Cherry Red Summer (Emely and Elyas Book 1)

by Bartsch, Carina

  “Hey, uh, Elyas . . . ,” I stammered. “I just reconsidered. You’re driving!”

  Elyas laughed and shook his head.

  “Stop making fun of me.”

  “You think I’m making fun of you? Angel, I would never make fun of you about this.”

  “Then why are you laughing at me?”

  “I’m laughing because you’re so cute,” he whispered.

  I grumbled. “Let’s see if you still think I’m cute after I’ve peed my pants from fear!”

  “Even then,” he said.

  My cheeks were burning. Fortunately he couldn’t tell because of the helmet.

  “So,” he continued, scooting closer to my back.

  God, I really am going to pee my pants!

  I was so preoccupied with Elyas sitting so close that when he put his hand on my stomach to hold on I had fresh resolve for my lobbying project. Handles! These things needed handles!

  There were thousands of little tingles crawling all over my body, and my pulse dramatically increased. I blinked and looked down on either side of me.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Ants . . . ,” I mumbled. “It feels like ants.” I winced after I realized I’d said it aloud.

  “Ants?” Elyas repeated.

  “It’s . . . it’s a long story,” I quickly said, which satisfied him for now, thankfully.

  “OK,” he said, returning to the topic at hand. “Now slowly let up on the clutch.”

  I panicked for a moment, worried about wheelies. “I thought I wasn’t supposed to let it go?”

  “To drive, you need to,” he said. “Same as with a car. Just ease up on it, and when you find the sweet spot, hold it there.”

  I gulped, took a deep breath, and turned the control with trembling fingers, and I really could feel the right spot. Elyas was right—it was like driving a car, except you used your hand, not your foot.

  “Got it?” he asked, and I nodded. “Great. Now give it a little juice. The more you feel the bike engaging, the looser you grip the clutch.”

  “But your legs are still down!” I yelled.

  “It’s fine, Emely, I promise.”

  I had understood everything well enough, but my heart was still pounding. I carefully turned the gas and felt the bike jolt and move forward.

  Oh my God, what am I doing?

  “OK, now, slowly let go of the clutch,” he said after I had wobbled forward the first few yards. I followed his instructions and was overjoyed that the motorcycle didn’t stall or do any wheelies.

  “I knew it. You’re a natural,” Elyas yelled.

  At a snail’s pace we moved forward, every muscle in my body tense. I’d never even driven a moped when I was a teenager.

  After about five hundred more yards, however, the bike was the least of my problems. Elyas had become a much bigger one. To be specific, his thumb, which gently stroked my stomach. A prickling sensation spread over my skin, leaving me unable to think clearly.

  “So? How is it?” he asked.

  “Nice . . . ,” I said.

  I smiled, but Elyas replied with an irritated “Huh?”

  Oh—had he meant driving the bike, and not his thumb?

  “I mean . . . once you can do it, I’m sure it’s nice,” I clarified. “Right now it’s slow and takes getting used to.”

  “You can drive faster if you’d like. You started out great.”

  “Faster? Are you insane?”

  He laughed. “It’s totally fine, Emely. Do whatever you want.”

  I wobbled forward for five more minutes along the fields. Then I decided that was enough for one day. I hadn’t crashed, and I didn’t want to press my luck.

  “You want to stop already?” Elyas asked when I started braking. I nodded as he put his feet to the ground. “Are you sure? You’re doing so well!” he said.

  “It’s better I stop before something bad happens,” I answered, turning off the ignition. As soon as the engine stopped, I sat up straighter and breathed with relief. My God, I had actually driven that thing—and hadn’t broken it. It’s always fun when you surprise yourself.

  “I think you underestimate yourself. That was a great first go at it. Much better than my first hour of training, let me tell you,” he said.

  That must have been because he didn’t have as talented and, above all, as sexy a driving instructor as I’d had.

  “OK, we’ll stop,” he continued. “But on one condition.”

