Eye of the Beholder (Stone Springs Book 1)

by Gracie Ruth Mitchell

  I return to her question. “What makes you think I did something to him?”

  Lydia glares at me. Sweet, angelic Lydia—she glares at me.

  “We kissed. Sort of,” I say quickly. “I mean, we definitely kissed. But I don’t think it was real.” Right? It wasn’t real, right? “I just told him I don’t know how to kiss, so he…you know. Showed me.” Is that what he apologized for? Was he talking to Jack?

  She narrows her eyes at me, looking contemplative now. “You kissed?”

  I swallow and nod, trying not to wince under the expression she’s wearing.

  “What kind of kiss?” she says, her voice businesslike.

  I blink in surprise. “Um. I don’t know,” I say.

  Lydia sighs and leans back against the counter. “Well, was it a peck on the lips? Was it gentle? Was it crazy? Did it last a long time? Were you full-on making out? Was there tongue? Was—”

  “All right,” I say, holding up my hand. “I get it. And I feel weird answering that, since he’s your brother. But I will,” I add as she glares at me again. “It didn’t last a long time. And there was no tongue. But…”

  “But what?” Lydia prompts.

  “But it wasn’t a peck on the lips,” I say. And I can’t help it; I bury my face in my hands. This is so embarrassing. “And I wouldn’t call it gentle, either.”

  “Huh,” Lydia says, sounding interested now. I keep my face in my hands so I don’t have to look at her. “Did you like it?”

  Well, I’ve told her everything else; I may as well tell her this too. She’ll probably wheedle it out of me if I refuse, anyway.

  So I nod. Emphatically.

  She’s silent, and when I finally get up the nerve to take down my hands and look at her, she’s watching me with a gentler expression than I’ve seen from her so far this evening.

  “Thanks for answering my questions,” she says. “I just wanted to know what had happened.”

  “You didn’t really give me a choice,” I say, and she just laughs.

  When she leaves and I’m left to really consider what she said, my heart sinks. Cohen came home looking panicked and miserable.

  I’ve always wanted someone to kiss me and then feel miserable. My dream.

  But that’s what happened when Jack kissed me. That’s how I felt; miserable. So I understand, I guess.

  All right. Clearly Cohen and the kiss are not going to let me ignore them. Introspective Mina is on duty, I guess.

  If for whatever reason he really didn’t like kissing me, then the safest thing to do is to revert back to the way things were. We can’t undo the kiss, obviously. And, to be honest, I don’t want to. Because he was right; I could tell it was a good kiss. But it was more than the kiss; it was him. It was Cohen. An identical kiss from someone else would have meant nothing. Might have been gross, in fact. My heart sinks further at this thought.

  So I like him. I have romantic feelings for him. I’m finally adult enough to admit that to myself.

  But it’s fine. We can just keep being friends. We’ll go to college in six months anyway and rarely see each other again. If I haven’t moved on by the end of the summer, I certainly will once we live who knows how far away and never talk.

  My head snaps up as the bell at the door jingles. For some reason I’m expecting it to be Cohen, and I’m disappointed when it isn’t. Although that’s stupid, of course. He doesn’t need to be buying flowers.

  A man comes to the counter and greets me with an infectious smile. “Hi,” he says. “I want to get some flowers for my wife.”

  “Great,” I say, not feeling great at all. “What would you like?”

  “These, I think,” he says, pointing at a bouquet of dyed daisies.

  I nod and help him gather the flowers, and then I begin to ring up the purchase.

  I look up when the man begins to speak.

  “You look really upset,” he says. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I say. I try to smile, but it’s pretty wobbly.

  “All right,” the man says, looking concerned. “But just in case you’re not…” He pulls one of the daisies out of his newly purchased bouquet and hands it to me. “Things will get better.” Then he smiles at me again, and deep dimples appear in his cheeks.

  I can’t help it; I smile back and take the daisy. “Thank you,” I whisper, looking at the flower.

  He nods at me. “Best of luck,” he says. He puts the rest of his change on the counter, turns, and leaves the shop.

