Should I text Sinclair or wait for him to text me? It would probably be better to talk face to face. About whatever. Then I’ll be able to tell him I’ve broken up with Val. And then I need to know what that kiss meant. If it was serious. The very thought sets my entire body tingling.
I walk around the room. My bed looks tempting, but I can’t sit or lie down now. I have to do something to take my mind off the conversations I’ve got to have later on. I could rearrange mybookshelves. They started out with the spines in rainbow order but that’s got so messed up there’s not much of it left. Every time I’ve finished with my photos or videos in the last few weeks, I’ve just shoved piles of them in wherever they’d fit. The mess has been kind of bugging me but I’ve never got around to doing anything about it. Until now.
My thoughts are still whirling as I stack books on my bed and my desk. I’m antsy enough that I even dust the empty shelf with a damp cloth. My phone’s within sight but Sinclair doesn’t text, and with every passing minute, I get angrier. There’s no way he’s been held back this long by Mr Acevedo. And it really would be a good idea to talk about that kiss. Or was it really only a Romeo-kissing-Juliet kiss, and he’s not wasting another thought on it? God, I’m losing my mind.
I’ve finished about half the shelf when there’s a knock at the door. My heart skips a beat, but before I can start to panic, I hear Emma’s voice outside: ‘Coming to dinner?’
I shove the pile of books in my hand into their new place, turn down the volume on the speaker and go to the door.
Emma eyes me expectantly as I open it.
I nod and turn away again. ‘Yeah, hang on.’
Emma follows me into my room without waiting to be asked. ‘Hey,Hot Guy Shit. That can only mean one thing.’
‘Which is?’
‘You’re reorganizing again.’
‘Only the books.’ I stop the music and slip my shoes on as Emma picks up a book. ‘You should so read that,’ I say.
‘She’s your favourite, right?’ she asks, turning it over to skim the blurb.
‘Yeah, I love everything she writes. Apparently, they’re making a film of one of her books, with Scott Plymouth doing the soundtrack.’
‘Who’s he?’ Emma asks.
‘PLY,’ I say, waiting for light to dawn, but Emma’s still looking like she hasn’t a clue what I’m on about. ‘The Canadian singer? “Skin Deep”, “More” . . . You’ll definitely have heard them.’
‘Oh, is he the one who used to wear that mask?’
‘That’s him.’
‘You’ve got a playlist for him, haven’t you?’
I nod. Obviously. After all, I needed the right soundtrack to read fan fiction to. And there’s loads of Scott Plymouth fan fiction. And now he’s with the author who wrote probably the most famous story about him, which in itself could be the basis for her next book, but let’s not go there.
‘Can I borrow it?’ Emma asks, waving the book. It’s my signed copy of the new Hope MacKenzie. I nod hesitantly. ‘I won’t break the spine, neighbour’s honour.’
‘Was it so obvious I was going to say that?’
‘A bit.’ Emma takes the book and follows me to the door.
‘Are you really bringing it down to the dining room?’
She nods. ‘I’m going straight over to Henry’s after dinner.’
‘And I’m sure you’ll be reading . . .’
‘He’s got a biology presentation to write.’
I laugh softly.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Biology presentation . . . Bennington’s such a teacher’s pet.’
Emma shrugs her shoulders. ‘I’m mainly going to stop him falling asleep before midnight, as we all know that’s his speciality.’
