Cherry Red Summer (Emely and Elyas Book 1) (10 page)

A soft pling sounded from my computer, providing a light at the end of my tunnel. Eager to check my e-mail, I jumped off the bed as though I had been stung by a bee. Then I froze and frowned. I squinted at Eva, who had thankfully fallen asleep and not noticed my spontaneous burst of euphoria. I exhaled.
Thank God she wasn’t watching.
To be honest, I was still embarrassed. So, acting as though I hadn’t heard the pling, I continued to my desk as casually as I could. I spun the chair, sat down, spun back toward my computer, and found that I had in fact gotten an e-mail from Luca.
Thank God
, I thought, because if I had only gotten spam with the subject “Enl@rge Your P3nis Today,” I’d have felt even sillier.

“Alex, I’ll call you back later. I got an e-mail,” I said. Of course, my attempt to shake her off was so pathetic that it could only fail.

“From Luca?” she asked. “Read it to me, read it to me!”

I moaned and conceded defeat.

Dear Emely,

Sorry I embarrassed you; that certainly wasn’t my intention. Though I have to admit I would have liked to see it!

I think I should take your advice and read some prose by Edgar Allan Poe. Your enthusiasm has me curious.

Don’t take this the wrong way, but I had to laugh reading what you wrote about interpreting poetry. It says so much about you that you were the only kid in class who read the poem differently. Besides, who’s to say your reading was wrong? Maybe all the others were mistaken, and you were the only one who understood it.

Even though you probably won’t buy that theory, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if that was in fact how it was.

Anyway, I always think “critical readings” and “interpretations” end up being flimsy. Most well-known poets have been dead for a long time. How are we supposed to know what they meant if we can’t ask them anymore? And what’s so special about the people who come up with all those interpretations? Did they know the poets personally? I’m guessing no, and the best way to understand a work is to know the author.

Of course I’m familiar with
Fight Club
. It’s one of my favorite movies! Honestly, though, I had no idea it was based on a book. As you can see, I’ve still got a few things to learn from you.

As for really falling in love, or Love
. . .

First things first: the guy you mentioned must have been a colossal idiot if he didn’t feel the same way about you.

But back to me. Personally, I’ve never seen any difference between love and Love. I’ve only really been in love twice.

It happened with about the same level of drama as you experienced, I think. My first love also didn’t feel the same way, and after eight months with my second love, I found out she had been fooling around with my (now former) best friend.

Both of those were a few years back, though, and I haven’t fallen in love again since.

On the question of whether you can fall in love more than once: as you can see, I’ve been in love twice—although maybe I’ve been extremely fortunate. Or at least I would have been, had things turned out better. Since they didn’t, I guess in some ways I could just as well have forgone those experiences. And yet, at the same time, I’m glad to have had them and learned what love can mean.

What are the chances of its happening a third time? I gave up hope long ago, actually. But even though I don’t know you well enough to guess, let’s just say you’re the first woman in a while I could imagine being with.

All right. Well, now I’m pretty sure you think I’m some kind of serial killer.

I hope I haven’t scared you off for good.

Yours,

      Luca

I didn’t say anything for a while. Even Alex was speechless.

“Oh. My. God!” she finally squeaked. “Emely. You are so
totally
meeting him. Today! If you won’t set it up, I’m going to!”

I couldn’t answer her because I was still smiling at my screen, entranced by Luca’s words.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“‘Yeah, yeah’ for you means ‘I’ll meet him in ten years,’” she pointed out.

“That’s not true,” I said, and it wasn’t even a lie because this “yeah, yeah” meant I would meet him in
five
years.

“Which guy did you tell him about who didn’t feel the same way about you? That’s not that imbecile of a TA you had your first semester, is it?”

I rolled my eyes. No, I most definitely did not mean that imbecile of a TA from my first semester. He’d made eyes at me a couple of times—and confused me—that was all. If anything, that whole situation could at most be described as a minimalist version of puppy love. I was annoyed that it even occurred to Alex that I had meant
him. It once again showed how totally clueless she was about my love life. Before I figured out how to respond, though, she changed the subject.

