Blindness(60)

“Gabe said you do sometimes. That you rebuilt a bike…that one I saw,” I say.

Cody’s biting his lip while he’s listening to me, with a smirk on his face, and I get the feeling he’s hiding something.

“I did,” he says, pausing for a long time, sucking in his lips and taking another long breath. “It took a while to build, and I did some riding here and there. But I didn’t really start riding a lot again…until I met you.”

I know my eyes are wide. I can feel the blast of the heater drying them out. But I can’t mask my surprise and the butterflies inside me that are starting to suffocate me.

“Oh,” I say bashfully, sucking in my bottom lip.

“So, tell me something about you. Who is Charlotte Hudson…really?” Cody says, and I bunch my brow at him with confusion. “I mean, come on. You can’t wear khaki pants to school and like The Killers—those are two different girls. Which one is the real Charlie?”

I’d love to answer him. Hell, he has no idea, but I’ve been asking myself who I am since the day my mother dropped me off on Mac’s doorstep. So I just shrug, not sure what the hell else to say.

“Oh, come on now. That’s a cop-out. You know who you are—even if you think you don’t,” Cody’s playful side coming out again. “Here…let’s see…”

I grip the sides of my dress to dry the sweat from my palms and wait for Cody, both nervous and excited to see where our conversation goes.

“Favorite ice cream?” he asks.

That one’s easy. “Chocolate,” I say.

“Hmmmmm, that’s predictable,” he says, reaching up and scratching at the whiskers on his cheek. I allow myself to sneak a look at him, to admire his face. “Okay, how about this…rock or country?”

“Both,” I say, sort of surprising myself. My head fills with the sounds of Mac’s car—the classic rock and the sad country he’d play late at night.

“Good. Good. Okay, steak or pasta?” he fires back.

“Pasta, definitely pasta,” I’m smiling at the thought, remembering almost every dinner I ate when I was a kid.

“Why do you want to be an architect?” he keeps going, not giving me time to rest—time to think.

“Because I love to draw. And I want to see something I put on paper live in the world,” I answer back, probably the only question he’ll ask that I’m absolutely sure about.

“Favorite Christmas?” he asks, dancing around my weakness, but not threatening it.

“The last one with my dad,” I say, smiling fondly, and Cody’s face matches mine.

“Me, too,” he says. “Okay, when did you meet Trevor?”

I can tell he’s struggling with this one, forcing it, and I don’t want to make a big deal out of it. “We met at school—one of the honor-student receptions,” I say, shrugging it off and hoping he’ll move on, but for some reason my answer seems to give him pause.

“Which one?” he asks.

I can tell you everything about the day I met Cody. It was a Saturday. He was wearing a T-shirt, a gray one. His eyes crinkled, and he made things inside me come alive, things that I buried with my father. And his touch felt like something I needed to survive, like the air I breathe. But right now—thinking of Trevor—I try to remember our past, and it’s like a fog.

“I think it was the last fall one, about a year ago. The one the Dean had at his house?” I say, not sure that I was right, but feeling fairly certain.

I can see everything about Cody change, his posture is rigid, and his hands are tight on the wheel. His teeth are clenched, and just like that—the easiness between us is gone.

“I’m sorry. Did I…do something?” I say, starting to wonder if I can do this, be here, with him.

We’re pulling onto a side street that heads to the arena so we can park in one of the neighborhoods. In those fleeting seconds that the streetlights shine on his face through the window as they pass, I’m watching Cody intensely, trying to gage what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling. There’s a spot in front of one of the historic homes a few blocks away, and Cody pulls over, sliding the gearshift into park. He pulls the keys from his truck and just stares at them in his lap, laughing to himself quietly.

“I don’t get it. What’s funny?” I say, starting to freak out a little and getting nervous.

He looks up at me, pushing his lips into a big smile, the dimples deep, but his mouth closed tightly. He’s acting, just like I was—faking that everything is okay.

“I was supposed to be there, too,” he says, his eyes right on mine, telling me the secret I already know, that I think I knew all along. “I didn’t go…because I didn’t want to be around Trevor.”

He gets out of the truck as soon as he’s done speaking, and I take those few seconds alone to gasp for breath and choke on my emotions. I could have met Cody months ago—before Trevor, before I met the Appletons, before I said yes! My path could have been so different. But it’s not. Cody chose to stay away. And we missed our moment.

It was supposed to be Cody.





I don’t know how we manage to walk to the arena, both of us walking side-by-side, our fingers so close to connecting, but never touching…not once. We get inside and find our seats, taking turns going to the restroom. Cody gets us drinks, and I busy myself twisting the straw on my Diet Coke, secretly glad that Cody’s not drinking anything hard either.