“Two,” I say.
“Two?” he says, frowning.
“Two chocolate bars.” I take the one he’s offering, and he looks startled as I snatch it out of his hands. “You can give me another one tomorrow. And yes, if you insist, you may make it king size.”
He looks at me for a second and then starts to laugh. He holds up his hands as if in surrender. “A king-sized chocolate bar will come your way tomorrow. Now,” he says, gesturing to his bed. “Football.”
He sits cross-legged in the middle of his bed and puts the laptop down in front of him. I settle next to him, unwrapping the candy bar.
He eyes it. “Are you going to share any of that?”
I snort. “Definitely not. Get your own.”
“I’m giving my next one to you, apparently.”
“So generous. But you’ll be okay. Suffering builds character.”
He grins and turns back to the computer screen, pointing at it. “All right. Football. I couldn’t decide how to teach you about this, but I finally decided to just show you a game so you can see it play out. It’s really pretty simple…”
And then he starts talking. And he goes on. And on, and on, and on.
Football is not simple. It is not interesting. It is not fun to watch. It is none of the above.
“So, see here,” Cohen says a while later, pointing enthusiastically to the slowed-down play-by-play he’s got up. “Here he passes to—Mina?”
“Huh?” I say, shaking myself. Oops—were my eyes closing? I think they might have been. “Right,” I say quickly. “He’s…passing? To…someone.”
Cohen folds his arms across his chest. It does excellent things for his biceps. I try not to notice, because I’m already going against my better judgment in the name of chocolate, and I don’t want to perpetuate anymore female stereotypes today.
“You’re not paying attention,” he says, narrowing his eyes at me.
“I am,” I say. And…I sort of am. “The red team wants to get the ball there.” I point to the screen. “And the blue team is trying to stop them. And then the blue team will get the ball, and they’ll try to get it to the other side, and the red team will try to stop them.”
I glance at Cohen, who’s watching me with a pained expression.
“Well, it’s not the most fascinating thing in the world,” I say, feeling defensive.
And I’m surprised to see Cohen’s face fall. He runs his hands through his dark-blond hair. “I’m not doing a very good job at explaining it.”
Then it hits me: it’s not about the football. He’s trying to teach me something, to see if he’s any good at teaching. And I’m just blowing him off.
“No,” I say quickly. “You’re doing great. Just go back a little. I was confused by that last part.” And by “that last part” I mean the whole thing, but I don’t tell him that. Because the most gifted professor on this planet could explain football to me, and it would still not go over well. I just don’t care about football. But for Cohen’s sake, I’ll try.
This time around, I actually pay attention. I won’t say it magically becomes interesting, because everyone knows that’s not going to happen. But I start to get it a little better. I ask a lot of questions, because this terminology is not at all intuitive.
“The pocket?” I say a minute later, looking at Cohen. “What’s a pocket?”
Cohen pauses the video. “Here,” he says, pointing to the quarterback. “Where the quarterback starts.”
“Right.” This is so boring. So, so boring. But it’s cute to see Cohen so excited—that part is fun. “Okay, keep going.”
We don’t watch a full game—because heaven has mercy on me—but by the time Cohen deems me passably informed, I feel like we’ve watched twenty.
“See?” he says, shutting his laptop and stretching out his long legs. “Now you can talk to Jack about football.”
“I can,” I say. “Thank you.” I scoot off his bed and stand. My legs are both asleep.
“Sure,” he says, smiling at me, and he looks really happy.
He looks so happy, in fact, that I can’t help but smile back. “Well, I’m going to go learn how to flirt,” I say. “Are you coming?”
“Eh,” he says, waving his hand and opening his laptop again. “I’ll be down in a bit.”
I shrug. “Wish me luck.”
He salutes, and with that I leave his room.
20
Mina
“Flirting can’t be worse than football,” I say under my breath as I descend the stairs. “Flirting can’t be worse than football.”
And what a ridiculous thing for Cohen to say, that I’ve been flirting with him. I have not. I would know. Wouldn’t I? I would know if I were flirting with someone.