“Will you take out the trash on your way down?” Alex suddenly yelled. The confirmation that she hadn’t meant that for me came in the form of Elyas’s voice in the background.

“All right, all right,” he griped.

“God,” Alex sighed, returning to her phone call with me. “What a drama queen.”

“Where’s he off to?” I asked absentmindedly.

“Ely-y-as! Emely wants to know where you’re off to!” she yelled loud enough for the people in the neighboring buildings to hear, forcing me to move the receiver a foot away from my head.

“Alex!” I hissed. “Is there something wrong with you?”

“What?” she asked in the world’s most normal-sounding tone. “You asked.”

I put my left palm to my forehead.
God, what an idiot!
I didn’t have a chance to scold her further, because of what happened next, which was what had to happen. “Emely wants to know where I’m off to?” I heard Elyas asking.

I started hitting my head with the receiver, and when I heard rustling sounds I got panicky. “Alex, for the love of God, do not hand him the phone! Under no circumstances—do you hear? Don’t do it! Please!”

“Too late, sweetums,” Elyas said.

I moaned at the ceiling.

“So you were asking where I’m off to?” he asked.

“No. Honestly, I’m not even remotely interested, so please get off the line.”

“To satisfy your desperate curiosity, dearest, I was just going out to pick up some milk. Is that all right with you?”

That stuck-up, stupid jerk.

“You can go buy a cow for all I care,” I said.

“Well, I did consider that, but it’s very impractical.” I could tell he was grinning. “How’s your head, sweetums?”

“Suddenly it’s feeling a lot worse.”

He laughed. Softly and gently. Somehow it sounded better than it should have.

“You know, I actually enjoy all our little games,” he continued.

I wrinkled my forehead. “What games?”

“Oh, you know,” he said, almost singing his next words. “You play hard to ge
t . . .
I pretend I’m only interested in one thing
. . .
”

My mouth hung open. “You’re living way on the outskirts of reality, aren’t you?” I said. “And if you seriously think you
don’t
have only one thing on your mind, then you’re definitely operating
outside
reality.”

“It’s working, though,” he said. “You have a crush on me.”

“I don’t
have
a crush on you. I want to
crush
you, like get your whole head in a vise, and maybe then you’ll stop talking,” I snarled. I was sure my face showed my darkened mood.

“See? This is exactly one of those little games,” he said. “How did things go with Domenic yesterday, by the way? Did you have fun?”

“Jealous?” I breathed with saccharine sweetness.

“No, not at all. I know nothing happened.”

“How would you know that?”

“First, because you wouldn’t deceive me, dearest, and second, because you were already sound asleep when I called.”

“
That’s
why you called?” I asked.

“Maybe,” he said slowly.

“You know what? If the dictionary had photos, yours would be next to the word
jerk
.”

“Wow,” he laughed. “I almost get the sense you can’t stand me or something.”

“‘Trust your gut’ is all I can say,” I replied as my right eyelid started to twitch.

“We’ll see,” he replied with a laugh. “Oh, and by the way, the next time you call, you don’t need to use Alex as a pretext. I’m happy to talk with you on the phone anytime.” Though I was prepared to unleash a flood of four-letter words, I managed to choke them back. I heard rustling, and then Alex was back on the line. “It’s me again.”

“Well, thank you
so
much for that,” I said, irritated at her but happy to finally be free of Elyas.

“He took the phone out of my hand. I’m innocent!”

“I’m sure,” I said. “You’re always innocent.”

“Oh, come on,” she suddenly moaned—but not at me. “He just left but didn’t take the trash with him.”

His not taking out the trash had to be the
least
irritating thing about sharing an apartment with him.