  I take one look at the purple daisy in my hand and burst into tears.

  This is ridiculous. I’m being ridiculous.

  I thought I was not a strong woman when this whole thing started. I thought I needed a man. But I don’t need a man. And I am strong. Life will go on. Just because kissing me made Cohen miserable doesn’t mean that I have to be miserable too. We can still be friends.

  It’s time to make this right.

  I close the shop for the night, strategizing as I work. I almost do inventory incorrectly because I’m paying so little attention to what I’m doing, but I catch myself before I do any permanent damage.

  Then, when I lock up, I pull out my phone and dial Cohen’s number.

  29

  Mina

  My heart races, but I don’t let myself hang up. Cohen answers after the first ring.

  “Hey,” he says. He speaks quietly—nervously.

  But I’m not going to let that happen. Not with Cohen.

  “Hey,” I say as I get in my car. “I have a bone to pick with you.”

  “Still doing the skeleton puns?”

  “Always. Are you ready for my complaint?”

  “Lay it on me,” he says, sounding easier already.

  All right. Here goes nothing. “I kissed three men today,” I say, fastening my seat belt. “To practice, you know. But all three of them criticized my technique. Why didn’t you tell me that you’re not supposed to burp while kissing?”

  There’s nothing but silence. Terrible, horrifying silence.

  And then, suddenly, he’s laughing, and I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

  “Oh, gross,” he says. “Mina, that’s so gross. That’s disgusting. Don’t ever use ‘burp’ and ‘kiss’ in the same sentence again.” He’s speaking in between bursts of laughter. “I’m going to vomit up all the food I just ate.”

  “It’s your fault. You should have mentioned that burping was bad while kissing.”

  “I give you my word that I will never make such a horrid mistake again,” he says, and I can hear that he’s smiling.

  A profound wave of relief washes over me. “Good. Then I think I can forgive you.”

  “To be fair,” he says, “that seems like it should be pretty intuitive.”

  I smile. “Intuition isn’t my strong point.” Okay, now I need to change the subject. Jokes have been made, the ice has been broken—move on. “What did you do today? Because I just worked a six-hour shift selling sparkly silver New Year’s wreathes. I’m on my way home now. Can you beat that?”

  “I can, actually,” he says. “I told my dad I’d go to his wedding.”

  My jaw drops. “You’re going? Really?” I turn into my neighborhood, admiring the falling snow.

  “Well—all right. In the interest of full honesty, I didn’t actually do that today. I did it on Christmas Eve. But I hadn’t told you. I did basically nothing today. But yeah; I’m going.”

  “Wow,” I say. “Okay. Cohen, that’s great. Honestly, I think that’s great. I know you were on the fence. What made you change your mind? Unless you don’t want to tell me,” I add quickly.

  “I don’t mind telling you,” he says, and the emphasis he puts on “you” causes me to smile. “He sent me another invitation, but he put a note in it.”

  “Was this note better than the one before?”

  I hear Cohen laugh softly. “Yeah. It was. My mom said I should forgive him. And I remembered that you had said the same thin
g, and…I don’t know.”

  I pull up in front of my house and park on the street, but I don’t get out as I listen to Cohen.

  “I thought I could take it easy on him, even though I don’t think it was okay for him to leave. I remembered how you said I’d helped you decide to apply to school. You were brave. I thought I could be, too.”

  “Cohen,” I say, feeling a lump in my throat, because I guess I haven’t done enough crying for the day? “That’s—” I break off, then start again. “That’s really nice.”

  He groans. “Are you crying? Did I make you cry?”

  “No,” I say, dabbing at my eyes with my sleeve.

  “You cry a lot, Willy,” he says, his voice gently teasing.

  “If you think it’s bad for you to have to be around it, imagine how I feel,” I say. “Do you ever cry? Is that a thing guys do? Or do they all stop crying when they’re little?”

  He’s quiet for a second. Then he says, “There might have been a few angry tears last year when I thought he’d left. Might have been. I can neither confirm nor deny that.”