Right?
I stop with my foot on the bottom step. I hesitate for just a second, debating, and then I turn around and go right back up the stairs.
I go down the hall and knock on Cohen’s bedroom door. When he tells me to come in, I stick my head in. He’s still seated on his bed, and I hear the sounds of the football game I thankfully did not have to finish watching. He looks surprised to see me and pauses the game.
“Have I really been flirting with you?” I say. Maybe he was teasing when he said that.
A knowing smile crosses his face. “Yes.”
“But wouldn’t I know if I were flirting?” I say, feeling a bit desperate now. “I mean, isn’t that something you have to do on purpose?”
Cohen shrugs, looking at me curiously as he vaguely runs one thumb over the scar on his lip. “I don’t think so. I think it just happens. You’ll have to ask Lydia.”
“When have I flirted?” I say. “I really don’t mean to.”
“Thank you for going out of your way to tell me you have no interest in flirting with me,” he says, his voice dry.
I feel my face redden. “I—that’s not what I—”
“I know,” he says, his smile easy, his voice light. “I’m just giving you a hard time. Don’t worry about it, Mina. Some people just interact flirtatiously. The banter and all that. I know it doesn’t mean anything.” He looks back at his computer screen.
“Oh,” I say. “Okay. Good.”
Except it doesn’t feel good. My heart sinks as I pull my head back out of his room and close the door again.
My introspective side takes over my brain and has a field day with possible implications of these feelings, but I shut it off. I don’t want to go there.
I enter the kitchen, where Lydia is sitting at the table doing homework.
“Hi,” she says, looking up at me. “Are you ready?”
No.
“Yeah,” I say. “I think so.”
“Oh, it will be fine, Mina,” Lydia says. She must be able to see my hesitance.
“That’s what Cohen said too,” I say. I sigh. “But he says I flirt with him.”
Lydia nods, eyeing me critically. “You do. He flirts with you, too. But some people are just like that.”
“He said that too,” I say, sitting in one of the kitchen chairs.
“Well, he’s bound to be right some of the time,” Lydia says with a smile. “All right, I want to go over the basics of flirting. It’s like I said—it’s a rhythm. You know how to do it—everyone does. First: eye contact. Eye contact establishes a connection. Think about it; if you’re with a guy who won’t look at you, you’re not going to be interested.”
“Eye contact,” I say, nodding. “That’s…scary.” For a brief second I feel a jolt of nervousness at the thought of letting someone get a solid good look at my different-colored eyes, but I push it away. Cohen and Lydia both like my eyes. I’ll try to like them too.
“You can do it!” Lydia says, looking enthusiastic. “You really can. We’ll practice.”
“Okay,” I say, feeling nervous. “What next?”
“Compliments, and preferably early on.” Lydia leans forward in her chair. “Compliments let him know you’re interested. They
can signal the direction of the conversation. They don’t have to be extravagant. Simple works. Compliment his shirt or his hair or something.”
“Compliments. Okay.” But how do I compliment someone without it being awkward?
“The key to compliments is confidence,” Lydia says, as though she can hear exactly what I’m thinking. “Be confident when you speak. If you act like you think complimenting him is weird, he’s going to feel weird receiving the compliment. If you act like it’s natural, it won’t faze him.”
“Right,” I say, my nervousness increasing. My eyes drift vaguely over the tile floor as I try to imagine complimenting Cohen. What would I even say?
No, not Cohen—Jack. Complimenting Jack.
“Next,” Lydia says, and I pull my eyes back to her. “Touch. Not weird touch,” she says, holding up a hand to ward off my protests. “Subtle touch. You’re not feeling him up.” She touches my arm lightly. “Something like this. See? It’s not weird, is it?”
“No,” I admit. “It seems natural.”
“Exactly,” Lydia says. “It is. It’s not too much, but it still lets him know you’re interested. If he’s interested too, that gives him something to work with.”
“And what if he’s not interested?” I say.
