Don't Kiss the Messenger (Edgelake High School, #1)(43)
“I knew a girl like that once,” Scott said. “We messaged all the time, and it was great, but then in person it backfired.”
“She wasn’t the same?”
“Literally wasn’t the same,” Scott said. “She used some other girl’s photo the entire time. I didn’t even recognize her when we met.”
“So what happened?” I asked, intrigued. “You broke things off?”
“Nah, we just sexted for a while. We were really good at that.”
I smirked. I wanted more than digital foreplay.
“How’s the sex?” he asked, point blank.
I picked at the white paint on the turf field. “We haven’t.”
“What?” Scott said. “That’s why it’s so awkward. She probably thinks you’re not into her. Because, you know, you’re not into her.”
I shook my head. “I think I’ve made my feelings perfectly clear.”
“Then what are you waiting for?” he asked.
“I don’t want to mess it up. I don’t want to move too fast. She might be the one.”
Scott’s mouth fell open. “Wait. Are you saying you’re in love with this girl?”
I laughed. Shouldn’t that be a prerequisite to sex, I wanted to ask. I was truly old school.
“I might be,” I said. With part of her, I wanted to add. “I need to spend more time with her.”
“Looks like you answered your own question,” he said. “Take her out.”
“I tried asking her out, but she always wants to invite friends.”
He shook his head. “I’m telling you, girls are all about nice restaurants. Take her somewhere downtown. She’ll brag about it to all her friends. It’s like racking up scoring points, so you can score with her later.” He pounded my back with his open palm and jogged away. He turned once and threw up his arms in a touchdown motion.
Chapter Seventeen
CeCe
Doing laundry was a nightmare in my apartment building because of the basement. Dim lighting emanated from naked bulbs. The sole switch only activated the first light—at the top of the stairs. If you wanted to illuminate anything beyond, you had to stumble down into the shadowy depths, like a teen in every slasher movie ever made, and pull the chain dangling from one of the bulbs farther in.
What the light revealed wasn’t much of an improvement—cobwebs, weird crawl spaces, and doors leading to coal chutes and walk-ups long ago sealed over. Edgelake had decided to put off any basement renovations, as if it would demise the building’s historical integrity.
The bouquet of decaying rodents mingled with the musty, damp smell of age. Unfortunately, the laundry area lay at the opposite corner from the stairway. So we maneuvered our heaping laundry hampers down narrow steps while keeping one hand free to pull light chains as we moved through creepy rooms to where access to water and gas had situated the laundry. A long white Formica counter with neatly organized stain fighters and fabric softeners made us feel like we’d found an oasis of civilization.
Laundry was my attempt to avoid thinking about Bryn’s date with Emmett tonight. Their first real date involving more than one of them attending the other one’s game. They had managed to find a Tuesday night that worked. I knew this because I had done the texting to set the whole thing up. And I had counseled a panicked Bryn about what to say during an entire dinner where she was expected to talk.
I took my time separating laundry while I tried to muster the courage to retrace my steps, this time turning off the lights as I went, finally making a mad dash for the safety above ground. If I stuffed the washer, I could manage my laundry in just two loads. It was a good thing the athletic department washed all our workout gear. It was tempting to live in my practice clothes so I would never have to do laundry.
I was adding detergent to my load of whites when my phone rang. I pulled it out of my back pocket. The screen identified the caller as Bryn. Why was she calling me in the middle of her date? Not even the middle—I’d be surprised if they’d had their appetizer yet. What the hell?
“What the hell, Bryn?” I said into the phone.
“CeCe, I can’t do it. I’m going to make him take me home. I’ll say I got food poisoning.” Her voice was shrill.
“Bryn. Calm down. Where are you?”
“In the bathroom at Brovi’s,” she said. Brovi’s was an Italian restaurant on Monroe Street, one of my absolute favorites. I could visualize their table in the wine cellar, aglow with arched arbors draped in white lights. I could see the golden candlelight quivering between them. I could almost taste the cheesy garlic bread.
“You don’t have food poisoning,” I said. “Have you even tried the food yet?”
“It all looks greasy,” she said. “And everyone’s old here. Like, old, old.”
I sighed. It just wasn’t a high school hangout.
“Then go somewhere you feel comfortable,” I said.
“I already thought of that, but Emmett didn’t want to go to Yogurt Express,” she whined.
I muffled the phone against my chest as I groaned at the ceiling.
“Bryn, what is actually the problem?”
“I can’t talk to him. He keeps asking me questions. It’s weird.”