***
We usually text throughout the day, but I don’t hear from Cohen at all on Friday. I don’t talk to him, either. I can’t say why. I don’t know. All I know is that the image of Cohen kissing some faceless girl makes me want to vomit, and the thought of going out with Jack is almost as upsetting.
My introspective side has a pretty good idea what this means, but I’m still living comfortably in denial, because I don’t want to think about that right now. I’m going out with Jack. That’s that.
“Is there any way I could borrow a dress?” I say to Lydia at lunch. “I’m going out with Jack tonight at six. Cohen says the restaurant is nice.”
Lydia eyes me, and I can’t quite meet her eye, so I stare at my sandwich instead.
“You don’t seem excited,” she says, her voice gentle. “Are you okay?”
“Yep,” I say. “I’m just tired.”
She’s quiet for a second. “All right,” she says, but she sounds unconvinced. “Well, I have a dress you can borrow. Come over tonight at five and I’ll help you get ready.”
I hesitate.
“I think Cohen will still be at practice,” she says, as if she knows what I’m thinking.
“Oh,” I say, relief flooding me. “Okay. Thanks, Lydia.”
The day somehow goes both slowly and quickly at the same time. That night when I show up at her house, Lydia is back to her normal chipper self. I think I like her better this way. Earlier she was a little too observant for my comfort.
“Come see the dress,” she says, smiling at me, and I smile back.
“Thanks for helping,” I say as I follow her up the stairs. I can’t help sneaking a glance at Cohen’s bedroom over my shoulder as I go into Lydia’s room; sure enough, the door is open and the light is off. He’s not home.
Lydia pulls open her closet and rummages around for a second. “Here,” she says, pulling something out. She holds it up. It’s a classic little black dress, but I can’t tell much more than that when it’s on the hanger.
“It’s pretty short on me, but I’m taller than you; I think you’ll be comfortable with the length,” she says. She pulls it off the hanger. “Try it on. I’ll turn around.”
I shimmy into the dress, and Lydia’s right; it hits just above my knees, which I’m okay with. It fits snugly to my body, and the sleeves flutter loosely over my shoulders. The neckline scoops low, but not so low that anything is hanging out. It’s perfect, really.
“It’s great,” I say, and Lydia turns around. She claps her hands together.
“Excellent,” she says, beaming at me. “Now, come on. Hair and makeup. Oh, and jewelry. And shoes!” she says. “We have to hurry. I have so much fairy-godmothering to do!”
She somehow does in forty minutes what it would take me hours to do with my hair and my face. She seems to have mastered the smoky eye, a look I’ve always loved but have never tried. She straightens my hair until it’s straighter than it’s ever been. Then she digs through her closet and takes out two pairs of shoes—both black, both sky-high, both gorgeous.
“See if either of these fit you.”
It turns out that Lydia’s feet are bigger than mine, but one of the pairs of shoes fits me at least well enough to wear out. I practice walking in them a few times until she’s satisfied that they’re not going to fall off my feet.
“You are a babe,” Lydia says when she stands back and surveys her handiwork. “Oh!” she says. “I forgot. Here.” She runs to her vanity, digs through a little pink jewelry box, and then runs back to me with a pair of silver hoop earrings. I put them on.
“Perfect,” Lydia says with a happy sigh.
And I wouldn’t say perfect, but I am willing to admit I’ve never looked this good.
I’m just about to express my most heartfelt thanks—because if I tried to do any of this on my own, it would have been a disaster—when I hear the stairs creaking.
“Oh,” Lydia says, looking over my shoulder and into the hallway. “Cohen must be home.”
I freeze. He can’t see me like this. I don’t know why; I just know that he can’t.
But it’s too late for me to hide; he comes lumbering down the hall. He shoots a look into Lydia’s room, looks away, and then looks back at us again. He stops in his tracks and turns to face us. He comes into Lydia’s room slowly—and completely uninvited, I might add—just staring at me. His hair is wet, like he’s just showered, and he looks exhausted.
