Blindness by Ginger Scott Page B

overwhelming me.
    “So, why were you having a picnic for one out
in the first winter storm of the season?” Cody asks, turning all of
his attention to me.
    I’m no longer able to stop the whishing
sounds of blood rushing across my ears. I don’t talk about
Mac—ever. I won’t even talk about him with Caroline. And Trevor has
learned not to ask. But there’s something about Cody’s directness,
the way he peels away my layers, unafraid. I somehow sense that
talking about Mac with him will maybe make it hurt less.
    “I was visiting my dad,” I say, my voice
weak. I can’t believe the sound of the words when I say them—they
seem ridiculous, like the fantasies of a little girl. My palms are
sweating, and I’m overwhelmed with the same feeling I get when I
have to speak in front of a crowd. I slide down the bed, so I’m
lying on my back now, too, and I pull the spare pillow to my front,
clutching it like a teddy bear. I can feel Cody’s eyes on me. And I
can tell he’s waiting for me to become comfortable with the broken
parts of me I’m starting to share. It’s the same kind of patience
he showed when he took care of my burned arm. It’s disarming.
    Deep breath. I can’t believe I’m doing
this—saying this—out loud, to someone I hardly know.
    “I miss him. Sometimes it feels like I just
let someone punch me in the stomach for an hour, it hurts so much.
And I just need to talk to him,” I say, sharing more than I have
now with anyone…ever. “Looking at the stars was kind of our thing.
So when the pain gets to be too much, I look at them. I pretend
that he’s looking at them, too. And just the possibility that we’re
both seeing the same stars makes me feel like we’re connected, and
like maybe he can hear me.”
    I suck in air and feel my voice quiver; I’m
fighting so hard to hold it in, my eyes burning and my throat
closing up. I squeeze the pillow tightly to me. I can’t believe I
just told Cody all of this. I’m partly worried that he thinks I’m
crazy, and I’m also worried that I’m going to crack, break into a
million pieces right here in his room.
    My biggest fear is about to be realized when
he gets up from the bed. I brace myself for him to open his door
and ask me to leave, tell me that he just doesn’t have time in his
life for my kind of crazy. I’m actually counting the seconds until
he kicks me out, but instead of words, I hear him pull open a
drawer and riffle through some papers.
    I’m holding my breath, watching him as he
pulls out a safety pin and starts to push holes in a piece of
paper. He spends maybe five minutes looking at the paper closely,
biting on his bottom lip while he concentrates, only letting his
eyes drift to me for brief seconds before going back to work.
    I’m squeezing the pillow tighter now, my body
rigid with anxiety. Cody flips on a switch for a small lamp on his
night table, and then turns off the main light in his room. The
bulb is bright, and looking at it is making me squint my eyes,
trying to get them to adjust. I pull the pillow up to block the
light a little and listen as I hear Cody rip a few pieces of tape
and crinkle the paper while he fastens it to the top of his
lampshade. The room is suddenly much darker, and when I pull the
pillow back from my face, I realize what he’s done.
    Cody has given me my stars. They aren’t
perfect. There’s no Big Dipper, and the dots on his ceiling are
misshapen and not quite the right size. But the feeling is there.
I’m staring up at them, my smile unavoidable and so big it’s
actually starting to hurt my cheeks. I feel the bed move from
Cody’s weight. He’s lying next to me again, this time, we’re so
close our arms are touching, and between the stars above my head
and the heat to the right of my body, I’m no longer sure of
anything in my life—but I also don’t feel alone.
    “Go ahead,” Cody says. “Talk to him.”
    I can’t seem to look at his face, even though
I know it’s only