  I smile. “You’re allowed a few tears. So when is the wedding?”

  “Next weekend,” he says with a sigh. “I hope he doesn’t ask me to wear a corsage or boutonniere or whatever.”

  I hear a little knock, and I jump. I look to the window on the passenger side, and sure enough, there’s Cohen, and he’s smiling at me.

  I hang up and roll down the window. “What’s the password?”

  “Hmm,” he says, pretending to consider. “How about, ‘Do you want me to buy you food?’”

  Um, yes. “That is correct,” I say, and he laughs and gets in the car.

  “Have you been waiting for me?” I say, looking at him with raised eyebrows.

  “Maybe,” he says with a grin. “You mentioned you were on your way home, and I’m not tired enough to sleep. Want to drive through somewhere?”

  “Always,” I say. “But didn’t you say you just ate?”

  He shrugs. “I can always eat more. I just want to hang out.”

  I smile. I’m not mad about it. I watch him from the corner of my eye as I pull away from the curb and head back out of the neighborhood. Then I swallow and say, “Who’s going to buy me food when we go to college and you don’t live next to me anymore?”

  “Oh,” he says, sitting up straighter. “That reminds me. My ACT score should show up any day.”

  “You’ll have to let me know when it does,” I say, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel as we wait at a light.

  “You were a good tutor,” Cohen says. “I feel like I actually learned something.”

  I glance at him, smiling. “You did?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Especially the stuff about parts of speech and all that.” He hesitates. “I guess my teaching wasn’t quite as great, huh?” His voice is a little too casual. “Although aside from the party, you and Jack seem to be hitting it off well enough.”

  My face flushes with embarrassment. No way am I telling Cohen that I broke up with Jack because I have feelings for Cohen. Especially since he doesn’t feel the same way. “Yeah,” I say, wincing slightly at the lie.

  “I—I called him the other night. He’s not happy with me.”

  He’s probably not happy with me either. I wait for Cohen to say more, but he doesn’t, so I just shrug. "You taught me some useful stuff, though,” I say, keeping my voice light. “Don’t think you didn’t.”

  He snorts skeptically. “Like what? How to pretend you’re interested in football?”

  “That,” I say, eyeing the menu. I think I already know what I’m going to get, but I like to pretend that someday I might get something different. It makes me feel adventurous. “But you sort of got me into some social interaction, too. You make me feel confident.”

  Oops. I meant to say that in past tense. But it’s true; he makes me feel confident. He makes me feel like being myself is good enough.

  “You taught me about priest holes,” I go on, and Cohen grins. Then, more seriously, I say, “And I’ve been thinking over what you said about Virginia.”

  “Yeah?” Cohen says, looking over at me.

  “Yeah,” I admit. “And I’m trying to just…let the Virginia thing go.”

  Cohen smiles softly. “Good for you, Willy.”

  The look in his eyes is tender and unnerving, and I can’t stand it. I change the topic. “And you taught me how to kiss,” I go on, forcing a grin—although I keep my eyes firmly on the menu. I definitely know what I’m going to get by now, but I don’t want to look at Cohen. Especially for the next part. “And you were right; you can tell when it’s a good kiss.” I hope he can’t see how red my face it.

  “Oh, yeah?” he says, sounding pleased. “Was it good?” I’m still staring intently at the menu, but I can hear his grin.

  I swallow. “It was incredible, which I think you know.”

  A beat of silence. Then, “I do know.” More silence, during which my heart is threatening to come out of my chest. Then he says, “I’m sorry, Mina. I shouldn’t have—we shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

  “Me too,” I say, looking vaguely at my hands on the steering wheel. My nail polish is starting to chip. I try to keep my voice neutral as I say, “I started it. It won’t—it won’t happen again. I assume that’s what you talked to Jack about?”

  “Yeah,” Cohen says after a beat of silence.

  “Well, it won’t happen again,” I repeat.

  It might be the saddest thing I’ve ever said.

  There’s even more silence, but somehow I’m unable to break it. It’s not a comfortable silence. It’s charged—electric. Full of things I don’t know how to say.

