I try to hold back a scowl, and I force my voice to be light as I say, “Oh, that’s fine. Have fun.”
“We will,” she says. Is it my imagination, or does she sound disappointed?
When I get home, my mom immediately descends upon me. “Well?” she says, looking anxious. “How was it?”
I shrug as I pry off my boots. “I think it went okay.” I’m only half paying attention; Mina and Jack are still skating through my imagination, looking happy and in love.
“So working with Mina helped?” my mom says.
“Yeah,” I say. I hang my coat on the coat rack and then walk past my mom into the kitchen.
She follows me, her footsteps soft. “Sweetheart? Is something wrong?” She’s using her gentle voice. I hate that one. It always makes me want to confide in her. But I can’t tell her about Mina. What would I even say? There’s nothing to tell. Mina’s ice skating with Jack, and I’m daydreaming about Jack twisting his ankle. Totally normal.
“Nope,” I say. “Just tired.” I open the refrigerator, even though I’m not hungry. I just need something to do.
“All right,” she says, still sounding concerned. “Well, you got mail. It’s on the counter.”
I swing the fridge door closed and turn to the counter to pick up the envelope there. I don’t need to open it to know what it contains, but I open it anyway. How many of these is he going to send?
Always one more, I guess. It’s another wedding invitation from my dad. I can almost paper my room with them by now. This one has a sticky note on it.
“Cohen,” I read under my breath. “I love you. I understand that you’re angry. If you want to come to the wedding, I’d love to see you. If not, I’ll be here when you’re ready to talk to me again. Love, Dad.”
I look at the picture on the invitation. His fiancée is so young. I examine my dad’s face staring blankly up at me from the cardstock. He looks so…happy.
I don’t know how long I just stand there, staring at my dad’s face. I snap out of it when my mom says, “Cohen?”
“Huh?” I say, jerking my head around to look at her. “Sorry. Yeah?”
“Sweetie, what’s going on with you and your father?”
“Nothing is going on.”
“I think that’s the problem,” she says, her voice gentle again. “He loves you, Cohen. And he wants to be part of your life.”
“He left,” I say. But the words aren’t angry this time; they’re just tired. Tired of being angry. Mina was right; it’s making me miserable.
My mom sighs, looking sad and just as tired as I feel. “He did. But that was a decision we both made. We thought it would be better if he left. He didn’t do anything wrong, sweetie. No more than I did.”
“He stopped trying,” I say, my jaw clenching. “He gave up.”
My mom shakes her head. “He did try. We both did. And we eventually decided to move forward without each other. If you’re angry with him about that, you need to be angry with me too. And none of this means he doesn’t love you. It doesn’t even mean he doesn’t love me. We will always be a family—your father, me, Ian, Lydia, and you. We’re just different now. I know you’re angry at him. And that’s okay. But please recognize that he’s trying. He deserves forgiveness. We all do.”
“That’s what Mina says,” I say, and for some reason my mind flashes back to the picture of Jesus in her room. I stare back down at the invitation still clasped in my hand. “I’ll think about it” is all I can say.
25
Mina
When winter break rolls around, everyone is ready for it. I set a rigorous study schedule for myself and stick to it, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still stress about my tests. Senioritis has taken over the senior class, and though I’m not usually one to experience stuff like that, I have to admit that I get the senioritis thing. We’ve already applied to colleges; what’s the point of stressing about tests?
But, because I’m me, I stress anyway. I stress about tests, but I also stress about the winter dance that, as of a few days ago, I am officially attending with Jack. The dance is in January, which means I still have time to find a dress. I’m going to have to take Lydia with me. I don’t tell Cohen that Jack has asked me, but he probably knows.
The weekend that the winter break starts, I hear about a lot of parties. That sounds like a terrible way to spend the first free weekend of break—I prefer my work schedule. Outside of work, I am fully staying home and reading as many books as I can. I’m also doing more research about the upcoming meteor shower, just for fun. It should be incredible, even though it’s a smaller shower. The peak time is only a few hours, so I’ll have to do my best not to miss it.