I watch him take me in, his eyes traveling slowly from my head to my feet and then back again. Then, to my surprise, I see him turn to Lydia and glare at her. She looks back innocently and shrugs. “She needed to borrow a dress.”
I track their exchange with confusion, but that all flees my mind when Cohen turns his gaze back to me. He approaches me slowly, his eyes searching my face. He reaches out and touches my hair, and I freeze. Then he places his hands gently on my shoulders. He leans in until his lips are by my ear.
“If you’re going out with Jack, I think our mentoring has done its job.” He pauses. “Your last lesson…he might try to kiss you,” Cohen says, his voice barely more than a whisper, his breath hot against my skin. His hands are still on my shoulders, and his thumbs are rubbing lightly over my collarbone. Does he realize he’s doing that? It’s incredibly distracting, reducing my insides to a jittery, frenetic energy. “Don’t let him. Make him work for it.”
I don’t know what to do or say, so I just nod. Cohen doesn’t move; he just lingers, and I can’t be sure, but I think his lips brush my ear. After a second he steps back, lets his arms drop, and nods curtly at me. He shoots another glare at Lydia and then leaves us. He goes to his room, closing the door forcefully behind him.
I look at Lydia, but she’s watching Cohen’s now-closed door with a very un-Lydia-like expression of triumph and smugness.
“Um,” I say, and she looks back to me. “I should go,” I say. My voice is shaky. “Jack will come to pick me up in a bit.”
“Right,” Lydia says, shooing me out of her room. “Well, you’re beautiful. Tonight will be fun. Just relax and be yourself.”
Hah. Relax. That’s cute.
I thank her profusely—again—and then make my way back to my house. My mom fusses over how beautiful I am, and even though I try my hardest to convince her she doesn’t need to meet my date, she’s not having any of it.
When the doorbell rings, I open it, and everything seems to be happening very surreally. It’s Jack, obviously—who else would it be?—and he looks gorgeous as always. His smile brings out the dimple I love, and his hair is neatly combed.
“Hi,” I say, smiling at him. Is this really happening? Am I really going on a date with Jack Freeman?
“Hey,” he says, his eyes sweeping over me. “You look amazing.”
“Thank you,” I say. “Um”—I step back, gesturing at my mom—“this is my mom.”
“Hi,” Jack says, stepping forward and shaking my mom’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“It’s nice to meet you too, Jack,” she says, sweeping her golden hair behind her ear as she smiles at him. “Mina’s so excited to go out with you. Have fun, sweetheart,” my mom says, kissing me on the cheek.
“Who’s at the door?” says my dad, rounding the corner.
Oh, let me die now.
“Mina’s date?” my dad says to my mom, who nods.
“Hi,” Jack says, holding out his hand again.
My dad shuffles further into the room, shaking Jack’s hand. I’m pleased to see that he’s nicer to Jack than he ever was to any of Ruby’s dates.
Jack grins and meets my eyes again as my parents go back into the living room. “Are you ready?”
“Yeah,” I say. And then, out of nowhere, I add, “I do need to be home by ten, though. I’ve got a lot of stuff I need to get done.”
“Oh,” he says, looking slightly disappointed, but then he smiles. “That’s fine. I’ll have you back by ten.”
He offers me his arm, li
ke some regency gentleman, and my heels click on the sidewalk as we go to his car, my mind reeling the whole time.
What’s wrong with me? I don’t need to be home by ten. I don’t have things to do. I mean, I’m halfway through a book, but—
“Mina?” Jack says, looking concerned as we get in the car.
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.
“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
I don’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 i
t’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.”
“Good,” I say. My voice sounds faint. “Um, you’re taking your ACT soon. I just wanted to know if you’re ready.”
“I could probably stand to do some punctuation review,” he says. “I sent in my college applications, but I’ll update them with the better scores.” He hesitates. Then he says, “Do you want to quiz me later?”
“Yes,” I say before I even think about it. I sound entirely too eager. “I mean, yeah. I can do that tonight.” This time I sound appropriately casual.
Eye of the Beholder (Stone Springs Book 1) Page 18