Cherry Red Summer (Emely and Elyas Book 1) (20 page)

He gave a wry smile and raised both hands in surrender. “I’ll be good.”
As if
, I thought. But all I could do right now was take his word.

“Do you remember that album I was telling you about?” he asked loudly, peeking over the fridge door at Alex and Sebastian.

“Oh yeah,
that
album,” I said, playing along while smacking my forehead.

“Right! You should come back with me so I can play it for you.” He closed the fridge door, took both our glasses, shot a semi-apologetic look Alex and Sebastian’s way, and walked toward the hallway.

There was nothing subtle about our exit. Not just because of our bad improv, but also because I was voluntarily following Elyas into his room. I wondered more than once what I was doing.
Alex, you
so
owe me!

Elyas turned down the hallway so swiftly that I felt like an elephant lumbering after him. There was something elegant about his movements. He was almost the embodiment of the lightness of being.

I was impressed, and therefore distracted from noticing that he had stopped. I ran right into him. He turned to face me. “God, Emely. Can’t you wait until we’re in the room?”

I blushed as he opened the door with a smile and I walked past him.

I had stood in his doorway once before, but I’d never been inside his room, with its slanted outside wall. It was huge, especially for Berlin. His unmade bed was right under one of the sloped roof windows, which extended from the ceiling to the baseboards. You could see out over the street as well as up into the sky, and I imagined how much fun it would be to lie there every night with such an unobstructed view of the stars. Did Elyas even know how lucky he was? I doubted it.

Opposite the bed was a small black sofa with an armchair next to it, the one where I had seen him sitting and reading. On the wall behind that was a black-and-white poster for
Fight Club
.

Elyas set our glasses down on a little table while I looked around. There was a desk in the corner under another window. His computer was on the left side, and on the right were stacks of books, folders, and sticky notes. There were rows of CDs and LPs in the shelves, more than in the living room.

The room felt tidy but not compulsively so. You could tell someone lived here. Elyas didn’t seem to mind my looking around as he put on some music. I was drawn to the chaos on his desk. His medical books were unfamiliar, and most of the sticky notes had medical concepts on them. The Orishas started playing in the background, and I smiled. That was the album I had been playing when he “visited” me at Purple Haze. I supposed he thought he might make a good impression by playing it again now. I was quickly distracted from the memory of that night by something different: Among the various sheets of paper on his desk, one book stood out.

“Elyas?” I asked, slowly pulling the book out of the stack.

“Hmm?” he asked, walking over to me.

I stared at the author’s name and flipped the book open to make sure there wasn’t a misprint. But, no: I was in fact holding a work by Edgar Allan Poe. Not only that, there were a vast number of sticky notes. More than one on nearly every page.

“You’re reading Poe?” I gasped.

I had always thought Elyas was intelligent, but reading Poe had nothing to do with intelligence. Reading Poe required a certain sensibility and sensitivity to the stories—a sensitivity that I would never have ascribed to him.

“Uh, yeah,” he said. “Sometimes.” He tried to smile and took the book from my hand. He hastily stuffed it onto a shelf, turning his back to me longer than was necessary.

“You’re not embarrassed about it though, right?” I said cautiously.

“No,” he said, turning back around. “Why should I be?”

My brows furrowed. “You shouldn’t. It’s just that reading Poe isn’t something I’d expect from you.”

He seemed embarrassed, but it didn’t take him long to add his standard line, “Well, there are a few things about me you don’t know.” I’d heard those words before but never before considered what they meant. When it came to Elyas, I expected pretty much anything—but not this. My discovery just didn’t match the picture I’d always had of Elyas. First there was his kindness after my parents’ accident, then he was watching movies and listening to music I happened to like, and now he was reading books I loved.

“Do you like the music?” he asked, changing the subject.

I hesitated, not wanting to leave the subject of the book. “Yes.”

It was weird, but looking at Elyas now, I no longer saw the same person. Something had changed.