  “Incredible, huh?” he finally says. His voice cracks slightly, but even though I’m still not looking at him, I can tell he’s grinning.

  I can’t help it; I smile. “I wouldn’t have even noticed the scar. Now wipe that look off your face,” I say.

  “You’re not even looking at—”

  “It’s that smug, cocky smirk. I hate it. Get rid of it.”

  I’m spared his response by the voice blaring out of the speaker, and I give my order. I look at Cohen. He has not yet removed the smug look from his face. “What are you getting?”

  “A large fruit punch and a taco,” he says.

  “You know that fruit punch is only one tiny step above a juice box, right?”

  He doesn’t answer; he just grins.

  Well, at least he’s happier now than he was right after the kiss. But I’m not going to think about that, because it makes my soul want to wither.

  I pull into a parking spot so that I can eat my food. We talk comfortably for a while, laughing enough to make my stomach hurt and my heart glow.

  And I realize that I was wrong. I don’t need a man. But…I want one. I want this one. I want Cohen, in all his crooked-nosed, wonky-mouthed glory.

  There’s a lull in the conversation when I take an especially big bite, and when I look at Cohen, he’s watching me with a strange expression.

  “What?” I say around my mouth full of burrito.

  “We’ll keep in touch, won’t we?” Cohen says, surprising me. “At college, I mean.”

  I swallow my food. “I want to. I mean, if you do,” I add, trying not to sound like a clingy, love-struck teenager.

  Wait. Love-struck?

  “I do,” Cohen says, still looking at me. “I want to stay in touch. I really—you’re a good friend.”

  “So are you,” I say, smiling softly. And he is; he’s the best. My best friend, really. I can tell him anything—except how I feel about him. I hesitate, my smile growing. “You know, I never expected you to talk about your feelings as much as you do.”

  He grins. “I don’t, usually. Just something about you, I guess.”

  Something about me. I can get behind that.

  30

  Cohen

  In the days leading up to my dad’s wedding, I have plenty of
time to regret my decision to go. Several times I consider backing out and saying I’m busy, but the thought of Mina’s disapproving look makes me stop.

  And, you know. I said I would go. So I probably should.

  Things are back to normal between Mina and I, which makes me embarrassingly happy. She was right; I do talk about my feelings a lot when I’m with her, but I’ve been keeping my feelings about her very quiet. That kiss blew my mind, and it wasn’t even very long. She doesn’t need to know any of that while she’s still with Jack, even if they are fighting.

  And, speaking of Jack, he’s been throwing me a lot of dirty looks this week. Especially when, to the surprise of everyone but me and maybe Lydia, I settle myself squarely between my sister and Mina at their lunch table on Thursday. But I figure this is the best time to make the change; I can’t stand half the people I usually eat with anyway, and it’s the very beginning of the new term. New beginnings, right? And if Jack wants to sit with the girl who’s basically his girlfriend, he can. He probably should, actually. It’s sort of weird that he doesn’t. I guess they’re still rocky after the kiss.

  But regardless of Jack, I have maybe six months before Mina and I go off to college and possibly never see each other again. So, yeah; I’m going to make these months count.

  The cafeteria is particularly noisy today—it has been all week, actually. Probably people recounting their stories of winter break. But I’m leaning toward Mina, speaking close to her ear so she can hear me, teasing her about her juice box when suddenly Marcus is standing at our table, his eyes darting back and forth between Mina and I. My insides immediately go cold. They go even colder when I see Marcus blatantly ogle both Mina and Lydia with what I can only describe as a suggestive leer.

  Mina leans over to me and whispers in my ear, “When you check me out, you’re more subtle than that.”

  My mind whirs at the feeling of her breath on my ear, of her nearness, but I ignore it. “I should hope so,” I say under my breath. My eyes never leave Marcus. “And I never wear that expression.”

  “No,” Mina says. “Your expression is different.”

  She says this so casually that it makes me nervous. What expression do I wear? I’ve never paid attention to something like that.