Don't Kiss the Messenger (Edgelake High School, #1)(44)

“It’s called a conversation. He’s trying to get to know you.”

“Well, it’s making me feel stupid. We’ve already established I don’t play any musical instruments and that I’ve never heard of any of the weird classical shit he listens to. I thought Schubert was a kind of ice cream.”

I slapped my hand against my forehead.

“So, ask him questions. Don’t you want to get to know him?”

My phone chirped as I got a text. An idea came to me. A bad idea, but it might work.

“Bryn, there’s a very simple solution.” I could still hear her hyperventilating over the phone. “Take a breath, okay? Now, keep our call live, and open your texting app.” I sent her a message.

Everything will be ok

I heard the chirp as she got my text. Shit. “Bryn! Put your phone on silent.”

“Okay. It’s on silent.”

“Attagirl. Listen, in one minute, you’re going to leave the bathroom and go back to your table. Don’t disconnect our call. When you sit down, put your phone in your lap where you can see it. I’m going to text you things to say to Emmett. Do you think you can do that?”

“I’ll try. Thank you CeCe. I love you!”

“Not as much as you love Emmett,” I murmured. “It’s time to go back out there. Now, head up and smile. And Bryn?”

“What?”

“Don’t leave the bathroom with the phone up to your ear.”

“Right,” she said, followed with a nervous laugh. “Got it.”

I heard restaurant noises as I pictured Bryn crossing the elegant space with the confidence of a runway model, all eyes on her—especially Emmett’s. Staying where I was in the dank, deserted basement, I scooted my piles of laundry to the side and hoisted myself up onto the counter.

“Good, you’re back. The food’s here. I didn’t want to start without you.” I was surprised how well I could hear Emmett.

“Super. I’m starving.” Bryn said too loudly. I heard a chair scrape against the floor. “Thank you!” she practically squawked. I clenched my teeth and texted: Lower your voice

“Thank you,” Bryn repeated, drawled out in a tone two octaves lower. Ugh.

I meant volume

My thumb paused briefly over the keypad as I thought of all the things I would say if I was sitting across the table from Emmett.

Why music?

“What do you mean?” he asked Bryn.

I watched one of your games. The way you see all the players—the entire field. You don’t miss anything. I can see why you play. But, why music?

I heard Bryn read the words. She sounded halting, like she was reciting from memory. It came off perfectly. As Bryn read, I could hear a creak as if Emmett was leaning forward.

“I like football, but I love music.”

“I don’t get it,” Bryn said.

I sighed.

“Most people don’t,” Emmett said. “I think it’s pretty simple.”

Better groupies?

“You’ll make fun of me.”

Probably

I smiled at the phone.

“Promise you won’t tell anyone? I sort of have this tough-guy persona on campus.”

His voice sounded closer. I imagined him leaning over the table. I could almost feel his eyes on me. Suddenly, I was there, across the candlelight from him, soaking in his stare.

I don’t tell anyone about our conversations

“I hear music in my head. When it rains. When leaves fall. I hear it when I see people walk. Especially when I see you walk. You put a lot of notes in my head. It’s like my mind is constantly writing a soundtrack.”

So that’s your freak power?

“You mean my superpower?”

I could hear him smiling through his words.

“Wow. That is really hot,” Bryn said.

I shook my head.

Stop talking, Bryn.

“Stop taking Bryn,” her voice echoed my text. Shit. I started typing again.

“I mean, that’s reflexive,” Bryn stammered.

“What?” Emmett asked.

I looked down at my text. Fuck. I must have typed too fast. The auto-correct changed “impressive” to “reflexive.” I typed again: Impressive

And that’s when a gigantic spider slid down a silken thread to hover right in front of my nose. I dropped my phone and let out a strangled shriek as I cringed away from the repulsive thing. I looked around frantically for something to swing at it and settled on my shoe. But by the time I’d armed myself with a sneaker, the spider was gone. It could be anywhere—my clothes, my hair, my laundry basket. I could not be down here one moment longer. I grabbed my phone and sprinted to the stairs, leaving the lights on behind me.

Tuba was in the kitchen listening to music and making supper when I ran up the stairs squealing like a seventh grade girl.

“Check my hair for spiders!” I butted my head into her, accidentally knocking an oily spatula out of her hand. “Tuba! Please! Check my hair for spiders!”

Tuba was the only one of my roommates who wasn’t afraid of anything. She was a farm girl, a 4H queen, unperturbed by blood, raw meat, creepy crawlies, mouse turds, bats, or anything that the rest of us couldn’t stand. She patiently worked her hands through my hair.