Don't Kiss the Messenger (Edgelake High School, #1)(34)

I couldn’t see myself anymore. The vapor from Tuba’s shower had clouded the mirror once again.

“Sorry, CeCe,” Bryn said to me. “I was just trying to help.”

“I know. I appreciate it,” I told her, which was true.

…

EMMETT

I looked around the living room of CeCe’s apartment. Most student housing had the typical generic feel. Movie posters like Quentin Tarantino cult classics, Star Wars, or maybe Guardians of the Galaxy. A lot of girls opted for random French café scenes, or those hallmark quotes written over a sunset background. Décor brought to you by Target back-to-school ads. This place actually felt like a…home. Braided rugs, coffee tables, end tables crowded with books and lamps and windows lined in curtains instead of half-broken blinds. The mantel was cluttered with vases and candles. It reminded me of my dad’s old apartment, all thrift store finds and cheeky artwork.

The only thing that hinted it was an apartment full of teenage girls was the strange parade of lingerie hanging from the staircase banister which appeared to be doubling as a clothesline. My eyes couldn’t help but linger on a particular black bra, edged in lace.

“Has anyone seen my purple bra?” CeCe’s voice hollered from somewhere upstairs.

I sat down in a brown recliner and waited. CeCe and I were meeting to prepare for our second class discussion. Since I played a sick card and bailed on Tuesday’s class, I was determined to make it up to her. I got out of practice early and decided to stop by her apartment, instead of meet her at the coffee shop. I figured she’d applaud my newfound dedication.

“What?” someone shouted.

“Purple bra?” CeCe shouted back.

I looked up toward the second floor and saw CeCe combing through an assortment of lingerie. Through the railing beams I could see a thin, white towel practically hanging off of her. She made a meager attempt to clasp the top from falling down her chest. I realized I was staring and I picked up a magazine. I pretended to be captivated by Women’s Health.

“CeCe,” Tuba hollered up from the first floor. She passed me, holding a bread tin in one hand and a Pop Tart in the other. A bathrobe was strapped around her tall figure. Don’t these girls ever get dressed?

“I need some good music to bake to,” Tuba shouted.

CeCe groaned in response. “I’m having an underwear emergency,” she said.

“Music emergency trumps all!” Tuba declared.

CeCe turned down the last flight of stairs and gave me a great view of her curves, which were threatening to break free from the hold of the flimsy cotton.

I set the magazine down on the coffee table. It was a pointless distraction.

“Jazz,” CeCe decided.

“Like Norah Jones?” Tuba asked.

“Jazz, not easy listening,” she clarified. “Rosemary Clooney, Cole Porter, Frank Sinatra. Judy Garland’s voice is classic. The way she sings Embraceable You… I’m telling you, it’s like rubbing silk against your soul.”

I smiled. It was different to observe CeCe in the comfort of her house. She let down her walls. And most of her clothes.

“Great! Let me borrow your phone,” Tuba said.

“I can’t, I have to be somewhere.”

Tuba waved a Pop Tart. “All we have is crap food. I want a real goddamn pastry,” Tuba declared.

CeCe grabbed the Pop Tart out of Tuba’s fingers and took an enormous bite. She scanned the mixed assortment of bras.

“Maybe Kelsey took it,” she pointed blame.

“Your boobs are twice as big as anyone in this house. No one’s going to borrow your bra.”

CeCe inhaled the rest of the pop tart and licked the crumbs off her fingers.

“I’m in a hurry,” she said. “I have a study date for Shakespeare.”

“Why don’t you guys just study here?” Tuba asked.

“Because I’m meeting him at a coffee shop,” she said.

“You mean Emmett? He’s right here.” Tuba pointed toward the living room.

CeCe looked over her shoulder and the rest of her body followed until she faced me. I smiled and lifted my hand off my knee, offering her a casual wave. Her mouth dropped open.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“I walked over after practice,” I said. “I texted you.”

“Didn’t you hear me yell?” Tuba asked her.

“I was in the shower,” she said. She looked down and realized her chest was barely covered. She hiked the towel up, which only added a better view of her thighs. Her cheeks flushed and I waved my hand in the air.

“Don’t worry about it,” I assured her. “I’ve been in plenty of locker rooms.”

“This isn’t a locker room,” Tuba declared.

“Are you sure about that?” I asked and stood up out of the chair. “One of your roommates answered the door in her sports bra, you’re wearing a bath robe,” I said, pointing to Tuba’s silk kimono. “You guys have underwear hung all over your railing—”

“We use it as a clothes line sometimes—” CeCe clarified.

“Now look what you’re walking around in,” I said to her.

“No, let’s stop looking at what I’m walking around in,” CeCe said.