes my pulse flutter. But it’s different from how it used to be, and I don’t know what to make of that. That feeling used to make me jittery; it used to make me eager to act, somehow, even if I was too scared to. Now that feeling makes me freeze in place. It’s hard to explain.

He’s nice. And he asks me questions about myself; he doesn’t dominate the conversation. And he’s funny. He doesn’t seem to be terribly intellectual—not dumb or anything, just not interested in things like books (he says he’s not a big reader, which I fundamentally do not understand)—but he’s sweet. And when I blunder my way through an attempted conversation about football, he only looks mildly confused at how clueless I am.

When he takes me home from the movie, he gives me a warm hug, and I step into it. He smells like Irish Springs soap, and it’s a nice scent. His arms are strong around me, and when we step apart, he’s smiling. He’s great.

But I miss Cohen.

This hits me especially hard when I see my college pamphlet as I’m flipping absently through my planner—for no reason at all, I might add, except that it’s something to do. And I finally decide to take Cohen’s advice.

I’m going to apply.

Because Cohen is right; not applying is something I would regret. Even if I just apply and then decide not to go. I don’t know why I requested a paper application, because it will take significantly less time to do online, but I’m glad I did; the application was like a little reminder so that it didn’t slip my mind.

I take a deep breath, and then another, and then another as I work my way through the application. I almost use my embarrassing email address on accident—the one I made in seventh grade and never got rid of. Luckily I catch that before turning in the application. I don’t know what the university would think about getting an application from FlowerPowerGurl34543, but my guess is it wouldn’t be impressive.

When December shows up a week later, I finally feel like I need to call Cohen, because he’s taking the ACT soon and I want to make sure he’s ready.

The day is sunny, but it just feels overcast to me as I wait for Cohen to answer his phone. I don’t even know if he will. I realize with a start that I’m standing next to my window, looking across to his. His blinds are closed, but I don’t move.

“Hi,” he says, just when I’ve decided he’s not going to answer.

“Hi,” I say back. We’re silent for a second. Then I say, “Did you have a good Thanksgiving?”

“It was fine,” he says, and I imagine him shrugging. “Ate too much.”

“How were the mashed potatoes?” I say. He loves mashed potatoes.

“Not chunky enough,” he says. “But still good.”

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