I might try to hang out with Cohen, although I don’t know what we’ll do; I’m not tutoring him anymore. I guess I’ll probably see Jack too. He’s been hinting about us spending time together, and my feelings about that are oddly confused. We’re going to the dance together though, so I probably should.
On Christmas Eve, Jack gives me a single red rose. We’ve been walking in the snow. I’m freezing, even with a hat and gloves on, and I’m excited to get back inside. But Jack wanted to walk, so we do. When we’ve circled back around to my house, he runs to his car and comes back with the rose. I want to tell him that you really shouldn’t keep fresh flowers just lying in your car, but I don’t. I also don’t tell him that this move isn’t that romantic, considering I’m the one who suggested it in the first place back when he was trying to woo Virginia.
I shiver as the wind whips around me. The weather is spot on for Christmas Eve; it’s less spot on for standing around. But I wait patiently as Jack looks down at me, the little dimple creasing his cheek as he smiles at me. He slowly passes me the rose, and taking it feels significant in some way that makes me uncomfortable.
“You’re gorgeous, Mina,” he says, his smile spreading wider.
I will be less gorgeous if all my fingers fall off from frostbite, but I don’t say that. “Thank you,” I say. I’m suddenly annoyed for a reason I can’t put a name to. Then, before I can think, I say, “What else?”
Jack blinks as a snowflake makes its way to his eyelashes. “What?” he says, looking slightly confused.
“What else?” I repeat. I can’t say why I need the answer to this question, but I do. Maybe it’s stupid. I don’t care. “What else do you like about me?”
Jack laughs, and it’s a warm, genuine sound. “Gorgeous isn’t enough for you?” He steps closer to me, and my heart thrums.
I smile. “Humor me.”
“All right,” he says, returning my smile. “I’ll humor you.” He pauses for a second, thinking. “You’re nice.”
Nice? That’s it? I try not to let my impatience show. “Okay,” I say, my tone indicating for him to go on.
He shrugs. “And you’re beautiful, Mina. You’re not annoying.” He places his hands on my shoulders and tugs me closer, smiling down at me.
Then he kisses me.
It’s a soft kiss; gentle. It’s nice, I guess. His lips aren’t chapped or gross or anything. But for those few seconds, as I’m kissing Jack by the glow of the Christmas lights wrapped around the fence lining my front porch, all I’m thinking about is Cohen.
Which is a problem. The whole kiss is a problem. In several ways.
For one thing, I should not be kissing Jack if I’m thinking about Cohen. And to be fair, I didn’t kiss Jack; he kissed me. But I let it happen. Another problem: Jack doesn’t know me well enough to be kissing me. For some reason I have trouble being myself around him. I mean, I don’t act like Virginia or Marie or any of the other girls he probably hangs around. I’m more real than that, and probably nicer, too. But it’s not easy, spending time with him. It’s stressful. I feel like I’m laughing when I don’t really think things are funny. And I’m constantly worrying about how I look, because he keeps telling me how beautiful he thinks I am.
And that seems to be all he sees. Nice? Not annoying? Those aren’t
the descriptions I’d have picked. As much as I hate to admit it, it hurts that he had to think before he answered my question about what he likes about me.
And there’s another problem with the kiss—the most pressing problem: I don’t know how to kiss. When Jack kisses me I just let him do all the work. I thought it would be more intuitive than it actually is. I thought I’d know what to do when I finally kissed someone. And I thought I’d be more excited about. Instead I just feel a mixture of confusion and weirdness as his lips move over mine.
When we say goodnight—with a kiss that I manage to turn into a quick peck on the lips—I go to my room, exhausted. I want to call Cohen and tell him, but something warns me not to do that. I could call one of my sisters, but they might tell my parents, and I don’t want to have that conversation yet. So I call Lydia instead, because I have to tell someone. Someone needs to witness this moment in my life. Isn’t this supposed to be a big deal? Your first kiss?
