Eye of the Beholder (Stone Springs Book 1)

by Gracie Ruth Mitchell

  I clear my throat and speak to Marcus. “What’s up?”

  But he doesn’t look at me. He just looks at Mina.

  “Listen,” he says, bending down so that Mina can hear him. He speaks quietly, glancing at me and then leaning closer to Mina. “I don’t do relationships and stuff. But if you ever want to have some fun”—he raises his eyebrows and grins suggestively—“you let me know. I’m very interested.” Then he turns his grin to me, looking smug.

  I’m going to punch him in the face.

  And where is Jack? I know Marcus is just goading me—probably because of what I said to him after he commented on Mina’s makeover—but anger still courses through me all the same.

  I’m halfway to my feet before both Mina and Lydia yank hard on the back of my shirt, pulling me down to the bench between them again. Then I feel Mina’s hand on my knee under the table, and I take her hand in mine without even thinking about it. She gives it a quick squeeze, then looks at Marcus. Her face is ten times redder than it was mere minutes ago, and even though she smiles, I can see the smile shake a bit. I squeeze her hand, silently encouraging her.

  “I’m definitely not interested,” Mina says. Her voice trembles slightly, but she speaks clearly and boldly, and she maintains eye contact the whole time. I smile; I’m proud of her.

  Marcus’s face falls, and he shrugs as his suggestive expression is replaced by something colder. “If you sleep your way around the football team, you’ll get to me eventually. I’ll wait.”

  This time I’m on my feet before Mina and Lydia can stop me, but to my surprise, Lydia is suddenly standing too.

  She points one finger at Marcus, jabbing him in the chest. “You are disgusting. You will leave this table right now”—she punctuates these words with more chest jabs—“and you will not come back. You will never speak to Mina or to me ever again. Do you understand?” Her eyes flash, and even though she’s shorter than me, she somehow seems ten feet tall.

  And I suddenly understand how she got Marcus to stop saying gross things to her. Lydia is kind of…scary. I can’t help it; I grin as I sit back down. Judging by Marcus’s startled and disconcerted expression, Lydia has this under control.

  Even though I want nothing more than to put my arm around Mina’s shoulders, I resist the urge. I tell myself forcefully and more than once that it’s not my place. But I guess she doesn’t need it anyway, because she now tugs on the hem of Lydia’s shirt and looks at her disapprovingly. Lydia gives an angry huff and sits on the other side of Mina. Then Mina looks back to Marcus. Her face is still red, but her voice doesn’t tremble this time.

  “I’m not sleeping my way around the football team. I’m not sleeping with anyone. I don’t have time for petty insults. Please leave.”

  Then she turns her back on him, looks to her lunch, and takes a big, slurping sip from her juice box. Marcus just stares at the three of us, his jaw hanging slightly, his face coloring.

  He spins on his heel and walks away.

  “Look at you,” I say to her with a grin. “Standing up to mean people. I guess my tutoring did some good after all, huh?”

  She smiles at me. “Did I sound convincing? Because I was terrified.”

  “Very convincing,” I say, still grinning. Then the grin fades. “Sorry I sort of freaked out. I’m just tired. And stressed, I guess. ACT results should be back any day. My dad’s wedding is this weekend. Stuff like that.” I don’t mention my significantly more personal feelings for disliking Marcus’s comments, but Lydia’s subtly raised brow at me tells me that she at least knows what I’m not saying.

  “Yeah,” Mina says, tilting her head. She’s cute when she does that. “Remind me when that is?”

  “Saturday,” I say with a sigh. “At five.”

  She nods, looking thoughtful. “Well, I’m sure it will be fine.”

  “And you’ll have fun watching your meteor shower thing,” I say.

  Mina rolls her eyes, shoving her empty juice box and the rest of her trash in her paper bag. “It’s not my meteor shower. It’s a beautiful gift of nature to people everywhere so that we can have the chance to experience celestial happenings for ourselves—”

  “All right,” I say. “Not your meteor shower. You could have stopped there.” I grin at her, and she smiles back.

