Blindness(26)

“You and your mom…you seem kind of…distant?” I say, feeling him out.

Cody sighs heavily, rubbing his forehead and staring at his ceiling. His lips open with a breath, the words on the tip of his tongue in several false starts before he finally lets me in.

“My mom didn’t go to my father’s funeral,” he says, his words punching me in the gut. “Before he died, she was more interested in how she could move up in her social circle, and how she could drown her own f*cking disappointment in herself with alcohol.”

I don’t know what to say to him. I want to make it better, to suddenly give his mom a cure—to make her be a mother. But I know, probably better than most, that there isn’t a magic pill for this. It’s something people have to decide to be on their own—and some never do.

“I’d rather not talk about it, if that’s okay?” Cody says, his eyes drifting off into a blank stare again. I just nod, focusing on the feeling of my teeth along my fingertips and the inside of my cheek—anything to keep the rising panic and thumping of my heart from overwhelming me.

“So, why were you having a picnic for one out in the first winter storm of the season?” Cody asks, turning all of his attention to me.

I’m no longer able to stop the whishing sounds of blood rushing across my ears. I don’t talk about Mac—ever. I won’t even talk about him with Caroline. And Trevor has learned not to ask. But there’s something about Cody’s directness, the way he peels away my layers, unafraid. I somehow sense that talking about Mac with him will maybe make it hurt less.

“I was visiting my dad,” I say, my voice weak. I can’t believe the sound of the words when I say them—they seem ridiculous, like the fantasies of a little girl. My palms are sweating, and I’m overwhelmed with the same feeling I get when I have to speak in front of a crowd. I slide down the bed, so I’m lying on my back now, too, and I pull the spare pillow to my front, clutching it like a teddy bear. I can feel Cody’s eyes on me. And I can tell he’s waiting for me to become comfortable with the broken parts of me I’m starting to share. It’s the same kind of patience he showed when he took care of my burned arm. It’s disarming.

Deep breath. I can’t believe I’m doing this—saying this—out loud, to someone I hardly know.

“I miss him. Sometimes it feels like I just let someone punch me in the stomach for an hour, it hurts so much. And I just need to talk to him,” I say, sharing more than I have now with anyone…ever. “Looking at the stars was kind of our thing. So when the pain gets to be too much, I look at them. I pretend that he’s looking at them, too. And just the possibility that we’re both seeing the same stars makes me feel like we’re connected, and like maybe he can hear me.”

I suck in air and feel my voice quiver; I’m fighting so hard to hold it in, my eyes burning and my throat closing up. I squeeze the pillow tightly to me. I can’t believe I just told Cody all of this. I’m partly worried that he thinks I’m crazy, and I’m also worried that I’m going to crack, break into a million pieces right here in his room.

My biggest fear is about to be realized when he gets up from the bed. I brace myself for him to open his door and ask me to leave, tell me that he just doesn’t have time in his life for my kind of crazy. I’m actually counting the seconds until he kicks me out, but instead of words, I hear him pull open a drawer and riffle through some papers.

I’m holding my breath, watching him as he pulls out a safety pin and starts to push holes in a piece of paper. He spends maybe five minutes looking at the paper closely, biting on his bottom lip while he concentrates, only letting his eyes drift to me for brief seconds before going back to work.

I’m squeezing the pillow tighter now, my body rigid with anxiety. Cody flips on a switch for a small lamp on his night table, and then turns off the main light in his room. The bulb is bright, and looking at it is making me squint my eyes, trying to get them to adjust. I pull the pillow up to block the light a little and listen as I hear Cody rip a few pieces of tape and crinkle the paper while he fastens it to the top of his lampshade. The room is suddenly much darker, and when I pull the pillow back from my face, I realize what he’s done.

Cody has given me my stars. They aren’t perfect. There’s no Big Dipper, and the dots on his ceiling are misshapen and not quite the right size. But the feeling is there. I’m staring up at them, my smile unavoidable and so big it’s actually starting to hurt my cheeks. I feel the bed move from Cody’s weight. He’s lying next to me again, this time, we’re so close our arms are touching, and between the stars above my head and the heat to the right of my body, I’m no longer sure of anything in my life—but I also don’t feel alone.

“Go ahead,” Cody says. “Talk to him.”

I can’t seem to look at his face, even though I know it’s only inches from mine. I can’t do it, because I’m so damn afraid of what I’ll feel if I do. I want to be Cody’s friend. No, I think I need to be Cody’s friend. But when I look at him, my heart squeezes, and I know it’s because I also want him to touch me, kiss me, and, Oh God, I don’t dare let myself indulge in any more.

I take in a deep breath and hold it for a second or two before letting it out slowly, like I’m throwing sandbags over the edge of a hot air balloon so I can get it to lift. I shut my eyes tightly, imagining the real stars in my head before I open them back up and see Cody’s beautiful sky.