“You’re not squealing,” Lydia says immediately, and I can almost picture her frown.
I sit on the edge of my bed, and it’s so comfortable and I’m so tired that I end up lying down completely. Staring at my ceiling, I say, “I didn’t realize I was supposed to squeal.”
“You don’t have to squeal. But…did you like it? Was it a good kiss?”
“I don’t know,” I say, and I can hear how miserable I sound. “I don’t know. I don’t know how to kiss.”
“Practice on the back of your hand,” Lydia says. “Now, was it a good kiss?”
“It was nice.”
“No,” Lydia says. “No. I’m sorry, Mina. But it shouldn’t just be nice. Tell me the truth: Do you really like Jack? Forget for a second that you’ve liked him forever. Forget that you’re going to the winter dance with him. What about right now?”
I watch the blades of my ceiling fan as they blur in their rotation. “I don’t know,” I say. It’s barely a whisper.
“The second he kissed you, what went through your mind?”
Well, I obviously can’t answer that.
But apparently I don’t need to, because Lydia says, “Was it Cohen?” Her voice is gentle and sympathetic.
I swallow past the lump in my throat. “I have to go,” I say instead of answering her question. “My parents are calling for me.”
They’re not.
“Okay,” Lydia says. Her voice is soft. She hesitates, and then she says, “Life is too short to be kissing boys you don’t really want to kiss, Mina. And you never know when someone you do want to kiss will show up. Just remember that.”
“Thanks, Lydia,” I say.
“Of course,” she says. And like the angel she is, I can tell she actually means it. “One last thing,” she adds. “Are you guys exclusive, do you think?”
Oh, gosh; would I even know if we were? Is that a conversation you have?
“I mean, have you talked about it?” Lydia goes on, possibly sensing my confusion.
“No,” I say. “We haven’t talked about it. So…I guess not?”
“All right,” Lydia says, and I picture her nodding to herself. “I was just wondering.”
“I have to go,” I say again.
“You’ll figure things out,” Lydia says softly. I thank her, and we hang up.
She’s so sweet. And somehow that makes me feel even worse. I just feel empty. And it’s Christmas Eve, for goodness’ sake. But there’s a Cohen-shaped hole inside my chest, a hole that’s never been more obvious to me than it is right now, and I don’t know what to do about it.
When did this happen?
I don’t know about Jack. I have no idea how I feel about him. And I don’t even want to think about it. Not right now.
My phone rings, and I jump. My hand flies to my chest, my heart suddenly racing. I give a weak laugh at how ridiculous it is that my phone has managed to scare me out of my wits.
My insides twist when I see that it’s Cohen.
“Hi,” I say. I try to sound normal rather than like I’m staring at my ceiling trying not to cry.
“Hi,” Cohen says, his voice soft. “Lydia says you could use a hug.”
“I don’t need a hug,” I say. Ten hugs, maybe. Therapy or a professional feelings interpreter, definitely.
“I think you’re lying,” Cohen says, and I can picture the exact quirk of his lips. “I’m in your back yard. Come on out.”
“It’s cold,” I say, but I’m already getting up. “Let me put on my hat and gloves.”
“I’ll wait,” he says. He sounds perfectly comfortable, like he has all the time in the world to sit in the snow in my yard and wait for my emotionally needy self.
Once I’ve got my hat and gloves on, I pull my boots back on, even though I just got all of this off only moments ago. Then I exit the house through the back door and step into the night.
Cohen is leaning against the trunk of the large tree in the back corner of our yard, his arms crossed over his chest. When I step outside and the light from indoors spills out into the snow, he looks up. He smiles when he sees me, and I resist running to him. I don’t throw myself into men’s arms.
So I amble slowly to him instead. He doesn’t move; he just watches me, a little smile on his face. When I’m right in front of him, he straightens, and in one fluid motion he pulls me into his arms. I lay my head against his chest, listening to the steady, comforting beat of his heart. He strokes my hair.
“What’s wrong, Willy?” he says quietly, and I smile at his use of the name.