I couldn’t deny Elyas had always had a certain effect on me, but I had always chalked it up to his good looks. It wasn’t easy, for anyone, to resist his turquoise-green eyes and pretty face—to say nothing of his body.

Reducing his appeal to just his appearance had always made it easier for me to stay clear of him. Even if my eyes were blinded, my brain was harder to deceive. Now that I was starting to like his personalit
y . . .
well, that was definitely going to become a serious problem.

Elyas sat on the sofa, pretending the little Poe incident hadn’t occurred. Instead he started telling me about the latest concert he had been to. I also sat on the sofa, cross-legged, slightly facing him. He was sitting sideways, one foot on the floor and one on the sofa. The space between us was just right. I could only hope Elyas wouldn’t come up with the idea of reducing it.

We gradually fell into an easy conversation. An amazingly normal conversation, for us at least. Talking to him this way wasn’t nearly as unpleasant, not least of all because he didn’t try to touch me for twenty minutes straight. That was a new record.

I could tell Elyas knew a lot about music, and we shared similar tastes in bands, as I had already noticed in my snooping operations.

I took a sip of wine during one lull, when Elyas stood up and went over to his desk. He returned with an object from the drawer and resumed his same position on the sofa. On his lap was a foil bag of what seemed to be loose tobacco, which he proceeded to roll into a thin cigarette. He lit it with the lighter that was tucked inside. It didn’t smell like a regular cigarette; the sweet scent rose in small clouds of smoke.

I hadn’t had a joint in a few years. I must have been seventeen when Alex’s then-boyfriend singlehandedly redefined the term
amateur gardener.
I had funny memories of that time, but hadn’t smoked any weed since then.

I looked at the joint that Elyas held out to me. The temptation was great, but I wasn’t sure getting high in front of him was the smartest idea. Ultimately, temptation won out, and I took it. The hot smoke cleared a path down my throat, burning my lungs and making me cough.

Elyas grinned. “How did you like the album?”

“What album?” I asked with a scratchy throat, handing the joint back to him.

“Skindred,” he said.

Oh,
that
album. How nice of him to remind me of the underwear incident, which I had actually sort of forgotten about. His smirk reappeared. “It’s great,” I said. “I’ve listened to it probably thirty times now, all the way through.”

He handed me the joint again. “Which song did you like the best?”

I took a long drag, paused, and exhaled smoothly without having to cough again. “Hard to say,” I said. “Track one, I think.”

“Track one?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, why?”

“Oh, no reason
. . . ,
” he mumbled.

By now I had taken three more drags off the smoldering roll, and the effect was taking hold. Once we finished the joint, I remembered why I hadn’t smoked for so long: when I was high, I blathered on and on without periods or commas. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut anymore. Everything running through my head
had
to be said. Elyas listened attentively and with amusement.

In good spirits, I leaned back and crossed my legs. Elyas rested his head on his outstretched arm and looked deep into my eyes. But that was the last thing I was interested in at that moment. He couldn’t break me down, not even for a second, because I was so focused on
talking.

“Elyas, are you even listening to me?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Good. So, as I was saying, HIV doesn’t spread among gay men because they’re gay. It spreads because they’re
men
. You see what I’m saying?”

Elyas smiled and shook his head. “Emely, you have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t know how you even got on this topic.”

I scratched my head. “Didn’t you bring it up first?”

“I haven’t said a word.” He smiled.

“Hmm,” I said. “Then I must have brought it up. Do you get what I mean, though?”

He laughed softly. “No, but I’m sure you’re about to explain it to me.”

When he was right, he was right.

“OK, now. Pay attention. See, if a gay man meets a man, then sex is front and center. Y’know?”

Elyas shrugged but continued paying bemused attention.

“Most men aren’t overly concerned with getting to know someone first. Gay men are free to sleep with someone and
then
check to see if a relationship could develop out of it.”

I looked at him, waited for him to nod, and then continued. “That’s exactly how straight guys would be if they could. A man is a man—gay or straight. The difference is that most women don’t get involved with someone as quickly. If they do, they pay more attention to protection. Y’know?” I blinked at him as though I’d just discovered the solution to an equation that had stumped mathematicians for decades.