  “Let me guess: Does it have to do with my lips and your cheek?” I dismounted so Elyas could scoot forward again.

  He grinned. “No. I just wanted to say we’ll definitely need to have a second lesson.” He scratched his unshaven neck pensively. “But now that you mention the whole kiss-on-the-cheek thing . . .”

  I smiled and decided to grant his wish, although differently than he had imagined. I pushed my helmet up off my head, stood tiptoe to reach his cheek height, and I gave a little kiss to the visor on his helmet.

  “Emely . . .” He sighed heavily as I stood back on my heels. “You’re killing me.”

  “Not if you kill me first.” I put my helmet back on, braced myself on his shoulder, and swung back on the seat behind him. His warm back pressed against my stomach. I softly touched his sides with my fingers, feeling his ribs through his sweater.

  I caught him looking at me in the rearview mirror and felt like hitting myself for saying that. But I just didn’t have any control over it; the second he was close to me, my brain and body cramped up, automatically.

  “Are you going to stay back there,” he asked, “or do I have to let the clutch slip?”

  My mouth fell open. “I knew you did it on purpose!”

  He grinned. “Ready?”

  “No, wait,” I said, snapping out of my stupor and thwacking him on the head. “OK, now I’m ready.”

  He laughed, grabbed my wrists, pulled them around to the middle of his stomach, and started the engine. Thirty minutes later, we were back at his and Alex’s apartment. We went upstairs to get my things, which Alex had brought inside from the Jeep. Then Elyas drove me home on the enduro.

  I slowly scooted off my seat in front of the dorm. Because the second my feet were on solid ground, our trip would be over.

  Elyas stayed in his seat, pulled his helmet off, and took mine off as well. A gust of wind passed through his cinnamon hair, gently moving some of the strands. It reminded me of the image of the sleeping angel I’d found in front of me this morning.

  I realized I was staring at him, and I lowered my eyes. “I’m sure Andy’s been worried, waiting for his bike to come back,” I said.

  “You’re probably right.” Elyas ran his fingers through his hair and looked down at the bike. “I’d better get it back to him before he calls for a fifth time.”

  “Tell him I said hi.”

  “I will.”

  “Hi to Mrs. Bear, too.”

  He smirked at my joke. But then his face grew more serious. But soft. Softer than ever before. His eyes burned into mine, and I swallowed. The only thing I wanted was to sink into them and never surface again, letting the whirlpool inside them carry me away so I could forget the ground beneath my feet forever. But a small part of me—a part that had grown shockingly weak—still rebelled, though I tried to keep it from attacking.

  “Emely . . . I . . . ,” he whispered, sounding as paralyzed as I felt.

  “You . . . ?” I whispered back. What did he want to say?

  “I . . . I . . .” He cleared his throat and looked away. “I need to get going.”

  “Of course,” I mumbled, looking at the ground. Neither of us said anything for a moment.

  After a while I heard him exhale. “Thank you.”

  I looked at him. “What for?”

  “For com
ing along. For not throwing me out of the tent. For giving me a chance, even though I don’t deserve it, and for driving the bike, even though it was scary for you.”

  It wasn’t just what he was saying, either; it was how he said it. His intonation alone left me breathless.

  I stood on tiptoe and leaned to give him a kiss on his soft cheek. Everything stood still for a moment as the world was subsumed into the background, and before I realized what I had done, it was over. I dropped back onto my heels with an unbridled pounding in my chest.

  Elyas’s eyes were closed. He blinked only after what felt like forever.

  “W-what . . . what was that?” he stammered.

  I bit my lower lip. “A peck on the cheek?”

  “And what . . . w-what did I do to earn that?”

  “You didn’t laugh at me when I was driving the bike, and you uttered so many sentences in a row without mentioning sex.”

  Elyas stared at me. “Um . . . ,” he said. “I . . . I should get going now, before I say or do something that might screw things up.”

  I smiled and nodded.

