Cherry Red Summer (Emely and Elyas Book 1) by Carina Bartsch Read Free Book Online Page B

exactly.”
    “What does ‘not exactly’ mean?”
    “Basically, no.” My voice got shrill because I could already tell how Alex was going to respond. She would have demanded a photo in her first e-mail, and he would have followed through, too, or been subject to personal acts of violence or deployment of a SWAT team—whichever Alex found easier to pull off.
    “Why?” Alex asked in a tone that implied all that.
    “I don’t know,” I said, looking at the laminate. “He didn’t send me one, and I can’t bring myself to ask for one.”
    Alex dramatically slammed down her knife, put her hands to her hips, and looked right at me.
    God, I already felt bad for her future kids.
    “Emely!” she said. “He knows who you are, but you don’t know who he is! It’s only fair for him to send you a picture. So get your ass in gear and ask him!”
    I knew she was right, but . . .
    She sensed my reluctance, so she took a deep breath and tried to coax me along with a little more patience.
    “What if you finally meet him in person and he looks like Yves Glockenburg?” She giggled at her little in-joke, but since I didn’t find it even remotely funny, I kicked her. Not hard, though.
    “First of all,” I started, “his name was Sören Nordmann and not Yves Glockenburg. Where did you come up with that, anyway? Second of all, he wasn’t as bad as you make him out to be.”
    “Are you kidding?” she said, laughing. “That guy hauled you out to some kind of Star Trek convention every weekend and dreamed of having a Vulcan wedding with you!”
    Now that I thought about it, Alex wasn’t entirely wrong about him.
    “Fine, so he was kind of awful,” I admitted as Alex grinned.
    “But seriously, Emely. I would definitely have him e-mail a photo before you meet him in person.”
    “Meet him in person?” My eyes grew wide.
    “Please. You can’t exactly say ‘I do’ via Facebook or something.”
    “Hold on now,” I said, more to calm myself than to admonish her. “We’ve been writing back and forth for all of one week. I haven’t given the slightest thought to meeting him!” The idea terrified me.
    “Then you should get your ass in gear and get on him about a picture.” She pointed the tip of her knife at me.
    “Hmm,” I mumbled, hoping she would drop the topic. Meet him—pff! Maybe we could start talking about that in, like, five years—but certainly not now.
    “Emely.” She looked me up and down. “You aren’t starting to work yourself into one of your neurotic episodes again, are you?”
    God, I hated it when she said “neurotic episodes,” and she knew I hated it, too.
    “First of all, I don’t have ‘neurotic episodes,’” I said. They were only temporary, mild insecurities.
    OK, dammit. It was true. Sometimes I had neurotic episodes.
    “Second of all—”
    “Second of all?” Alex interrupted.
    “Well, yeah, it’s just . . . ” I bit my lower lip. “This one seems to be intelligent. Also, the whole way he expresses himself, so confidentl y . . . eloquentl y . . . Plus, he has a great sense of humor.”
    “So what’s the problem?” She wrinkled her forehead. “It’s long overdue for you to swap all the bullshitters you usually hang out with for someone who has a brain.”
    She should talk , I thought, and I promptly zinged her by saying, “Oh, sure, like you have been with loads of winners .”
    She diced her vegetables a bit more vigorously. “That’s different,” she said.
    Before I could explain to her why it wasn’t different, a noise from the back hallway drew our attention. Someone opened a door and closed it again.
    I snorted. My lucky streak of Elyas’s not noticing I was over had apparently come to an end. But my fear quickly dissolved because the approaching footsteps were of someone in high-heeled shoes.
    Hmm, maybe Elyas had discovered a new side of himself? Womankind would undoubtedly be thankful—and I would be the first to say so.
    I knew that was pure