“Jack kissed me,” I say, deciding to tell him after all.
I feel his arms tighten convulsively, feel the subtle catch of his breath. His hand ceases stroking my hair for a second, and then it resumes.
“Why is that bad?” he says. His voice sounds tight.
“I don’t know,” I say into his chest. My confusion, my swirling thoughts—they compound until I can’t swallow past the lump in my throat. My eyes prickle, and I feel a few tears escape, freezing on my cheeks.
Cohen puts his hands on my shoulders and steps back, looking at me carefully from arm’s length. “He kissed you.”
I nod, looking at the ground. It’s snowing now.
“But that’s bad?” Cohen says.
I don’t answer. I can’t pull my eyes from the ground, because I don’t want him to see me cry. I don’t want him to see me like this—confused and hollow and desperately craving him.
But he puts a finger under my chin and tilts my face up to look at him. His eyes search my face, asking questions I don’t understand and don’t know the answer to. He gently wipes the tears from my cheeks. Where did he learn to do this? Is there a manual on how to comfort crying women? How to dry tears: Christmas edition?
“I don’t know,” I say, even though he hasn’t asked me anything. “I don’t know anything. I don’t know what I want.” My breathing is becoming more uneven as the tears come faster. “I thought I knew, Cohen. But when he asked me to the dance—when he kissed me—all I felt was—was alone.” I’m ugly crying now. Like, ugly. I am not a cute crier.
Cohen pulls me back to his chest, not saying anything. I wrap my arms around his waist—he’s something I can hold onto, something to steady me. I feel his hand in my hair again. It’s a rhythmic, calming sensation, and I focus on it, steadying my breathing until I’ve finally calmed down.
I tilt my head up to look at him, not loosening my grip on him. He smiles at me gently.
“Better?” he says, tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear. His fingers trail down my cheek.
“A little,” I say, my voice a whisper.
He just looks at me for a moment longer. “You’re never alone, Mina,” he finally says. His eyes are steady on mine, and they’re telling me something. They flit to my lips. He hesitates, and then he leans in and kisses me not on the lips but on the cheek, right at the corner of my mouth. My skin burns where his lips touch, and my world spins.
“Merry Christmas, Willy,” he says. He releases me
, takes a step back, nods at me, and then turns and begins to walk away. “Oh,” he says, stopping and turning back for a second. “I think…I might go to my dad’s wedding.”
My eyes widen, and for a second I forget all about my troubles. They seem petty in the face of father–son reconciliations. “Really? What changed your mind?”
Cohen shrugs and sighs. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you some other time.”
“All right,” I say, even though I want to bug him for the story now. But he’s right; it’s Christmas Eve. We should be with our families. And maybe he’s not ready to talk about it; I don’t want to push him. “Well, for what it’s worth, I think you should,” I say instead.
He tilts his head to one side. “Yeah?” he says.
“Yeah,” I say. “I mean, it’s not my place. Only you can decide that. But…you’re strong. And you love him, and he loves you.”
He considers me for a second. Then he nods and gives me a small smile, and I watch as he turns back around, trudges through the snow, and goes home.
26
Cohen
Lydia was right. I have a chance. I definitely have a chance.
I barge into Lydia’s room after talking to Mina in the backyard. Lydia looks up.
“Knock, please,” she says, frowning at me from where she’s lying on her bed, her computer in her lap.
“Mina doesn’t like Jack,” I say, sitting on the edge of her bed. I’m done pretending that I don’t have these feelings. Because I’m starting to believe that something could actually happen here, and if that’s the case, I might need Lydia’s help. Or, at very least, her input. I want this badly enough to swallow my pride. “She says she doesn’t know how she feels. But he kissed her”—I ignore the sinking feeling in my gut—“and she cried. That means something.”
Lydia narrows her eyes. “So you admit that you like her?”
I sigh. “Yes. All right? Yes.” I hesitate. “A lot.”
Her eyes narrow further. “How much?”
Eye of the Beholder (Stone Springs Book 1) Page 20