“Yes, I get it. But what are you trying to tell me by bringing this up?”

God, how could he be so dense! I sighed. “That HIV doesn’t spread among gay men because they’re gay. It spreads because they’re
men
!”

Elyas squeezed the bridge of his nose and laughed hard. “OK, whatever,” he said.

I couldn’t shake the feeling he wasn’t taking me seriously. But somehow I didn’t care. I took my glass and drank, but the acidic wine did little to quench my thirst. With every gulp, my throat felt drier. I looked at Elyas’s glass, which was filled to the brim with refreshing soda. What I wouldn’t give to switch glasses with him! That bubbly dark liquid had never seemed as appealing as it did now. I could taste it on my tongue already. Cold, fresh, invigorating—I inhaled.

Asking Elyas for some was out of the question. Normally I didn’t have a problem drinking from other people’s glasses, but with Elyas it was different. Somehow it seemed to
o . . .
intimate.

“Emely?”

I looked at him. “Yes?”

“Would you like some of my Coke?”

“M-me?” I stammered. “U
h . . .
no. Why?”

“Because you’ve been staring at it for five minutes.”

Dammit!

“I-
I . . .
I think carbonation is fascinating?” I said/asked in a squeaky voice. He leaned forward and handed me the glass.

“I’m not actually poisonous,” he said solemnly.

“I’d say that, too, if I were you,” I mumbled, putting the glass to my lips. The liquid flowed into my mouth and I suddenly forgot all my worries, losing myself in the bubbly refreshment.

“So you weren’t thirsty then,” Elyas said as I set the empty glass back on the table.

“I didn’t want to be impolite,” I replied. He looked at me, and then his face changed a little. He was still smiling, but it was more serious somehow.

“Do you know how cute you are?” he asked.

Ugh
. First of all, I definitely was not “cute.” Second, I apparently
could
still blush while high, because I was acutely aware of blood rushing to my cheeks.

Time to change subjects. “Speaking of cute,” I said, grinning, “what happened with that perm Alex wanted to give you?” He laughed but didn’t say anything, which didn’t matter, because I barraged him with twenty groundbreaking insights. He seemed interested in everything, though.

As my mania eventually eased and I started using commas in my speech again, I confessed how envious I was of him for the dormer window over his bed. He smiled, explaining that the window was the main reason he had to have this apartment when he saw it. I had misjudged him yet again, and it was starting to freak me out.

He described how amazing the view of the nighttime sky was from his bed and, sensing how curious I was, finally suggested I lie down and check it out myself.

I worried I might be crazy, but said OK. I felt oddly indifferent about it, inexplicably so. Elyas turned off the lights so we could see the stars better. I warned him off any monkey business, saying, “I know where to punch so it hurts.”

He was good; he lay back with his hands behind his head, as we both silently stared up at the clear night sky, dotted with stars.

Our highs—mine having been much higher than his—were waning, but the atmosphere didn’t lose its relaxed vibe.

“What are you thinking about?” he said, disturbing the quiet.

“No idea,” I said.

“Surely you know what you’re thinking about,” he calmly replied.

“As if you’d be interested
. . .
”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I weren’t interested, knucklehead.”

I could tell he was smiling.

Should I tell him what I was thinking about? He would probably just make fun of me. “You wouldn’t understand,” I said.

“What makes you so sure? Give me a chance, and let’s see.”

I sighed. “I’m thinking about the universe. About infinity. What it means.”

It took him a few seconds to respond. “Interesting,” he said. “Go on.”

“There’s not much to say. Just a couple of questions going through my head while I’m looking at the sky.”

“What kind of questions?”

I took a deep breath because it wasn’t easy to put into words.

“Well,” I began. “I’m wondering what infinity means. I can’t get my mind around the concept.
Infinity:
people say the word,” I continued, “but you can’t really imagine it. As I look up, it reminds me how insignificant the earth is compared with the universe. How unimportant one individual is on the planet.