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

door and climbed out. As I shuffled across the huge courtyard in front of my dorm and struggled up the steps to my room, I wondered for the umpteenth time why I’d been so dumb as to drink all that rum. The only positive to come out of it was that the next time rum was offered to me, I was determined to say, “I still can’t touch the stuff; I won’t be ready to try it again for at least ten years.”
    I unlocked the door and quietly sneaked into the room. As expected, Eva was already asleep, and I knew better than to wake her. I went into the bathroom and massaged my temples in front of the mirror, wanting nothing more than to go to bed. I halfheartedly brushed my teeth, slipped off my clothes, and took a quick sponge bath. I put on a T-shirt, left the bathroom, switched off the light, and crept under the covers. As agreed, I texted Alex before setting my phone on the nightstand and finally closing my eyes.

    Something was ringing. Barely awake, I rolled over and mumbled. I couldn’t have been asleep for more than five minutes, but I squinted at my watch and realized otherwise: 5:43 a.m. The phone on my nightstand blinked in time with the ringtone, vibrating mercilessly on the wood surface. Who on earth would be calling so early?
    I rubbed my eyes and sat up. Like a robot on remote control, I fumbled around on the nightstand for the phone and pressed the green button to take the call.
    “Yeah?” I answered, half asleep.
    “Hi” came from the voice on the other end, which I recognized after sorting through the jumble in my brain. Oh my God, is this a nightmare?
    I sighed, plopped back on my bed, and buried my face in the pillow. “Where did you get my number?” I mumbled.
    “Trade secret.”
    God, who gave him my number? There was only one possibility, only one person who was actually capable of such audacity. Alex was in deep shit with me—royally.
    “God, Elyas,” I moaned. “What do you want?”
    “I just wanted to wish you a good night, dearest,” he said with fake innocence, although I could see his devious smile.
    “Night,” I snarled into the phone and hung up.
    Jerk.
    I pulled the covers over my face and tried to go back to sleep, which, despite the excitement of the call, fortunately didn’t take too long.

C HAPTER 6
    L OVE L ETTERS
    H ey Emely,
    Sorry it took me so long to reply. I was out late with some friends last night, and I didn’t get to bed until early in the morning.
    Did you have a nice night? I hope you stayed faithful to me! ;-)
    I’m super embarrassed to admit it, but I hardly know a thing about any of your favorite authors. Edgar Allan Poe wrote poems, right? And Chuck Palahniuk sounds like some infectious disease, which I desperately hope it is not. When it comes to Franz Kafka, however, I have mostly bad memories. Back in school I had to read a couple of short stories by him. By the time you get to the end of a sentence, you can’t remember what happened in the previous sentence anymore. Let alone understand it. After that formative experience, it remains a mystery to me why people voluntarily read that stuff.
    You’re laughing at me, right? Well, you’d be justified.
    Isn’t it enough that you’re pretty and have good taste in music? No, I also have to bow before your superior intelligence, too.
    Is there anything else you’re hiding? Maybe you’re working on some quantum physics on the side? Or maybe you’re the only human alive who can keep their eyes open while sneezing?
    If any of those things are true, you should probably just keep them to yourself for now and, if you’d like, tell me a little more about your favorite authors.
    Now, as far as your “fair warning” goes:
    Is your alleged klutziness just another cover for the fact you’re actually a dancer with the Berlin State Ballet? Or are you really a complete klutz?
    Because if you are—don’t think I’m weird—that’s totally cute.
    I’m looking forward to the day you introduce me to the staff at the