Blindness(59)

I realize it too late, but I’m licking my lips as I look at him. I cough to regain my composure and elbow Jessie, who’s now outright laughing at me. “Yeah, I’m decent,” I say, rolling my eyes. I walk closer to him and reach for my purse, which is lying on the bed. I stop long enough to catch Cody’s first reaction, though, and it fills my body with a rush, my heart pounding out of my chest from the way he’s looking at me.

It’s desire.

I decide not to interrupt it, and I turn to thank Jessie, and then pull my purse strap over my shoulder before turning back to Cody. “Well, you ready? We better go so we’re not late,” I say.

His eyes stay on me while he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his keys. As I walk by him, I let my shoulder graze across his chest, just barely, and I swear he breathes me in.

Jessie comes downstairs with us and gives me a quick wink at the door before leaning in for a whisper. “Tell him,” she says.

I smile with tight lips and head to Cody’s truck. He’s only a few steps behind me, and in my inner fantasy, he’s following me to my door so he can turn me around, push me against the cold metal, and kiss me. But I get in and pull the door closed behind me without as much as a touch of his hand.

Cody’s standing outside, his hand on his door handle, looking at me through the glass—staring at me with the same wanting he was upstairs, and I can’t look away. I can’t look away, because I want him to want me—because I want him. But just like the damned glass between us now, there’s a barrier between us every minute I’m with him, no matter how close we get.

It’s like he comes to the same realization I do, and he quickly looks down at his feet and opens the door. When his eyes meet mine again, the hunger in them is gone, replaced by the same guarded friendliness he’s been showing me for days. I can’t deny my disappointment, and I instantly feel stupid in Jessie’s boots, with my stupid smoky eyes and hair.

We drive for about ten minutes before a word is spoken, but when Cody asks me—I instantly wish for the silence to come back. No, I beg for it.

“So…tell him what?” Cody asks.

I pretend I have no idea what he means, just turning my head to the side and shrugging

“Jessie said ‘Tell him.’ I heard her. Tell him what?” he won’t look at me when he speaks, and his face is serious. For a split second, I think about doing what she said. I could tell him that I’m terrified about marrying Trevor…that I think I was wrong to say yes, and that I can’t stop thinking about him…and I think I might be falling for him. But then I fast-forward to how hurt and angry Trevor would be, and how he’d blame Cody for everything.

So I lie.

“I was asking her for advice on something with Trevor. Just something girly and silly,” I say, brushing it off and putting on the performance of my life. Cody’s face falls the moment I’m done talking, and he stops breathing. I can see his jaw tense through his cheeks, and when he turns to check his side mirror, I swear his eyes are wet. But he puts on his mask quickly and turns back to look at me for a second with the safe smile.



“Oh, okay,” he says.

The arena is a good hour away. With every minute that ticks by and Cody doesn’t talk, my stomach is churning with nerves. I waver between wanting to pretend I’m ill and wanting to tell him I lied—to tell him the truth. I have to do something to ease my anxiety, so I start to look through my purse for my wallet, for the only thing that ever seems to stop the panic attacks—the only thing that rights me when I’m getting off course.

I flip the last fold open on my wallet, and the old photo slides onto the wrinkles of my dress. It’s worn and bent in half, so I’m careful when I flatten it out. It was the last time Mac and I were together before he died. We had finished celebratory slushes from my tournament win, and both of our tongues were stained red from the syrup at the soda shop. Mac said I should get a picture of us sticking our tongues out, so we smashed our heads close, and I snapped one with my phone. I had a print made the next day, after he died, because I never wanted to forget how we were that day—I never wanted to forget my dad.

“Can I see?” Cody’s voice surprises me. I crook the corner of my lip into a faint smile and hold the fragile photo up near the steering wheel, again sharing a piece of me that has only ever been private.

“That’s my dad,” I say, not even masking my pride.

“He was a cop, huh?” Cody asks, taking the photo in his fingers and holding it up in front of him while we sit at a stoplight. He’s careful with it and hands it back to me gently.

“Yeah. He was a great cop,” I gulp. “That was the day I won the state championship. We were celebrating. He died that night.”

Cody doesn’t look at me, like he knows how far I’ve gone—and that if he pushes, I’ll only retreat. And he’s right; I will.

“You were really good at golf. You shouldn’t have quit,” he says, deciding to focus on the part of what I told him that isn’t wrapped in scars.

“It wasn’t fun anymore,” I say, glad that Cody didn’t ask for the rest of my story, but also desperate to keep him talking. I put the photo away and let my guard down, but only a little. “It’s kind of like you and riding.”

Cody smiles, his lips tight while he breathes slowly through his nose. “I get it. I didn’t ride for about five years. At least, not often.”