  “Sleep well, Emely,” he whispered before putting his helmet back on.

  “Good night, Elyas . . .”

  He started the engine, looked at me again, and rode off. I stood there for ages watching him. At some point I turned away, feeling light as paper in an autumn wind, and went upstairs. When I opened the door, I was greeted by Eva. As I unpacked, I had to juggle her questions and decide what to answer. I left out a few significant details that pertained just to Elyas and me.

  An hour later she left for Nicolas’s, and I had some peace and quiet. I lay down on my bed and didn’t move an inch for the next two hours. My head was working, my thoughts were churning, and again and again I went through every detail of what I had experienced since Friday. No, I didn’t just go through the details—I dreamed them. I let them wash over me to experience them a second time.

  Still, as beautiful as everything had been, I had an uneasy feeling in my gut. As though my inner sense of well-being were lying, and I was actually standing on a ledge over an abyss.

  I rolled onto my side and rested my cheek on my hand. What was Elyas doing right now? Was he still at Andy’s, or had he gone home? And if he had gone home, was he lying on his bed right now, too, sleeping like the angel from this morning?

  I sighed as a soft pling came from my laptop. The only sound that might rouse me from the bed. I had been surprised I didn’t have an e-mail waiting for me when I got back. Luca hadn’t written in a while.

  I reached over to my laptop and set it on my lap as I sat cross-legged.

  Dear Emely,

  Sorry for not writing sooner. I was on a trip myself and didn’t have a chance to reply before now. You went camping? And, if I’ve understood correctly, without a tent?

  Do you have anything to confess?

  No, seriously. How was it? Did the fears you mentioned come to bear?

  Tell me about your trip.

  Incidentally, I have to tell you that you are responsible for a heart attack. Yes, you read right. What did you think would happen when you wrote me, “I wish you were coming, too”?

  I almost dropped the coffee mug from my hand as I read. If it ever occurs to you again to share something similarly sweet, please take pity on my heart and forewarn me!

  I spent the whole weekend struggling with the question of what would have happened if you had not only wished for it but had actually invited me. How would we have gotten along? Would you have regretted inviting me, maybe? Or would the trip have turned into an unforgettable experience, in a good way?

  I wish I had been with you and knew all the answers to my questions now.

  Thanks for your Proust questionnaire. It was very insightful. You wrote you wanted to read my answers, too. So, as you wish, here they are:

  Favorite color: Turquoise and blue. Lately also brown, but that’s hard to explain.

  Favorite flower: This question was intended for women, I think. So you like sunflowers? I like them too, and now I’ll probably always think of you whenever I see them.

  Favorite animal: Why just dogs? I like cats, both the domestic kind and the great cats. I’ve always loved black panthers in particular. And penguins! Penguins are so funny!

  Favorite food: You like anything sweet? Very interesting . . . I also love noodles, so on that point we agree. And Baileys ice cream! I love that stuff! Do you know it? If not, you absolutely need to try some.

  Favorite nonalcoholic drink: I concur 100% re coffee! (Incidentally, I make very good coffee.)

  Favorite alcoholic drink: I rarely drink alcohol. When I do, usually beer—typical guy, I guess. I have seen people order strawberry margaritas, though, and—yeah—they look pretty good.

  Religion: Also atheist.

  Sunrise or sunset? I’m hoping there will be lots of sunsets with you.

  Where do you want to spend your honeymoon? I’m shocked, Emely! You’re a woman not planning on getting married? Can you tell me why?

  I haven’t given much thought to where I’d like to take my honeymoon. But I’m sure I’ll agree with my future wife, whatever she decides.

  Where would you like to be kissed once? Oh please, what kind of come-on is that? Ha ha, just kidding.

  Actually, I agree with you: any place would be nice as long as you’re kissing the right person.

  Have you ever lied to anyone: Also no.

  Personal goals: Overthrow the government and achieve world peace? That’s your goal? That made me laugh out loud when I read it. So typical of you. More than you think.