I lay back down on my bed, and Alex and I talked for a while longer. We returned to the topic of the previous night and everything that had happened. We decided Andy, the bodybuilder, was super-nice even though he was intimidating at first and about three times bigger than either of us. If Andy was any indication, Elyas actually had good taste in friends—something I hated to admit.

Alex and I said good-bye after about half an hour, and I sat up. My stomach was growling, and since Eva was sound asleep, snoring, I went by myself to the common kitchen on my floor.

It was really a bare-bones kitchenette that was badly in need of updating. Apart from a coffee machine, a small stove and refrigerator, and well-worn cabinets, there were five small dining tables. Since residents couldn’t keep food in their rooms, any snacks had to be kept in the kitchenette.

The second common room on the floor was a jumbo living room. There were several mismatched couches of various colors and styles spread throughout. They mostly looked like flea market acquisitions. At one end of the room, a hip-high cabinet supported a large-screen TV and DVD player, which hadn’t been stolen yet, unlike the PlayStation.

The dorm residents rarely used the common rooms or did anything together. Everyone just lived his or her own life, since German universities don’t arrange a lot of get-to-know-you events or interfloor game nights. Obviously, people would occasionally make friends or find significant others in the dorms. Others might have nice hellos in the hallways and sometimes sit and drink a coffee together—but they always went their separate ways afterward. I hadn’t made more than a few fleeting acquaintances.

I walked into the kitchenette, smiled at the blonde girl at the coffee machine, and foraged through Eva’s and my designated cabinet for something edible. All I found was a sad-looking package of ramen that had expired eight days ago. I sighed, opened the package, and inspected the desiccated noodles. They still
looked
OK. I found a saucepan, filled it with water, waited for it to boil, added the ramen and what passed for vegetables and flavoring, and stirred for a while.

Once the mishmash was ready, smelling vaguely of compost, flavor enhancers, and preservatives, I poured it into a bowl, put the saucepan into the ancient dishwasher, got a spoon from the drawer, and took my food back to the room with me. It was not even remotely what I would call yummy, but at least it filled me up.

I set my bowl aside and started mindlessly browsing through the folders and papers on my desk. That activity continued for a couple hours, until the phone drew me out of it. It was Alena, Alex’s mom, and since hers was probably the last voice I had expected to hear, I was twice as happy. It was always a treat talking with her, and unlike with my own mother, I even got a chance to say something.

As usual, we got to chatting away and time just flew by. It took us five tries to actually end the call and hang up. Since it was late and I had to get up early, I went into the bathroom and got ready for bed.

But once I was under the covers, I couldn’t sleep. Luca’s last e-mail haunted me.

“I gave up hope long ago, actually. But even though I don’t know you well enough to guess, let’s just say you’re the first woman in a while I could imagine being with.”

Why did he write something like that? How could he have not expected me to instantly seize on a comment like that?

Was he serious? Or did he write that in passing, without giving much thought to his words?

He was right about one thing: we hardly knew each other. But that hadn’t kept me from liking him. At first his e-mails were just messages that a stranger had written, and I couldn’t really take them seriously. Luca had been a big black hole or something—a
concept
—more than a living, breathing person. But in the meantime I had caught myself imagining more and more what the man behind the messages was like, and I had started thinking of him as a person, too.

Luca had become real to me, but I had no idea how seriously I should take our correspondence, because he was, in fact, still a complete stranger. Paper doesn’t blush, as they say, and anybody can write anything; his e-mails could as easily have been total fiction as reality.

Assuming everything he said was real, what then? What place could Luca have in my life? Could he be a potential boyfriend? Or were things boiling down to a platonic friendship, if that? In other words, was
I
even ready for a romantic relationship? I mean, things were going well for me at the moment. That wasn’t a situation I wanted to jeopardize.

“Personally, I’ve never seen any difference between love and Love. I’ve only really been in love twice.”

How could he be so sure? How could he know the love he had experienced was real when he barely had anything to compare it with? It could be he had never actually fallen in love and didn’t know it. Maybe he was assuming there was nothing more than what he’d experienced.