“Let’s do left,” he says, jerking his chin to the left.
“Sounds good. And what if we get lost out here? Like, forever?”
“Simple,” he says with a shrug. “We live off corn and wait for rain.”
“I like corn,” I say with a smile.
“Frozen or canned?” he says, looking sideways at me. He stretches one hand out, letting it whisper through the stalks of corn as we walk.
“Cob,” I say. “But frozen after that. Canned anything is just…not good.”
“Agreed,” he says. He puts his hand back in his pockets and doesn’t say anything else. Neither do I, and even though I expect it to be uncomfortable, it isn’t.
We go right for the next two turns, and we come across absolutely nobody. When we take our third right turn and still see emptiness in front of us, I turn to Cohen.
“We’re lost,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says. “We really are.” The light we’re passing throws the planes of his face into sharp relief—his crooked nose, his strong chin—and glints off his glasses. He doesn’t look or sound worried, but that’s fine; I can worry enough for the both of us.
“Jack and Virginia are probably off somewhere doing who-knows-what. How am I supposed to get to know him if that’s the case?” I say. “How am I supposed to get him to even look at me?”
“He’s been looking plenty,” Cohen says, glancing at me. “But all right. Calm down.”
I shoot him a glare that’s only part joking. “Don’t you know you’re never supposed to tell a girl to calm down?”
“Really? I hadn’t heard that,” he says, smiling slightly.
I nod. “It’s true. We don’t like it.”
“Duly noted,” he says, still smiling. “I just wasn’t aware it was such a universal thing.”
“It might not be, but I wouldn’t test that if I were you.” I stop in my tracks, eyeing Cohen and then eyeing the corn stalks all around us. An idea is forming in my mind. I half like it and half want to run away from it.
But we’re lost, and as ridiculous as it is to say, I did not come to this corn maze just to get lost. Plus the walls are sort of starting to feel like they’re closing in—like I’m going to be stuck here forever.
“Okay,” I say. “I have an idea.”
“That feels ominous,” Cohen says.
“It is,” I say. “Do you think you could carry me on your shoulders?”
He raises his eyebrows and turns toward me. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah. So I can see where we are. I figure I’ll at least be able to see the lights of the parking lot.”
He shrugs. “Sure, I could. You can’t be more than—”
“Stop,” I say, cutting him off. “Stop. Add that to the list of things you shouldn’t say to a woman. Never make any guesses about her weight. Ever. If you overshoot we feel bad about ourselves. If you undershoot we feel bad that it’s not true. There’s no way you can win.”
“I did know that one, actually,” Cohen says, folding his arms. “My bad. Are you really going to get up on my shoulders?”
I rub my hands together against the cold. Even though the wind is reduced in the maze, it’s still starting to get chilly. “Do you have any better ideas?” I say.
“We could just wander around,” he says, sounding far too reasonable. “And do the maze like you’re supposed to do mazes.”
“Please let me exert some measure of control over this situation,” I say. “It makes me feel calmer instead of worrying about whether Virginia is sticking her tongue down Jack’s throat right now.”
I see Cohen wrinkle his nose. “I could have done without that last bit.”
“You dated her too, you know,” I say.
“Yeah, well, we all have regrets.” He crouches down and beckons me to come closer. “Come on,” he says. “Get on my shoulders.”
I approach him cautiously—although there’s really no reason to be nervous—and hesitantly swing one leg over his shoulder. He holds up one hand for me to hold on to, and it’s as cold from the chilled air as I know my own hand is. His shoulders are somehow broader than I’d realized.
When I’m sitting on his shoulders—feeling incredibly awkward, I might add—he stands, holding my legs as he does so. I’m grateful for that. Falling from heights is not my favorite way to spend my time.
“Lift with your legs,” I tell him, but he just snorts.
“I’ve got it, thanks.” I can’t see his face anymore, just the top of his head, but I hear the grin in his voice.
“Someone’s cocky.”
“Someone is merely confident in his ability to carry tiny people on his shoulders.”
