Blindness (24 page)

She’s rubbing her hands together and cracking
her knuckles when she comes back into the room. I’m sitting on the
end of the bed now, my feet folded up and my head slung
forward.

“So? Where’s the ring?” she asks. I nod
toward the drawer, where I’ve tucked it in its box. I don’t wear it
when Trevor isn’t here. I tell myself it’s because I don’t like
being flashy, and it’s a little uncomfortable. But I do it because
I don’t want to rub it in Cody’s face. I know he notices, but he
hasn’t said anything about it.

Jessie slides the drawer open and peeks
inside the little black box for a few seconds. She doesn’t react at
all when she closes it again and places it back in the drawer. She
zips down the front of her hoodie and pulls her arms from the
sleeves, tossing it on the bed just before she flops down next to
me.

“It’s a nice ring,” she says, no inflection
at all. She shoots her head to the side to look at me. “It doesn’t
look like you—like
at all.”

“I know,” I say, surprising myself at my
honesty.

“Why’d you say
yes
?” she asks.

I shrug, and then flop down on the bed beside
her. “I’m supposed to,” I say, knowing I’m only scratching at the
surface of the reason I said
yes
to Trevor’s proposal.

“Bullshit,” Jessie says, leaning her arm into
me.

I laugh at her reaction, mostly at how
quickly she called me out. “It’s not bullshit,” I say with a
nervous laugh. “Not totally, anyhow…I mean, I’ve been dreaming of
marrying Trevor Appleton since the day we met. His asking actually
happened right when I hoped it would. It’s just…”

She stops me mid sentence.

“It’s just that was before…before Cody,” she
smiles softly and reaches for my hand to squeeze it. On instinct, I
squeeze her back and let the tears fill up my eyes again.

“Jessie, what the hell am I doing?” I say,
the tears coming on a little harder now.

“You’re playing it safe,” she says. I hold my
breath to stop my crying and stare at her, trying to understand
what she means. Am I being safe? Is that
all
Trevor is
about?

I love him—I know I do. But maybe there are
different kinds of love? When Mac died, a piece of me died, too. My
fire. My energy. If anything happened to Trevor, I know I would
hurt and struggle to recover. But if something happened to Cody? It
would devastate me.”

“You should tell him,” she says, waking me
from my thoughts.

“Huh?” I ask, not completely following.

“Cody. You should tell him how you feel,” she
says, her face serious, but not threatening like before. She’s
talking to me like a friend—a girlfriend—and it feels amazing.

I smile back at her words, but I don’t
respond. I know that Cody’s biggest priority is saving his father’s
shop. And I also can’t bear the thought of being the thing that
destroys this new relationship he’s found with his brother.

I can tell Jessie senses my hesitation, but
she decides not to push me. Instead, she pulls me to my feet and
into the gigantic closet filled with my sad selection of
clothing.

“Well, at least you’re going to a kick-ass
show. Let’s get you dressed, so you can have a good time tonight,
maybe forget about this mess you’re in for a few hours, huh?” she
says, flipping through my hangers and scrunching her nose at most
of my garments. “Fuck, Charlie. What are you, 45?”

I laugh at her remark, until I realize she’s
serious—and then I realize how pathetic my wardrobe really is. I
went from shy-high-school-shut-in, to college-brown-noser. The
partying-coed never really made a stop with my style. My pulse is
quickening, and I feel like I might pass out as I realize Cody’s
going to be here in less than 20 minutes—and I might have to walk
downstairs in a sweater vest and jeans.

Out of instinct, I start to chew my nails,
only to have Jessie slap my hand away from my lips. “Stop it!” she
scolds. “That’s a bad habit, and you do it all the time. Come on,
pull your shoes off.”

I do as she says and notice she’s pulling off
her black combat boots. She pulls my white cotton sundress out and
tells me to pull it on. So, I do. Then she tells me to see if her
boots fit me, and amazingly we’re the same size. I’m awkward in
them, though, and I feel like I should wrap myself in a sweater to
cover up my bare shoulders. Just then, Jessie drags me into the
bathroom and comes back in with her hoodie.

“Here, wear this when you’re cold. But when
it warms up, during the show, take it off. You look super cute.
Trust me,” she smiles.

I check the mirror and decide she’s half
right, but my face and hair still look dull and lifeless. Without
warning, Jessie is coming at me with a mascara wand, and I back up
against the sink, a little nervous. “Relax, I got it out of your
make-up bag on the counter. I’m just going to help you rock it out
a little,” she says, biting the tip of her tongue while she
concentrates.

For the next ten minutes, Jessie powders,
circles, and smudges around my eyes, finishing with a touch of
gloss on my lips. Before she lets me turn around, she pushes my
head down between my knees and brushes out my waves with her
fingers, roughing up my hair at my scalp.

“There. Okay, flip it back up and check
yourself out, mama,” she says, proud of herself.

I turn around and can’t believe the vision
that greets me—I’m not sure I look like myself, but I like the
person that I see. “Wow,” I say, turning around some to see the
back of the dress and my hair. “You’re, like, a ninja make-up
warrior.”

Jessie laughs so hard she snorts, then she
covers her mouth, embarrassed by her noise. I laugh with her, until
I hear a soft knock at my door. I know it’s Cody—and suddenly, I’m
not so sure I want him to see me. I’m thinking about diving under
the covers on the bed and feigning ill when he creaks the door
open, his hand over his eyes.

“You decent, Charlie?” he asks. I can smell
his scent from across the room—like the embrace of a warm outdoor
fire. He must have taken a shower before he came to pick me up,
because his hair’s still wet. He’s wearing the same black thermal
that he was during class, but it suddenly seems ten times sexier.
The sleeves are pushed to his elbows, showing off his tats and
leather bands. His jeans are straight-cut, hugging his thighs and
showing off just how strong he is.

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.”

“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.