  ***

  As it turns out, my ACT score shows up early Saturday afternoon. I’ve been checking every day—multiple times, if I’m being honest—with mingled excitement and terror.

  But the terror is unwarranted. Because my score has gone up by four points.

  My jaw actually drops when I see it, and I let out a disbelieving laugh. I didn’t realize how much stress the ACT thing was causing me until I feel the relief pour through me, and it feels like a burden has been lifted off my shoulders. It’s not my ideal five-point increase, but I’m more than satisfied.

  The first thing I do is call Mina.

  “My score went up by four points,” I say, my words coming out in a rush. I’m still smiling.

  “Your—what?” she says, sounding distracted. Then, more focused, she says, “Wait, you got your ACT score back? Four points?” She sounds as excited as I feel.

  I smile more broadly. “Yes! Four.”

  She gives the most un-Mina-like squeal I’ve ever heard. “That’s awesome! I knew you could do it, Cohen! And I told you! I told you you were ready! How did you do on the English and reading sections?”

  My eyes scan the details of my composite score. “Still my lowest,” I say when I find the English and reading scores. “But so much better.”

  “Clearly,” she says. I can hear her smile. “I’m proud of you. I’m really proud of you.”

  It’s strangely touching coming from her. “Thanks,” I say. “I owe you big time.”

  “Nah, I think I owe you. I already know more about football than I ever wanted to know. I’ve flirted with myself in the mirror. I’ve been more made over than Cinderella—”

  “You’ve been flirting with yourself in the mirror?” I say, laughing.

  “Practice makes perfect, Cohen,” she says. “But I do have to admit it’s not very effective.”

  “No,” I say, still smiling. “I wouldn’t think so.”

  “Hey, I need to go,” Mina says. “But congratulations! And good luck with the wedding.”

  “Thanks,” I say, hoping my disappointment doesn’t come across in my voice. “And have fun with the meteor shower.”

  We hang up, and I’m left feeling a strange mixture of happiness and loneliness. All I have to do now is update my college application, which I go online and do immediately. I sigh and sit back in my chair, satisfied. One hurdle down; the next one is coming up this evening.

  ***

  A few hours later, I’m standing in front of the downstairs bathroom mirror, straightening my tie. It feels sort of strange to be wearing my church clothes—it’s been almost a year—but I figure that’s what people wear to weddings.

  I’ve gone through a billion different conversation scenarios in my head with such obsessive intensity that now I’m trying not to think about talking to my dad at all. I know it will happen; he’ll want his new wife to meet her stepson.

  Stepson. I hate that term.

  But I’m stuck with it.

  And I figure that all my conversation prep will fly out the window anyway when I actually speak to my dad. I’m sure my brain will go inconveniently blank. Lydia was supposed to come with me, but she’s sick.

  I wish I were sick.

  The doorbell rings, and I run my fingers through my hair one last time before I step out of the bathroom and go down the hall, opening the front door when I get to it. My jaw falls slightly when I see who it is.

  It’s Mina. She’s stunning; her hair is in loose, sleek curls, and she’s wearing a deep red dress that hugs everywhere a dress should hug. She’s done something with her makeup that I definitely approve of. She looks…

  She looks like she’s on her way to a we
dding.

  Before I can say anything, she’s stepped forward and thrown her arms around me, a smile as wide as any I’ve ever seen stretched across her face.

  “I’m so happy for you,” she says into my chest, and I wrap my arms around her, still taken aback by her appearance at my door. “You worked so hard, Cohen.” The scent I’ve come to associate with her floats around me, and I’m tempted to bury my face in her neck.

  After a second I put my hands on her shoulders and push her gently away. “What are you doing here?” I manage to get out. I can’t quite take my eyes off her.

  “I thought you might want a date to the wedding,” she says, her voice gentle.

  My eyes widen before I have a chance to school my expression. “Date?”

  She flushes red. “Not—not date. Not like that. Just—you know. Moral support. Lydia called me earlier and said she couldn’t go anymore. Are you going to invite me in?”

