Page 93 of Eye of the Beholder

He was right. The way I was kissing him—the wayhewas kissingme—it felt real. It wasn’t; I know that. But…itfeltreal. And I like that it felt real. So, no; I can’t work things out with Jack.

Wow. I’m really doing this. Nerves bubble in the pit of my stomach.

When Jack answers, his voice is the slightest bit irritated. That’s understandable. I bolted from his party without so much as a goodbye.

“What?” he says, sounding tired now.

I swallow. I have to tell him, but that doesn’t mean I’m excited about it. “I kissed Cohen,” I say, the words pouring out in a rush. “And I’m sorry, Jack. I really am. I shouldn’t have. But I don’t think—” I begin, but I stop. I clear my throat and try again, less timidly this time. “I don’t feel that way about you. I don’t think we should go to the dance together. Or see each other anymore,” I add.

Jack sighs. “Agreed,” he says. I’m not surprised, and even though I have no right to feel this way, a tiny part of me is hurt by how resolute his agreement is.

“Right,” I say. “Well…bye.”

“Bye,” Jack says.

And that’s that. It feels sort of surreal, and strangely anticlimactic. I wish I had a way to commemorate this moment; a way to remember the life milestone of breaking up with your first boyfriend.

Regardless, it doesn’t matter. I push it out of my mind, because it’s done, and I honestly don’t regret it. Then I shove everything about Cohen and that kiss into a little compartment in my mind. Because how do I handle the shift in our relationship? Last night I just blurted out the first thing I could think of, but it worked okay. We both seemed able to save face enough to say goodbye. Do I just pretend it didn’t happen?

I have no idea. So, like I said, I’m pushing Cohen and the kiss—theamazingkiss—into the corner of my brain until I’m forced to deal with them.

Immature? Yes. Undoubtedly. But let’s just call it self-preservation.

I have to work on New Years’ Day. It sucks, but it’s one of the downsides to floristry; you have to work most holidays. I managed to avoid Christmas—and endless pots of poinsettias—so I really should be grateful.

And I am, in a way. Mindless work with flowers and customers takes my brain away from places I don’t want it to go. And New Year’s isn’t nearly as bad as something like Mother’s Day, or, heaven forbid, Valentine’s Day. Valentine’s Day is just one big party of red roses. Mother’s Day is better; the flowers are more varied and much more colorful. But both of those holidays involve tons of customers. New Year’s isn’t as terrible. Plus, now that it’s January, I can start getting really excited for my meteor shower. I’ve been excited for months, but it’s different when you actually get close.

Shana and I end up prowling restlessly behind the counter for a few hours. She delves into her stash of mystery novels after telling me about her New Year’s Resolution (to exercise twice a week). When she asks if I have a resolution, I don’t know what to say. I had a resolution, even if it didn’t line up with New Year’s, but everything is muddled in my brain right now. Have I been stepping outside my comfort zone? Yes. Definitely. And I have been speaking my mind, I guess. I’m trying to remember my worth.

But those things are personal. So instead of answering her, I end up tugging at the fraying hem of my apron while my mind whirs. I help people whenever they come in, but I’m fully aware that I’m not devoting as much of myself to the job as I usually do.

I’m choosing to blame that squarely on Cohen.

I have about an hour left at work when Lydia bursts through the front door of the shop, sending the bell jingling loudly.

“Oh,” I say, surprised. “Hi, Lydia. Do you need flowers?”

“No,” she says, wearing a determined expression that makes me a little nervous. “I need to know what happened last night.”

Nope. Nope, nope, nope. Not opening that box.

“Well, I’m sort of busy right now,” I say.

Lydia casts a sarcastic eye around the shop, which is totally empty.

I sigh. “I can only talk until customers come in.”

Now she looks at the clock, which displays that there are thirty minutes left until closing. “No one buys flowers at eight at night.”

“Fine,” I say. My voice is snappier than I’d like it to be. “But I don’thaveto tell you everything. Some things are private.”

At this point, Shana looks up from her book. “I’m just going to go in back,” she says, her expression disconcerted. “Let you guys sort out your business.”

When Shana and her book have gone through the swinging door, I look at Lydia. “Some things are private,” I say again.

“Normally I’d agree,” Lydia says, completely breaking the rule about customers being behind the counter as she comes back and sits on the stool next to mine. “But Cohen came home at 12:30 last night, drenched in sweat and totally out of breath, looking panicked and miserable. I asked him what was wrong, but he wouldn’t tell me. He went in his room and called someone”—I assume Lydia knows this because she eavesdropped—“and said something muffled about being sorry for something, and then he just went to bed. Without taking a shower, which is so gross. So what happened? What did you do to him?”

I forget myself momentarily and tilt my head as I study Lydia’s impassioned face. I never thought she’d be the disloyal type, but I guess I hadn’t pictured her as the hunt-down-the-one-who-did-you-wrong type, either.

---