Blindness(61)

The lights flick twice, and people start to file from their seats down the aisles to crowd the stage, and I want to go. Cody’s questions have me wondering lots of things about myself, about who I really am—and I feel like I’m the girl who gets in the middle of the crowd, who throws her hands in the air, and tries to touch the lead singer’s hand at a concert. I look at Cody and nod to the stage. He shrugs, sets his drink in a cup holder, and puts his hand along my back to push me forward.

His touch is like an ice cube sliding down my back, the sensation a foreign surprise, but I’m desperate for it, to melt it, to make it warm. I keep my gaze forward, committed to the stage and the crowd that’s building before me. I want to be in the middle. I’m determined.

As we slide between the bodies, I feel Cody get closer; both of his hands grip my shoulders to direct me and keep me near him. I’m finally satisfied a few rows in front of the stage, near a walkway that I’m sure the band will walk out on. My heart is pounding, and the rush I’m feeling just standing here among the sea of bodies is addictive.

I know I’m not really taking a risk. I know compared to what Cody does—compared to driving off of a ramp at 80 miles per hour and throwing my body through twists and turns in the air—I’m not really risking anything. But I’m a far cry from the girl who sits in a balcony at a play, the girl who keeps her mouth shut at a football game, not wanting to scream or offend the guy sitting in front of her. And letting go of that inhibition, getting close to a stage, to a band that I love, feels like living.

The crowd is thick within minutes, and I know I’m going to be standing here—in this spot—for the next three hours. And Cody will be here. And that’s a risk, too.

I’m about to turn to him, let go a little more, and hug him, because I want to—when I realize he’s staring at someone near the corner of the stage. He’s visibly upset. I try to follow the direction of his eyes, but there are too many people, too many possibilities. Without looking at me, he gives my shoulders another squeeze.

“Hey, don’t move. Like, at all, okay? I’ll be right back. There’s someone I have to see,” he says, moving from me and sliding through the hundreds of people surrounding us.

I follow him with my eyes, watching him along every step. I’m on my toes by the end, and my calves are cramping, but I hold on, desperate to see. He stops, and I see a woman’s slender shoulders behind the frame of his body, but I can’t see her face. She reaches around him, and I see the tattoo sleeve of butterflies and flowers along one of her arms, and I know.

Cody moves just enough, and her black hair comes into view, slung to the side over one shoulder and falling all the way down to her ass. Her skin is tan, and her eyes are beautiful—even from a hundred feet away.

Someone on the stage makes a sound on one of the mikes, a test, and the crowd starts to scream. But I don’t move—I stay there, on the tips of my toes, watching. She holds his shoulder and stretches her fingers along his neck, into his hair, as she presses her lips to his ear so he can hear her. She’s giggling. Smiling. And I feel like I want to vomit. My only hope is that Cody doesn’t find any of this—anything about her—attractive.

I watch him pull out his phone, still unable to see his face, and he’s typing. I know he’s getting her number. The lights flash one more time, and Cody turns in my direction for just a second, indicating he has to go. She reaches up and hugs him tightly, kissing him on the lips lightly. It’s familiar—really f*cking familiar.

Cody’s walking back toward me, and I relax my legs and turn my attention back to the stage, no longer wanting to see the look on his face. I think seeing him smile—seeing him wear my smile for someone else—will physically kill me. I can feel the warmth of his body when he slides back in behind me, long before he talks. I’m holding my breath, willing him silently to not tell me anything. I promise I won’t ask.

“Sorry, old friend. I just wanted to say hello,” he says, everything he left out just weighing on my heart and killing me slowly.

I’m learning so much about myself tonight. And it turns out—I’m also the girl that gets jealous.

“Kyla, right?” I ask, not even needing to hear his response.

“Yeah,” he sighs.

And like a gift, the lights go out, and the roar of the crowd silences everything else. I spend the next three hours singing at the top of my lungs until my voice has nothing left to give.

Because I’m pretty sure my heart doesn’t.





Chapter 13: What’s Good for You





I pretended to fall asleep within minutes after we left the concert. I know Cody bought it, because he kept the radio turned down low and was careful not to turn too quickly during the drive home. When we pulled into the house, I “woke up” and rubbed my eyes, quickly excusing myself to retreat inside.

I didn’t want to talk about Kyla—even though she was the only thing I was thinking about. And I didn’t want to talk about the fact that Cody could so easily have been in Trevor’s place if only he hadn’t let his ridiculous pride keep him away the night of the Dean’s party.

It’s that second thing that’s been keeping me awake at night. I know it isn’t fair to blame Cody, but I do. Every night, I sit in my window, watching Cody move around his garage, watching him come and go, and wondering about the possibilities. What would have happened if he had been there that night? I know I would have noticed him…but would I have noticed Trevor, too? And whose pull would have been stronger?