Blindness (25 page)

“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.

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
fucking 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?

I can’t help but laugh at myself as I replay
this same conversation in my head again tonight, the sad music
playing through my small iPod speaker. It’s funny, because in my
fantasy both Trevor and Cody are fighting over me, when in reality
they both could so easily have not noticed me at all.

I get up from the windowsill the second
Cody’s truck pulls out of the driveway. He’s going to the shop.
He’s been working on a special project, and it’s been keeping him
up late at night. I haven’t been riding with him in the mornings,
but we talk before my calculus class starts. I purposely keep it
short, and I always go to the drafting room for an hour or two
after class, or right to my internship so there isn’t time to
linger.

For some reason, though, I can’t seem to rest
my thoughts tonight. Usually when he leaves, I turn off my music
and pull up my covers for bed and wait for Trevor to call. My
conversations with Trevor are getting harder to have, too. I find
myself drifting off, not fully listening. And it makes me feel like
a terrible person. I’m not being fair to him, and with everything
he’s doing for Cody, it’s making me feel more and more like a
hypocrite—a liar or a cheat.

Trevor’s not calling tonight. He’s working
late on prepping research for someone in Sumner’s office, and he
wants to get it done before he flies in tomorrow. He’s coming a day
early for Thanksgiving—he wants time to go over his plan with Cody.
I think that’s why I’m so restless now, though.

Standing in the center of my bedroom in my
warm sweats, I squeeze my eyes shut tightly, trying to talk myself
out of doing something stupid. I seem to be losing the battle with
each motion I make. First, I’m stuffing my feet into my sneakers,
and soon my coat is on and my keys are in hand.

I’ll just drive by, maybe keep on going to
the diner and have a late night breakfast, I think to myself, deep
down knowing the real reason I’m jumping on the highway at midnight
to spy on Cody at his shop. I want to know if he’s there alone. And
if he’s not, I need to know who’s with him—if
she’s
with
him.

The streets are empty as the first layers of
snow are starting to dust the blacktop. I take it slow—I don’t
really feel comfortable driving at night, let alone when the roads
are slick. It takes me twice as long to get to the shop because of
it. When I pull in, I see the lights on behind the bay window, and
I see shadows moving around—I can tell someone is in there
working.

I’m holding my breath as I idle up to the
front of the building and turn off my engine. It takes me another
ten minutes to work up the courage to get out of my car and knock
on the door, and by this time, it’s almost one in the morning. I
look around the corner for Cody’s truck, but I don’t see it. I’m
sure he’s pulled it in to keep it warm. I fold my hands together
and blow into them to thaw them out before I knock, and with a deep
breath, I pound on the hard metal three times.

Then I wait.

The door rolls up a few seconds later, and I
can see the oil-stained work boots underneath. I think briefly
about fleeing, charging for my car, and diving in through the
passenger seat. My face is burning with the embarrassment I feel
over what I’ve done. But just when I’m worried I can’t take it any
longer, I’m staring right into Gabe’s eyes, and he’s smiling at me,
reaching out to pull me into a hug.

“Well hey, girl. What are you doing up so
late at night?” he asks. My eyes are darting everywhere, looking
for Cody, but I don’t see him. I see the Mustang up on the blocks,
and the pieces of the car’s insides labeled and placed on towels
around the garage. But there’s no Cody. He’s not here.

“I know what brought her out,” I hear
Jessie’s familiar voice, and I choke back my tears hearing her,
knowing she’s the one person—probably the only person I have on
this earth—who understands. I turn to her, and she’s already
reaching out her hand to pull me in.

“He’s not here?” I say, letting the tears
fill up my eyes now.

“Oh shit! I’m not good at cryin’. No offense,
Charlie, but I’m better off over here, with this engine block. You
let me know if someone needs their ass kicked though, okay?” Gabe
says, backing away and leaving me in Jessie’s capable arms.

“Yeah, I got this, babe. Just get back to
work,” Jessie says, pulling me into the small office and setting me
down on the couch. I see books strewn around the office table with
various notecards, and I look at her with my eyes scrunched.