Lydia shrugs and scoots back her chair. She stands. “Then you’ll get over it.” She goes to the refrigerator. “Do you want something to drink?”
“No, thanks,” I say.
She pours a glass of juice, takes a drink, and then says, “And then just be sure to smile a lot. You don’t have to fake it, but if you like him, you’ll probably be smiling anyway. Just don’t hide it. Guys like to see that they make you smile. Oh,” she says, “and ask a guy about himself. People love to talk about themselves. Got it all?”
The honest answer is no, but I’m not about to say that. And I’ve got most of it; it’s confidence more than anything that I’m lacking. And I figure I can just fake that. That’s what I’ve been trying to do, as per Cohen’s instructions.
“I think so,” I say instead, tapping my hands nervously on the table in front of me.
“Great,” Lydia says with a nod. “Let’s practice.”
“I’m not sure I can flirt with you,” I say, frowning slightly.
Lydia waves this away with a casual hand. “No, not me. Cohen. Cohen!” she calls loudly before I can protest.
Then she looks at me. “What do you like about Cohen?”
I smile. There are a lot of things.
“I don’t know,” I say instead.
“Well, do you think he’s cute?” Lydia says, sounding like a patient kindergarten teacher.
I really do. “Yeah.”
“Great. What do you think is cute? What do you find attractive?”
Confidence. Sense of humor. Eyes. Jaw. Hair. Muscles.
“I don’t know,” I say.
Lydia gives a long-suffering sigh. “Work with me, Mina. I’m not going to tell him what you say, and it’s not weird for me to hear even though I’m his sister.” She smiles slightly. “What do you think is cute? You need a good compliment.”
“He has nice eyes,” I say, giving in. “And he’s confident. And I sort of want to just touch his jaw.”
Lydia’s mouth quirks. “Given it some thought?” she says, leaning against the kitchen counter.
“I guess I have,” I say, frowning.
It feels sort of strange, confiding in someone like this. I talk to my mom and sisters about boys sometimes, I guess, but other than that it’s not really something I’ve ever done. It’s a good feeling.
“Great,” she says, smiling at me. “So pick one of those. Cohen!” she calls again, more loudly this time. “Come here!”
I hear the distant sound of his answering shout, and a shot of nerves spikes through me. “I don’t know that I can just flirt on command, Lydia. And he’s going to make that stupid smirk face at me.”
“The smug one,” Lydia says, nodding. “Yeah, I know. But you need to practice on someone. Come here, Cohen.”
I whirl around as Cohen enters the kitchen.
“What do you want?” he says. “I was rewatching the game.”
“We’re flirting,” Lydia says, all business. “Mina can’t flirt with me. She needs to practice on you.”
Cohen grins, and I turn to Lydia. “There it is,” I say. “The smug face.”
“I know,” she says. “Cohen, don’t look so pleased with yourself. This isn’t personal. We just need someone to practice with.”
“My pleasure,” he says, settling comfortably in the chair next to mine. His eyes gleam with amusement. “Flirt away.”
“Great. Okay, so remember what we practiced, Mina.” Lydia stands directly behind Cohen. She mouths “eye contact,” and I make eye contact with Cohen.
All right. Eye contact—check. He really does have nice eyes. They’re kind eyes. I’ve heard that said before, but I never really got it until Cohen.
What was next? Oh, right. Compliment. What am I going to compliment him on? He’s still meeting my gaze directly, and it’s starting to make me nervous.
“How was the football game?” I say.
Cohen’s lips quirk at the corner, and he leans back, folding his arms across his chest and looking amused. “The football game was good.”
I swallow. “You must be good at football. Because you have muscles.”
All right, it’s not great. I’m working on it. To be fair, despite what Lydia thinks, I really don’t think flirting is something you can just practice on demand.
Cohen smiles outright. “I do have muscles. And I am good at football.”
“Are you?” I say, interested.
He shrugs modestly, but he’s still smiling. “Yeah, I’m pretty good. And we have a good team.”
