Free Blindness by Ginger Scott Page A

a.m . on my stupid note to Cody. I
have fought against racing outside to remove it for the last hour.
My nerves are still a mess, and I know it’s because I’m afraid of
being caught.
    I sat by the window in my bedroom until my
eyes finally forced themselves shut around four in the morning; I
don’t know when Cody came home. I never heard the rumble of his
truck, but when I came downstairs with Trevor this morning, it was
there. I raced to the window to check, and my heart actually leapt
at seeing it.
    It’s a little after eight, and I’m manically
stirring my coffee at the table, regretting the entire stupid idea,
when I hear the back door slide open slowly behind me. I know it’s
him before he says a word. I can smell him—a mixture of oil and
metal and the faintest hint of last night’s whiskey.
    “You’re late,” I tease. I hear him take in a
deep breath, and the door shutting softly behind him. I don’t hear
him move, so finally I turn on my stool to see him standing just
inside the door, his head down, and the crumpled bill being
stretched between his hands. He finally looks up to me slowly, his
eyes full of fear, begging, and regret.
    He opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him
off. “You’re lucky. It’s buy-one-get-one-free day, plus there’s a
15-minute grace period. First cup’s cold, though,” I say, sliding
the mug of coffee I’ve had ready for him in his direction.
    He smiles with half his mouth, like the
effort to raise his lips is killing him. I can read the genuine
remorse all over his face, and I instantly forgive him. I keep that
to myself, though, just in case this turns out to be a bad
idea.
    “I believe you owe me $20?” I say, looking at
the money in his hands. He laughs once, softly, and finally moves
forward and takes the stool next to me, placing the bill flat
against the counter and sliding it over. I notice there’s something
written on the other side, and I turn it so I can read it.
     
    “ I’m so sorry.”
     
    I run my finger over the words slowly, to
show him I see them, and then I clutch the bill in my hand and
stuff it in my pocket. “Drink up, cowboy,” I say, tilting my coffee
back and finishing it off. I’ve had three cups this morning, and my
nerves are teeming from all of the caffeine. I drink coffee when
I’m stressed. I realize the contradiction of it all, how I’m
working against myself. But it doesn’t seem to stop me.
    Cody wraps his hand around his mug and looks
at it a good long while before he lifts it to his lips and takes a
loud slurping sip, like a kid with hot cocoa. The sound makes me
laugh, and he winks at me, his cheeks wrinkling with his smile—it’s
back, and it’s heavenly.
    After another minute of looking at his cup,
Cody sets it down and pushes it away. I’m staring at him now, and I
know it, but I can’t seem to stop. He’s wearing a clean white
T-shirt, but last night’s jeans—I recognize them. His hands, his
face, his hair—he’s a mess, every bit of his rough night worn on
his body. But it has my guts twisting, my insides aching. And deep
down, I know the way I’m looking at him is about being more than
friends. But I squeeze my eyes tightly to wring out those thoughts
and force myself to remember that that’s all we are. We’re
friends.
    “I think you owe me some change,” he says,
his voice a little scratchy. He coughs to clear his throat, and I
lean forward on my elbow, raising a brow to question him. “The
coffee? There’s no way I’m making it to the two-for-one deal. It’s
pretty much the worst shit I’ve ever had.”
    He busts out laughing mid-sentence, unable to
keep a straight face. I start to laugh, too, knowing I really have
no idea how to brew coffee. I only started drinking it in
college—and I usually buy my cup at Starbucks. I smile at him and
shake my head, instinctively reaching forward to touch him. I push
his arm with a tease, and he stops it before I can pull away,
grabbing my fingers and