Don't Kiss the Messenger (Edgelake High School, #1)(59)

“I feel like an asshole,” I said. “I’ve never lost it like that. I don’t just wail on guys in locker rooms. But after what he said about you—” I shook my head.

“Well,” she said. “I’m trying to look on the positive side. At least he gave my body a ten.”

She looked at me and smiled before we walked in. As she turned, I caught the left side of her face. Flawless. Her skin glowed in the streetlights. She didn’t realize she was a ten all around. A feeling charged up my spine and coursed through my body, sending chills down my arms.

I had always felt loyalty toward CeCe. Even a protective edge. But this feeling was entirely different.

…

CECE

I opened the door to the restaurant before Emmett had a chance—it was also my way of deflecting the ridiculous idea that this was some kind of a date. Basically, Bryn’s boyfriend was on loan for an hour while she was rubbing coconut oil on her skin.

We walked inside the Indian restaurant and the tangy smell of coconut curry hit my nose. I was suddenly starving. We shook snow off of our coats and out of our hair and tried to stomp an inch of slush off of our shoes on the small woven rug. After we ordered, we grabbed our food trays and sat down on high stools at the narrow counter along the front windows. I sat down at his left side without thinking and I was struck with a strange realization. Usually I always opted for the seat on someone’s right. But when I was comfortable with people, it never occurred to me. I set my coat on top of the stool with disbelief: out of all the guys on campus, I was comfortable around Emmett Brady.

The red lights strung around the window made the white counter top look pink. I noticed it had the same effect on Emmett’s skin, giving him a constant look of being flushed. It was a good look for him.

I looked out the window and the snow got me thinking about Christmas and our holiday movie collection, so I started to rank my favorites.

“It’s a Wonderful Life,” I said.

Emmett shook his head. “Too depressing,” he said. “How the Grinch Stole Christmas.”

“Equally as depressing,” I pointed out. “They all are. Ninety percent of all holiday movies are covertly depressing in order to make our own lives look better.”

“Would you stop making up statistics?” he said.

I bit back a smile. He knew me too well.

“There’s plenty of happy ones,” he argued. “The Christmas Carol.”

I shot him a look. “Scrooge?” I reminded him.

“Fine, it’s somewhat depressing.”

“Even Rudolph is disturbing on so many levels,” I said. “And Frosty dies, only to be reincarnated. It’s awful if you think about it, that Karen’s trapped in the greenhouse and slowly watches Frosty asphyxiate on his own body fluids.”

Emmett laughed, this deep laugh, all male, and it echoed in the small cafe. I noticed people turning to look at us.

“You do have a dark side,” he said. I smiled at the compliment.

“Give me one happy Christmas movie,” I said.

He thought about other titles.

“Home Alone isn’t sad.”

“Other than the whole child neglect thing,” I argued.

“Elf?” he tried.

“An orphan’s rejected by his biological father?” I threw back.

“Shit. Christmas Vacation?”

I nodded. “I’ll give you that one.”

He licked the curry sauce off his spoon and my eyes dawdled on his lips a second too long.

“Are you going home at all?” I asked him.

He shook his head. “We’ll be on the road if we make it to the finals. So I won’t get the chance.” He didn’t seem upset by the fact that he’d be in buses and hotel rooms for the holidays. He looked relieved. He soaked up stew into some bread and took a bite.

“Where’s home now, exactly?” I asked.

“That’s a good question,” he said.

I waited for more and he took a drink of soda before he answered me.

“It was pretty much just me and my dad. My mom’s never really been in the picture. I have an aunt and uncle in Georgia, but we’re not very close.”

“Grandparents?” I asked.

“One grandma. South Carolina Retirement Center for Assisted Living,” he told me.

“Not really a festive holiday destination,” I figured.

“What do you do for the holidays?” he asked.

I looked out the window at the blowing snow. I never made it home for Thanksgiving; there was always a volleyball tournament, so my family made up for it at Christmas. I knew my aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents were already in planning mode. The Edmonds celebrated in style. My uncle organized a hay wagon ride on his farm and my aunt organized the food—sliced ham, roasted asparagus, homemade rolls, baked beans, and cranberry sauce. My grandma started playing Christmas music in October. She’d have tins of baked cookies, strung lights, and wrapped garland around the banister in our house before Thanksgiving.

I peered out the window, imagining that if I looked hard enough, I’d be able to see the little town at the edge of Lake Superior, an entire day’s drive away.

“We live out in the country,” I said. “Every Christmas Eve, we cross country ski to the only bar that stays open year round and everyone in town gets drunk on Baileys and eggnog.”