  I step aside and let her come inside. “What about your meteor shower?” I say with a slight frown. “You’ve been talking about it for months.”

  She shrugs, and her heels make little clicking sounds on the tile as she steps into the house. “There will be other ones.”

  “But—you’ve been looking forward to it,” I say, watching as she hangs her purse over the bannister.

  “I have,” she says, coming to stand in front of me. She reaches up with one hand and starts messing with my hair, running her fingers through it. “But this is more important. You’re more important. And I think, since your hair is so stubborn, it’s best to just embrace it. It looks good like this,” she says, still running her fingers through it. It feels amazing.

  To my absolute horror, I feel a lump rise in my throat. She’s missing her meteor shower to come to a wedding with me. A wedding she has no connection to. But she’s coming to be my moral support.

  I gently wrap my hands around her wrists, and she stops messing with my hair immediately. I slowly put her hands back by her sides. Then I step closer to her and put my arms around her again.

  It’s all I can do. It’s the only way I can say what I’m feeling. I hope she understands.

  I feel her arms wrap around my waist, and I want to freeze time. Just us, in this moment, forever.

  But the moment is over too soon—when Lydia bounds down the stairs and beams at Mina as we jerk apart.

  “Oh, the off-the-shoulder thing looks so good on you!” Lydia says, her voice croaky.

  “Thanks,” Mina says, blushing.

  Lydia is correct; it does look good. The style shows off Mina’s neck and shoulders and collarbone, all perfect, all incredibly kissable. I refrain from commenting.

  “And let me see how the back fits,” Lydia says.

  Mina turns around, pulling her hair to her front so that the back of the dress is visible. It’s cut low; her shoulder blades are visible just peeking out from the fabric. My mouth goes dry.

  I have problems.

  “Gorgeous,” Lydia says with a sigh. Then she looks at me. “Still want me to stop lending her dresses?” She pulls a tissue out of the pocket of her robe and blows her nose.

  I don’t have a clear answer for that, so I avert my eyes from both of them and fiddle with my tie instead.

  “Here,” Mina says, swatting my hands away. “You’re just making it worse. And we need to go.”

  She stands in front of me, straightening my tie with a frankly impressive amount of concentration and determination. Then she gives it a tug and smiles up at me. “Are you ready?” she says.

  “No,” I say, smiling back. “But we should go anyway.”

  She nods, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and gestures for the door. Instead of opening it I take her hand in mine, telling myself it’s a gesture of solidarity rather than anything romantic. My racing heart strongly disagrees. Her fingers lace easily with mine. And in the past I would have taken this a sure sign that she’s interested, but…well, it’s Mina. The usual rules never seem to apply, and I don’t know what to think anymore. Instead of overthinking, I open the door, and we step together into the cold.

  31

  Mina

  I don’t regret missing the meteor shower.

  Because even though we drive in silence, my hand is in Cohen’s the whole time, and his thumb is tracing light circles over the back of mine. I don’t know what it means, us holding hands—I only know that it feels incredibly right.

  I can tell he’s nervous; his posture is slightly rigid, and even though he’s wearing what he probably thinks is a calm expression, his jaw is tense, his brows furrowed.

  “It will be okay,” I say finally. My voice is quiet, but it seems loud when it breaks our silence. “You’ll be fine. You’re not going to have to have any heart-to-hearts with him, and you can use me as a conversational buffer as much as you want.”

  Cohen doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but a small smile flits across his lips. He squeezes my hand briefly. “Thanks.”

  “Where is this place?” I say.

  “The cathedral on Main,” he says, and he pulls his hand from mine, running it through his hair. My hand feels unnaturally cold now, and I place it awkwardly back in my lap.

  “The one with the stained glass?” I say, interested. I’ve never been in, but I’ve always admired the building.

  “Yeah,” Cohen says, looking briefly at me. Then he looks back at the road.

  “Is it going to be weird for you? The church part? You’re sort of touchy about that right now.”

