Through Glass(9)

That sounded like something a girl would say to a guy when she was tip-toeing around something important. Which, judging by the look on his face, was exactly what was happening here.

“I’m sorry?” I asked, wishing he would clarify or, even better, just spit it out.

He looked at me before returning to focus on the soft movement of his fingers against my wrist. I fought the shiver of pleasure that moved up my spine that his touch was giving me. A quick inhale escaped me without my even knowing it. I clamped my mouth shut and held it in, hoping he hadn’t noticed it, but he wasn’t even looking at me. It was probably a good thing that he wasn’t looking at me, too. The emotions that were coursing through me right then were likely to disrupt my better judgment.

“I’m nervous for you to come to my art show with me tonight,” Cohen said as he looked up to me, his unusually dark eyes dodging my own. He was nervous. How odd. I hadn’t seen him this nervous in years. Not when he packed up for college, not when he was nominated for prom king. It was a side of him I had almost forgotten.

“Why?”

“Nuh-uh, a secret for a secret,” he said as he picked up the ink pen I had been using to address envelopes. “I told you one of my secrets and now it is your turn.”

He smiled and I felt everything freeze comfortably inside of me at the look he gave me. The penetrating stare left, abandoning me with a pleasant numbness. He turned away from me, pressing the tip of the pen against the skin of my wrist and drawing one long line down, the end curving into a u shape.

“Tell me a secret, Lex. You get a line for every secret.”

“Um…” I was drawing a blank. I had never kept secrets from him. He knew this. I had nothing to hide. Well, that wasn’t true. I still had a few secrets, but every one of them revolved around him and I wasn’t sure I was ready to part with them yet. It seemed I didn’t have a choice, however, and I had a feeling that was the entire point of this game. I wouldn’t give in quite yet.

“I haven’t liked hotdogs since your tenth birthday party,” I finally conceded, fully aware the grumbling in my stomach was not only caused by Cohen’s soft touch against my skin.

Cohen looked up to me, his lips pressed into a line as he tried to keep the laugh in.

“You mean, when you found the hair…”

“Yeah,” I cut him off, not wanting to be reminded.

“You haven’t had one hotdog since then?” He asked, his laugh escaping that time in the form of a throaty chuckle.

“No, Cohen, not one.” I smiled. “Now, what about your secret?”

He smiled and added another line, this one swooping alongside the other one and crossing at the bottom.

“I remember,” he began without even being prompted, his focus on another line he was already adding. “I remember every moment of the car crash that killed my family.”

I jerked a bit at his words, the meaning behind them slicing right through my heart. His voice was slow and deep, but I could hear the hurt and pain run through each syllable. The knowledge that he remembered that horrifying night froze through me. I held still, torn between crying for him and holding him.

He had been the only survivor. A semi had traveled over the center lane. His sister and both parents gone. It was a miracle he had survived. He had been only seven.

I still remembered my mother telling me about it, and the way it flooded the news. I still remembered the broken little boy that would cry in his window every night, the one I would give puppet shows to from behind my desk in an attempt to cheer him up. The little boy I would bring popsicles to in an attempt to get him to smile again.

We had never talked about it. Never brought it up; it was an unspoken truce. So to hear him admit it so freely… For all I knew he had repressed the memory. I swallowed heavily as my initial shock wore off, leaving me with a heart wrenching empathy that was almost crippling.

“Cohen, I…” He looked up at me, his eyes glistening a bit as he shook his head in a plea for me not to continue.

“A secret, Lex,” he reminded me, his eyes still focused on the line he was carefully placing on my skin.

I couldn’t talk about hot dogs or abnormally large feet after that. I couldn’t. He was being honest and I deserved to give him the same honesty.

I felt my chest tighten in nervous anticipation as I formulated the words in my head, preparing myself for what was coming.

“I didn’t eat for a week after you turned me down at Sadie’s,” I said it all very quickly, not willing to give him a chance to respond. “Your turn.”

He didn’t look at me; he kept his focus on what he was drawing on my wrist. However, I could see his lips turn up as he smiled at what I had said. I hoped it was a good smile. My nerves were not interested in finding out on their own, however, and I relaxed on instinct.

“I didn’t draw a thing after I left for college. I didn’t know it until I came home for Christmas, but I had lost my muse.” He didn’t even look at me as he spoke. He just kept drawing on my wrist, one line after another even though the secrets had stopped.

“Your muse?” I asked, not fully understanding. He only nodded in affirmation.

“At Christmas, when I handed you your present, you looked at me and smiled and everything opened up in me. I think I have painted more over the past five months than at any other time in my life.”