“I’m not tiny,” I say, frowning. “I’m 5’5”.
“I’m 6’0”,” he says. “To me you’re tiny. Move your hands up. You’re pushing my eyebrows down over my eyes.”
“Oops,” I say, adjusting my grip. “Sorry.”
“Okay,” he says, tilting his head back to look up at me. “Can you see anything?”
“Does your hair do this naturally?” I say, clearly very focused on what he’s asking me. But his wavy hair is soft as I run my fingers through it. I thought he would have styled it to get it to look like this, but there’s no hint of gel.
“Do what?” he says. “Stick up?”
“Yeah,” I say, still running my fingers through it.
“Stop that,” he says, shaking his head as though I’m an annoying gnat he’s trying to shake off. “It sticks up on its own. It’s getting it to smooth down that’s the problem. I just don’t try. I don’t have that kind of time and product.”
I smile at the top of his head. “You don’t need it. You have nice hair.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then, “Really?”
“Yeah,” I say, feeling awkward. So I turn my eyes to the sky instead. The stars stretch endlessly above us, even more visible here than in the heart of our town, although Stone Springs is so small that they’re always easy to see. The sky is an inky, velvety black—a blanket being draped over the night, covering us in darkness.
I tear my eyes away and crane my neck, looking all around us. This field is huge, although there’s no way the maze takes up the whole field. There’s some sort of old building in the direction we’re facing, along with a definite increase in lights. When I look over my shoulder, I can see the lights of the parking lot behind us. Miraculously, we’re headed in the right direction.
“We’re good,” I call down to Cohen. “It’s that way.” I point.
He starts walking, and I feel the motion as a sort of lurch. I tighten my hold around his head, and I feel his grip on my legs tighten.
“Ow,” he says, shaking his head again. “Your fingernails are digging into me. Just relax up there. Enjoy the view.”
“You could put me down,” I say, trying to relax my grip.
“So you can climb back up in five minutes when you get frustrated again?”
He might have a point.
It’s then, as I’m resigning myself to the situation, that I realize just how high up I am. I’m a full two feet or so above the height of the corn maze. 6’0” is tall. And I’m not very excited about heights. “Well, just don’t drop me, please,” I say, looking nervously at the ground.
He slows to a stop and tilts his head back again to look at me. He must be able to hear the anxiety in my voice, because his voice is more calming than teasing as he says, “I’m not going to let you fall. Trust me.”
Bizarrely, I do. I nod. “If you do let me fall, I’ll make you do practice ACTs every day.”
“I’d like to see you try,” he says, sounding amused. “How would you force me to sit down and take a test?”
“Left,” I say as we come to another fork. I’m not high up enough to see all the possible routes through this stupid maze, but from the limited distance I can see, left looks like it’s going where we want to go. “I would just sit with you and annoy you about it until you caved and took t
he test.”
“I can’t see you having the ability to be so annoying that I’d willingly take a full practice test.”
“I can be obnoxious,” I say. “I have sisters. All little sisters learn how to be obnoxious.”
“Good point. Lydia has it down pat,” he says.
I give him a light slap on the head. “Lydia is an angel.”
“Sometimes,” he says, laughing and jerking his head away. “Sometimes. Sometimes she’s not. Don’t hit me.”
“And I’m sure you’ve never been obnoxious in your life,” I say, suddenly less engaged in this conversation—I’ve spotted a couple just around the next turn. I think it’s a couple, anyway; it’s hard to see in the dark. It’s definitely a person or people. And I can’t imagine what one person would be doing. “Hey, there’s someone around the next turn,” I say, my voice quieter now. “Maybe it’s Jack. Hurry up. Should we make some noise so they know we’re coming? So they have time to stop doing whatever they’re doing? I don’t want to see that.”
“I don’t either,” Cohen says, and I imagine his nose wrinkling again. He hesitates for a beat, and then he says loudly, “Mina! That’s so embarrassing!”
I slap him on the top of the head again; this time it’s not a light slap. “Shut up,” I hiss.