“Huh,” I say. “Well, Lydia says friendly physical contact is part of a good flirting technique. So just know that right now I would be casually touching your muscles, but you’re too far away, and it would be very forced.”
Cohen’s smile widens. He pulls up the sleeve of his shirt, flexes his bicep, and scoots his chair closer so that I can feel the heat of his body next to mine. “Here you go.”
I groan. “Are you really flexing? For a girl? You’re better than this. Put that away.” I mean, the muscles are nice. Really nice. But still. That’s the most obnoxious move in the book.
Cohen shrugs, and I can tell he’s close to laughter. “I thought you might want to get in the—what was it? ‘Friendly physical contact’? Do you want to feel or not?”
“Not,” I say, my voice firm. I tug his shirt sleeve back down over the muscle.
“All right. Well, what else is your flirting supposed to entail?” he says, angling his body toward me slightly. He still smells good. How does he smell good all the time?
“Eye contact,” I say.
“Of course,” he says, looking at me and nodding. “What else?”
“Compliments. I’m supposed to compliment you.”
He grins. “And that was the bit about the muscles?”
“Yeah.”
He shakes his head, still smiling. “You can do better. You’re smart enough to do a lot better. Or you can try to make me laugh. You’re funny.”
“I am hilarious,” I say, smiling back at him.
“Hey, what’s this?” he says, touching a scar on my right arm. His touch sends an uninvited squiggle of pleasant nerves into the pit of my stomach. “It looks like it hurt.”
“It did,” I say. “I was…eleven? Twelve, maybe? I—wait a minute.” My eyes widen as I look at him. “You’re flirting with me. The compliment, the touch—you’re flirting!”
He laughs. “I knew you’d get there at some point. You’re overthinking it. Don’t make a list in your head. I know you; that will just stress you out. Just be nice, be sincere, and don’t hold back. If you’re thinking something nice about him, say it. Don’t worry about the rest.” His smile is kind but not patronizing, and his eyes
are warm. For once he’s not teasing. “He’ll think you’re great when he gets to know you. You just have to be bold enough to let him.”
And suddenly I can’t seem to pull my eyes away from his. “Your eyes,” I find myself saying. “I like your eyes.”
He raises one eyebrow. “Yeah?”
I nod. “They’re dark, but up close they have sort of amber flecks in them. And your jaw.” And my hand, completely without my permission, is suddenly outstretched. I touch his jaw, and he stills. His eyes flit to my lips so briefly I can almost believe I’m imagining it. Then they dart back to my own, and they’re guarded now.
My hand is still moving of its own accord. My fingers drift to the scar that runs through his lips, to the little pull that disrupts the shape of his mouth. The scar is raised and white. I can’t take my eyes away, and I can feel his breath on my hand. “Does it ever hurt?” I ask softly.
Cohen doesn’t speak; he just shakes his head slowly. When my eyes go back to his, all I see is pure intensity.
I pull my hand away quickly and stand up, embarrassed. I look around for Lydia to save the day, but she’s mysteriously disappeared.
21
Cohen
I haven’t decided yet if I’m going to kill Lydia or if I’m going to thank her profusely.
As soon as Mina leaves, I barge into Lydia’s room without knocking. She looks up at me from her bed and puts down the book she’s holding. Before I can speak, she jabs one finger at me.
“You like her,” she says, looking triumphant.
“What? No, I don’t,” I say, folding my arms.
“Yes, you do,” she says, smiling. “You do.”
“I don’t,” I say again.
Lydia scoffs, looking completely unconvinced. “Well, there’s something going on with you two. You’d better figure it out if you’re planning on shooing her in Jack’s direction. Because he’s taking notice of her.”
I sit on the edge of her bed. “When did you leave the kitchen?” I say.
She smirks. “Right when she started complimenting your eyes. I figured it was time to make my exit. I knew this would happen, you know,” she says, picking her book back up.
Eye of the Beholder (Stone Springs Book 1) Page 16