  Since you won’t be able to do that alone, I’ll naturally be at your side.

  And my other goals . . . Honestly I’ve only got one right now. Can you guess what it is?

  A little hint: It starts with an E and ends with mely.

  Sounds dumb, huh? Still, it’s the honest truth. I can’t get you out of my head, Emely.

  What position do you like to be in when you fall asleep? You wrote that you sleep on your side or stomach.

  When you say stomach, do you mean mine? Anytime!

  I usually sleep on my side. (Although if you take me up on the stomach offer, then of course I will sleep on my back.)

  So, my love, have a wonderful night! Mine won’t be that good, knowing it won’t be with you, again.

  Sweet dreams, and hope to hear from you soon,

  Luca

  Was I imagining it, or was this e-mail much more personal than his others? It was filled with emotion between the lines, I thought. Feelings I shared.

  I shook my head. I shouldn’t overanalyze his e-mail just because I was on a hormonal roller coaster.

  Still, I couldn’t shake the smile off my face, and I replied right away.

  Hey Luca,

  No problem about taking a while to reply. If it takes you that long to compose such sweet e-mails as today’s, you can take all the time you need. May I ask what you were so busy doing this weekend?

  I loved your Proust questionnaire. You did an admirable job sucking up, but let me reassure you: you were successful!

  Brown is your new favorite color? Brown is the favorite color of an environmentalist! Luca, are you an environmentalist? As you can see, I won’t let you talk your way around an explanation. I’m excited! And penguins? Yes, yes, yes. Penguins! They’re great. But I think the big cats are creepy. Whenever I watch a TV show about them, I imagine how it would feel to be hunted by such massive animals, with no hope of escaping, only to be devoured. Grisly!

  It’s funny about Baileys ice cream—you’re starting to creep me out with all these things in common, but that’s my absolute favorite ice cream flavor.

  What’s so interesting about me liking anything sweet?

  There are several reasons I’m not planning on gett
ing married. First and foremost, it’s my mother’s fault. She’s been nagging me about it since I was ten. But I also wonder why people even need to get married. Rings and marriage certificates shouldn’t be what bind two people to each other. It should be love.

  Naturally a wedding entails legal recognition of your partnership. But that’s the only pro argument I can see—that at my final curtain call, my partner has the right to decide what happens to me. Apart from that, there’s another compelling counterargument: Who in the world would want to marry me? (That’s a rhetorical question: don’t waste your time answering it.)

  You want to help me overthrow the government and create world peace? Yay! Welcome aboard. I’ll be in dire need of help.

  Your stomach offer sounds . . . very enticing. If you don’t need it some night, I’d love to borrow it.

  Dear Luca, I also hope you have sweet dreams. Incidentally, you’re not the only one who won’t be able to sleep tonight.

  But I hope you still manage to get some shut-eye. Hello from Sleepless on Campus,

  Emely

  I read through my other e-mail—class announcements, newsletters, ads, and so on—and then emptied my spam folder. Just as I was about to close my laptop, I heard another pling.

  Dear Emely,

  I knew it would pay to check my e-mail one more time tonight. It’s quite late, so I’ll reply at length to your long e-mail tomorrow.

  One thing I didn’t want to let wait is why you didn’t tell me about your camping trip. Did you omit that on purpose? Is that something you don’t want to talk about with me, or was there just nothing to tell?

  I was a little surprised you didn’t go into the topic at all.

  And why won’t you be able to sleep tonight? I hope I’m not being too nosy.

  Yours,

  Luca

  And some people say men don’t pay attention. Maybe they only do when they’re not supposed to.

  Dear Luca,

  Yes, you’re being nosy. Way, way too nosy. I don’t mean that in a bad way. But it’s the only thing that gives me pause about you. I want to be honest: I think I did consciously leave it out. It’s a topic that is at once complicated and unpleasant. The trip was a minor catastrophe for me. It was awful—horrific, almost. I regret having gone, and should have stayed home.