“How red is your face, do you think?” he says, laughing.
I try to kick him, but he’s holding onto my legs too tightly, and that only makes him laugh harder.
“Put me down,” I say, twisting and pulling at my legs, which of course doesn’t work.
Until he lets go and I tip straight backward.
15
Mina
The tipping-backward business is not so great for my dislike of falling from heights. A cry of surprise and pure terror slips out of my mouth as I fall, which seems to happen in slow motion. I hear Cohen curse, feel him twist around, feel his hands grasp at me randomly.
I give a very fervent prayer of thanks that the random grasps don’t land anywhere too embarrassing. Instead he ends up with one hand hooked around my leg and the other cradling my torso. He lowers me to the ground slowly and then sits right down next to where I lie in an awkward heap. Our shadows stretch long in the light of the lantern next to us.
I do a quick inventory. Nothing actually hurts—except my pride, which I know everyone says, but it’s a thing, because I am definitely a little embarrassed—and I seem to be breathing okay. I move gingerly and sit up.
“You said you weren’t going to let me fall,” I say, and I’m pleased to see Cohen at least looking like he feels bad.
“Are you okay?” he says instead of responding to my accusation.
“I’m fine,” I say, rolling my shoulders.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, and he actually sounds like he feels horrible. “I’m sorry, Mina; I didn’t realize you—”
“It’s fine,” I say, waving his apology away. “I’m really fine.”
He stands, dusting his hands off, and then holds one hand out to me. I take it, and he pulls me up.
But he pulls harder than he needs to, and I stumble forward. And then I’m suddenly standing very, very close to him. Chest-to-chest close. Tilt-my-head-and-we’re-kissing close. His back is to the lantern, his face indecipherable in the dark, but his body goes unnaturally still. I know mine does.
And time stops for one moment—a moment full of infinite possibilities where corn stalks and my racing heart and the starry sky above are our only witnesses. And I know, without knowing how I know, that we’re both thinking about the same thing. The same confusing, crazy thing.
And then we lurch apart, and the moment of infinite possibilities is gone.
“Um,” I say in my most eloquent speech yet to date. I point randomly over my shoulder. “We should—”
“Yeah,” he says, his voice cracking. “We should—yeah.” I can see in the light of the lantern that he’s not meeting my eyes, and I’m glad for it.
He turns abruptly and walks on ahead, and I follow. We round the corner, but no one is there; whoever I saw is gone now. We walk in silence for several minutes, and this silence is more uncomfortable than the last one. All I can think about is the feeling of standing so close to him, of how he smelled, of how—
I shake my head. He isn’t Jack. Yes, I can admit it; something about Cohen is alluring. I don’t know what it is, but it’s there. And I like him. He’s a surprisingly good friend. I expected him to balk at being seen with me, but he hasn’t. He’s supportive and honest and funny.
But he’s not Jack. Jack is classy and kind, and I’ve always been a tall-dark-and-handsome girl.
Well, not a tall, dark, and handsome girl. A girl who prefers tall, dark, and handsome men. I see how that was confusing.
Cohen is on one side of the path, and I’m on the other, as far apart as we can be. I don’t know when that happened, but it’s weird. And also comforting; I want to put some space between us. Just for now. Just for the moment, while my heart is still trying to do weird things and my stomach is tying itself in fluttery little knots.
I’ve been keeping my eyes on my feet for the last minute—something I’ve been trying to avoid doing lately—but I look up when I notice the path is starting to get lighter. Lights—we’re almost through the maze.
Thank goodness. I am swearing off corn mazes. Actually, I am swearing off mazes of any kind. No more mazes for this girl.
I hear Cohen breathe a sigh of relief too. “Finally,” he says, and I give a shaky laugh. We round one last bend and see the light at the end of the proverbial corn-maze-shaped tunnel, and it’s like something shifts between us. Walking toward the end of the maze, the silence between us isn’t weird anymore; it’s comfortable again. I’m bizarrely happy as we finally cross out of the maze. It feels like we’ve left whatever sort of tension was momentarily between us.