  “I wouldn’t say touchy,” he says, but he grins.

  I raise one eyebrow. “I would definitely say touchy.”

  He doesn’t respond, but the smile stays on his face. I glance at his hands on the steering wheel. He only needs one hand to drive; I want to hold his other hand again. Forever.

  Ugh. Somehow my feelings for him have spiraled way out of my control.

  To my surprise, he all but reads my mind and reaches over for my hand again. I can tell that’s where he’s going. But before he can actually take my hand, he stops with a funny jerking motion and then yanks his hand back to the steering wheel. My heart falls, and I try not to look disappointed. I stare determinedly out the window instead.

  When we pull into the parking lot, Cohen parks and gets out quickly, and before I know it he’s at my door, opening it for me.

  I look up at him, surprised. “Really?”

  He shrugs, but he’s smiling. “Really. Why? Do you want me to close it so you can do it yourself?”

  “No,” I say, the corners of my lips twitching. “I was just surprised.”

  “Well, come on, then,” he says, holding out his hand.

  Finally.

  I put my hand in his and get out of the car, but he doesn’t let go of me when the door is closed behind me. I’m glad for it. But it’s also a unique form of torture. What does this mean?

  “We’re holding hands,” I say, just like I did when we were locked in that horrifying secret room in that ridiculous asylum. I don’t look at him. I stare at my feet instead, focusing on the sound of my heels clicking across the pavement.

  “We are,” Cohen says. He sounds significantly calmer than I feel.

  I swallow. “Is that something we do?”

  Cohen sighs. “I don’t think so.” He pulls his hand out of mine.

  I swallow again—this time to get rid of the lump in my throat. I refuse to cry when my makeup looks this good, so it’s just going to have to wait until later. I shouldn’t have said anything in the first place.

  The door of the cathedral is massive and old, and I’m annoyed at myself for being so distracted that I can’t even appreciate it fully. I love old doors—old buildings, really. I love imagining all the things they’ve experienced, the people they’ve seen. Little historic accents bring character to otherwise generic piles of stone. That’s something I would love to explore more if I went with the interior design thing.

  Cohen lets me enter ahead of him, and I f
eel his hand on the small of my back as he follows me in. My insides jump pleasantly, but the feeling is followed by a sinking in the pit of my stomach. Maybe it’s a good thing that we’re going to college soon. Being around him, feeling the way I do, knowing that he doesn’t feel the same way—that hurts. A lot.

  We slide into a pew, and I’m still hyperaware of his hand on my back—I’m even more aware of its absence as we sit. There’s organ music playing, and the crowd is chattering quietly. I can’t make myself look at Cohen, so I look at the cathedral interior instead. The ceilings are high and vaulted, and stained-glass windows line the upper half of the walls to our left and our right. Light filters through the windows on the wall across from us, casting Cohen and I and the people around us in a vaguely colorful light.

  I finally look to my right at Cohen, and I jump when I see him looking at me. He has an odd look on his face. I tilt my head and wait for him to speak, because I can tell he wants to say something.

  “Thanks for coming with me,” he says finally. His eyes are moving intently over my face.

  I can’t say any of the things I really want to say, so I force a smile instead. “I’m just here for the stained glass and the food.”

  He smiles back at me, but his eyes look sad. He reaches over and touches my right ear. “You’re orange here. And sort of yellow here,” he says, moving his finger and touching my nose. His touch is light, but it burns wherever it goes.

  He hesitates, and then he puts a finger on my lips. He runs his thumb softly over my lower lip, and I close my eyes, swallowing hard.

  “Mina,” he says, his voice low. My eyes snap open, and when they do, his face has moved closer to mine. His thumb is still tracing my lips, and his amber-flecked gaze is locked on mine.

  “I know you’re with—” he begins, but he breaks off as the organ music changes, and I barely hear what he says, anyway; I’m still too distracted by the way his thumb is softly stroking my lips.

  He yanks his hand away from my face with the change in music, and we watch as his dad enters the room from a side door, making his way to the front of the massive room.