Don't Kiss the Messenger (Edgelake High School, #1)(13)

We looked around for a free table, but most of them were taken. Apparently everyone needed a study break tonight. Tuba found some open seats at the counter and ordered two Cokes and a basket of waffle fries. I nodded to Prentice and Tucker, sitting in the back of the restaurant with a handful of other rowers, scoping out the women like they were talent agents scouting for models.

Bryn blew in, hair disheveled like a rumpled golden cape, all long legs and huge eyes. She had Disney princess eyes, a size too big for her face. Today they looked panicked. She reminded me of a skittish thoroughbred.

She walked over to us and held out her phone.

“He texted me.”

“He being…” I had a sinking feeling I already knew.

“Emmett. Emmett Brady.”

“As opposed to all the other Emmetts we know,” Tuba said.

I was impressed. Bryn worked fast. I remembered her awkward exchange with Emmett in the tunnel. “When did you give him your number?” I asked.

“Oh,” she said, “I was too shy to talk to him. So I told him to message me instead.”

“Isn’t that talking?” I asked and glanced at Tuba.

“Can we focus on the problem here? I don’t know what to text back,” Bryn said. The despair in her voice almost made me laugh. Bryn sat on the bar stool. Her hair smelled like lavender, or maybe it was just her natural scent, as if her pores magically emitted botanical fragrances. I wouldn’t be surprised.

“What do you want us to do about it?” Tuba asked.

Bryn slumped her elbows on the bar and looked at her phone.

“I don’t know how to answer him,” she said.

“Why? Did he ask you the molecular weight of Iridium?” I asked. “We can look up the periodic table quick…”

“God, CeCe. You’re always giving me shit. Take me seriously here.”

I smiled. “I don’t know if I can do that, Bryn. You’re too much fun.”

“Well Emmett isn’t going to think so if I can’t come up with a response to his texts.”

Bryn was momentarily distracted when Prentice waved at her from the back of the room. Her pout was replaced by a dazzling smile. Even her teeth were perfection.

Something she said had piqued my interest. “Plural? He sent you more than one message?”

She nodded. “It’s like a puzzle. I can’t figure it out.”

This intrigued me. “Let me see.” I held out my hand for her phone. I scrolled down and found three texts from Emmett. I opened each one and read.

-Today 4:46 p.m.-

Hijacker of thoughts.

The Traveling Wilburys.

Last Night.

-Today 5:17 p.m.-

I have a mental picture of you… A thousand words in the blink of an eye. Killer.

Guy Clark.

My Favorite Picture of You.

-Today 5:56 p.m.-

There’s a white owl out my window.

Drive-By Truckers.

Grand Canyon.

I smiled down at the screen. “It’s a playlist,” I told her.

“What?”

“The Traveling Wilburys? They’re a music group. He texted you songs.”

I handed the phone back to her, and she looked down at it with a frown. She scrolled through his texts.

“I’ve never heard of any of this stuff. A playlist is kind of a douchey thing to text, isn’t it?”

I wished it were. “It’s pretty tasteful, actually.” Personal. Thoughtful. Romantic.

“He called me a killer,” Bryn said.

“I think it’s a volleyball reference,” I said. “You had 15 kills last night.”

“Oh.” She thought about that for a beat. “And a white owl? What is this, Harry Potter? He thinks I’m a wizard?”

“Maybe it’s a mythical reference,” I said.

She groaned at the ceiling. She was annoyed at him for being unique?

“What’s wrong with just saying ‘hi, how’s it going?’” she asked.

“Anyone can do that. He’s being original. These songs remind him of you in some way. I think he wants you to listen to them.”

She rolled her eyes. “Okay, I get that. But how do I respond to something like this?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “What do you want to say to him?”

She looked down at the phone and back at me. A smile slowly spread across her face.

“I want to say he has a hot ass,” she said.

I shook my head and pulled her phone away before she could type.

“Why can’t I text him that?” Bryn asked. “Have you ever looked at his ass?”

Briefly, I wanted to admit.

“You need to be more subtle, more cryptic. Give him a challenge. Are there any songs that remind you of him?”

“Not really. You think of something,” she said and handed me her phone.

“No!” I said and pushed it back in her hand. Tuba watched our exchange with interest.

“You’re always playing your music in the locker room. Music’s your thing,” Bryn pushed. “What’s a good song?”

“It should come from you,” I insisted. “Be honest.”

She handed me the phone again. “Please?”

I thought about lyrics. I grabbed her phone and after a couple deletes, I wrote: Your eyes are either gray or blue, I’m never close enough to say.