And I’m glad. I like Cohen. I don’t want things to be weird.
Jack, Virginia, Marie, and Grant are waiting for us next to a large lamp post, the kind used in parking lots. How did they get out of that maze before we did? Did we just take all the wrong turns? I sort of expected us to be the first out, mostly because all we did in that maze was try to escape it.
When I glance at Cohen, he looks surprised too. He meets my eyes and shrugs, and we look back at the group waiting for us. Virginia is still hanging off of Jack, but she’s looking at Cohen with interest. My gut gives a little squirm. Marie is staring at her fingernails, and Grant once again just looks confused at my presence.
You and me both, Grant.
“You get lost, man?” Jack says. He alone smiles at us, and I smile back.
“Yep,” Cohen says in what I somehow recognize as his voice of forced lightness. He uses it when he’s flustered or uncomfortable and wants to brush past it.
How do I even know that?
I guess we have grown up together, somewhat. We never really talked much, but we still spent time around each other.
Jack looks at me, extricates himself from Virginia, and comes to stand in front of me, his hands on his hips. He quirks a smile at me. “Are we going to get you to talk more tonight, Mina?”
I just stare at him, because I am a tongue-tied idiot. Is there some sort of clever response I can give? Should I be flirty? Do I know how to be flirty? I don’t know if that’s in my current repertoire—
Cohen gives me a completely non-subtle jab with his elbow, jerking me away from my slightly panicky, racing thoughts.
I just smile awkwardly at Jack and then nod.
The second he turns away from me, I turn and glare at Cohen.
“That was hard to watch,” he says, grinning. “You do know how to speak, don’t you?”
“Shut up, Superman,” I say. “Or I’ll shove you into another wall.”
Cohen just smirks.
“All right,” Jack says to the group at large. I can’t help but notice that he’s looking at me a little more than he’s looking at everyone else.
&nbs
p; Or am I imagining that? I have an excellent and sometimes overzealous imagination. I could be wrong.
“You guys ready for the haunted house?” Jack gestures to the building I saw from the maze. It’s up on the hill, and as I squint my eyes to look more closely at it, I realize how haunted it really does look. It looks less like a haunted house and more like a haunted office building or something, though.
“Nope,” Cohen says immediately. Everyone looks at him, and he clears his throat, looking awkward. “We have to get home,” he says. “Mina has curfew.”
“What?” I say, looking at him with a frown. “I don’t have a curfew.” I don’t add that the reason I don’t have a curfew is that I never go anywhere. My parents never gave me one because it was never relevant.
Cohen just stares at me, his face an odd contortion of mixed emotions. His eyes are almost pleading with me, but he’s also somehow forcing his mouth into a very unnatural smile that I can tell is supposed to look easy and casual.
Oh. Oh. He doesn’t want to go to the haunted house. My mind flashes briefly back to his shudder when Lydia mentioned watching a scary movie. He must not like scary things.
“Oh. Right,” I saw awkwardly. “That curfew.”
“When’s your curfew?” Jack says, looking disappointed—disappointed!—as he glances at his watch. I try to catch a glimpse of his watch too, because I have no idea how late it is. It feels pretty late, though. We didn’t even leave the house until nine something.
I take a stab in the dark and hope for the best. “Eleven?” I say. I realize too late that it sounds like a question.
Jack’s face clears. “Oh, you’ve got time,” he says, smiling at me with his perfect teeth displayed brightly in the relative darkness. “It’s only ten. This won’t take that long. You can still get home in plenty of time.” He turns and walks back to the others, and they all start up the path to the top of the hill. He looks over his shoulder at us, gesturing for us to follow.
I look at Cohen, who looks sick to his stomach. The thought of Cohen—strong, capable Cohen—being afraid of a haunted house is so funny to me that I actually laugh. I clamp my hand over my mouth to cut it off, but not before Cohen glares at me.
Eye of the Beholder (Stone Springs Book 1) Page 12
