Blindness

“You’re smiling,” Cody says, and I nod looking up at him and then back down at my desk. “You don’t do that much.”

His remark catches me off guard, but I do well masking it. Do I really not smile much? I’m generally happy. What a statement to make. I’m starting to build with anger over it when Cody’s hand brushes against mine slightly. He’s rubbing the wood, tracing the initials carved on top.

“It’s a beautiful piece. How long have you had it?” he smiles at me through his words.

“I’m not sure, really. Years, I guess?” I say, trying to remember when Mac moved it from his room to mine. “It was my dad’s. MJH.”

I’m staring at his initials, and watching Cody feel them with his hands—the carved letters almost looking like an extension of the artwork and scrolls of text on his skin. “MJH? What’s it stand for?” he asks.

“Maxwell Jacob Hudson, but we all called him Mac,” I say, a pinch stinging my eyes for the first time in months. I clear my throat a little, and turn to look away. But Cody doesn’t stop there.

“Your dad…he died?” he asks, still looking down at the initials.

“Yeah, he did,” I say, praying he’ll let it go, that he won’t push any further. He doesn’t, but I’m still surprised by what he says next.

“My dad’s name was Jacob. We all called him Jake,” he says, turning now so we’re face-to-face. I don’t know what to say to him, so I don’t speak at all. The silence is palpable, but it’s not uneasy. I don’t know what makes me do it, but I lean forward and brush my hand down Cody’s chest, stopping at his heart. I flash to his face when reality hits me, and I notice that he’s staring at my hand…flat on his chest. I’m about to pull it away when he places his hand over mine, and continues to stare at it for a few seconds. “Yeah, it still hurts,” he says, avoiding my eyes and taking in a deep, stuttered breath. I can tell he’s fighting tears.

We back away from each other suddenly and simultaneously. I can hear the sound of wood sliding along the floor, and I realize Cody is trying to lift the desk without me. I put my hands under the other end, and we nudge it forward until it’s outside the storage room. I slide the door shut again and turn to see Cody climbing into the back of his truck.

His movements are so laborious. Everything seems so hard, only one leg strong enough to carry his body weight, and barely at that. I want to ask about it, but I bite my tongue. I’ve been bold enough today.

We get the desk loaded in the back and tied down with some twine. We’re on our way back to the Appleton’s when I see Cody’s wallet sitting on the dashboard. Feeling curious, and admittedly a little flirtatious and playful, I reach for it and flip it open. “Hey, nice driver’s license picture,” I tease.

“Oh, hey man, that’s not cool. I help you with your desk, and you snag my DMV photo? That’s dirty, Charlie,” he says, and I wince at my name. I let it go. Things are going well, and for some reason, I need them to.

After I take in his photo, which, truthfully, was not that bad, I start to read all of his details to him. “You’re a donor? Wow, how very chivalrous of you,” I say, honestly impressed, but still in my teasing mode.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m a giver. Come on, give it back,” he says, reaching over and grabbing my arm. I jerk away, but not before making a mental snapshot of our latest touch.

“You weigh 170? Hmmmm, I’m not seeing it,” I tease, and he just rolls his eyes before moving his arm to the side and flexing a little for me. I feel tingles travel down my spine when he does. “Hair, brown? Yep, check. Eyes, blue? Yep, check. You’re 23? Hmmm, you seem so much younger,” I joke, but the truth is he seems so much older, like he’s lived—hard.

“Name, Cody Carmichael?” I stall after reading his name. “Carmichael?”

“Yeah, I sure as hell am not an Appleton,” he says, his voice suddenly irritated.

“No, I didn’t mean that. I just…it’s strange. I swear, I know your name,” I say, searching my mind for a reason, but also making a mental note of his disdain for the Appletons. Why would I know his name?

“X games,” he says, and I squint my eye and look at him sideways.

“What games?” I say, not quite following.

“X games, I was in the X games. For about three years,” he says, looking over at me to see if I’m following. I’m not. “I rode motocross. Freestyle. You know, the guys that flip and shit with their motorcycles in the air?”