Boys Like You

by Juliana Stone

  “Shit,” I muttered, glaring at the door—like that was going to make it open. I was hot, sweaty, and didn’t exactly feel like searching a freaking plantation for some creepy burial site.

  One more minute ticked by before I decided that’s just what I was going to have to do, when I heard a scuffling noise and the door swung open.

  I’d just tied a bandana around my head to keep my hair out of my eyes, and with a smile plastered to my face, I turned back to greet Mrs. Blackwell.

  Only it wasn’t Mrs. Blackwell who stepped out onto the porch.

  It was a girl. I knew that much. How old was she? I couldn’t say exactly, because in that moment, I couldn’t even tell you if she was pretty or not.

  I was way too focused on a pair of eyes that hit me in the chest like a hammer against stone. The color was unusual—a light gray/green—and sure, they were pretty damn striking, exotic even, but it wasn’t the color or shape that got to me.

  It was what I saw inside them. Something indefinable and yet so familiar because it was like looking in the mirror, and my first thought as I stared back at her, my smile slowly fading away?

  Man, that sucks.

  Chapter Three

  Monroe

  The boy who stood on the porch was sweaty and half naked and not the old guy I was expecting. At all.

  I suppose he was going for some kind of badass look with a red bandana wrapped around his head and his jean shorts hanging so low off his hips I could see the top of his boxers, but seriously?

  Did all guys think us girls really gave a crap what brand of boxers they wore? Personally, I thought the whole look was ridiculous and couldn’t imagine what it felt like to walk around with your pants falling off. Uncomfortable maybe. Ridiculous for sure.

  He wasn’t wearing a shirt either, and I’m sure that’s why my eyes automatically focused on his tattoo. It was interesting to look at—exotic symbols in black ink—starting from the top of his shoulder and traveling down to just above his bicep.

  I had never wanted a tattoo, but the summer before my world went into the toilet, I’d wanted a belly ring. Badly. All the girls at school were getting them, and I didn’t think they came close to tattoos on the trashy scale, maybe a seven out of ten, but my mother was horrified at the idea. Her comeback had been, “that’s something you can think about when you’re old enough to vote.”

  End of story, because my dad is a wuss and always sided with her.

  “Hey,” he said.

  I didn’t answer at first and moved so I could peek around him, but there was no old guy, and he seemed to be alone.

  “Are you here for the fence?”

  His eyes narrowed slightly, most likely because I came off sounding rude. But in my defense, he was late and had interrupted my nap. And these days, napping was a pretty important part of my day. Too important, according to my parents, which was one of the reasons they’d sent me to Gram’s for the summer. In the city, they were at work and I was alone—free to sleep as long as I wanted to and free to spend my days in pajamas.

  Gram didn’t let me hang in my pajamas. She might not have figured out how to make me brush my hair every day, but she sure knew how to guilt me out of my pajamas.

  “Who are you?” he asked instead of answering my question.

  “Who are you?” I shot back.

  “I asked first.”

  Okay, what are we, like, five?

  He scrubbed at his chin and sort of sighed. I got the impression that he wasn’t exactly in a great mood, but then I wasn’t either, so I guess we were even on that count.

  I’m not sure how long we stood there, staring at each other with only the buzzing of the bees in the honeysuckle to fill the space between us. I shifted my weight, suddenly aware that my hair hung down the back of my neck like a limp rag. A limp, tangled rag that hadn’t been brushed in days.

  “Monroe,” I finally answered.

  “Monroe,” he repeated, as if he didn’t believe me.

  I tugged my cami strap back into place.

  “You have a problem with my name?”

  He shook his head, “nope,” and ran his hand across the back of his neck. I’m sure he did it because it pushed his chest out.

  Pushed his chest out and emphasized his abs. Not that I was looking or anything, but it was kinda hard not to notice when he was so…naked.

  “I’m just here to do a job.” He stood back. “Do you know where the family bones are buried or not?”

  I considered lying, but what was the point? Gram wouldn’t be impressed, besides, it’s not like I had to stay out there and keep him company. The sooner I showed him where the crypt was, the sooner I could get back to the important business of having a nap.

  “Follow me.”

  I pushed past him and waited for the door to slam shut behind me before heading down the front steps and out to the back of the house. His supplies were set on the back porch, and I waited for him to grab them—a paint can and a couple of brushes—before following the stone path that led into the fancy gardens.

  Gram’s plantation is one of the fanciest in Louisiana. A Greek revival, it’s been used in movies a few times, and while I don’t find the house all that impressive—it’s old—I’ve always loved the gardens. There is a maze to the left of the house, one I used to spend a lot of time in when I was younger, playing pretend or reading a book. And beyond it, set back on a small hill surrounded by mature oak trees, is the family crypt. It doesn’t look as though it’s far from the house, and I suppose it isn’t, but by the time we reached it, I was breathing heavy.

  Which was embarrassing, because I’m Soccer Girl—I’m in good shape—or at least I used to be back before I started taking naps every afternoon and not caring.

  I turned and felt my cheeks flush when I found his eyes already on me. After clearing my throat and attempting to sound as normal as I could, I spoke. “What’s your name?”

  “Nathan,” he said.

  “Does Nathan have a last name?” Crap. Now he was going to think that I actually cared.

  A hint of a grin touched the corner of his mouth, and God help me, but my cheeks stung even more. I bet they were as red as the apples in the bowl on Gram’s table.

  “Last name is Everets, and you?”

  “Blackwell.”

  He tossed his brushes on top of the paint can at his feet. “Where are you from, Monroe Blackwell?”

  Nathan approached the iron fence, which was faded and chipped and looked like a black and white cow had exploded all over it.

  I shoved my hands into my back pocket and blew a curl out of my eye.

  “New York.”

  “And you’re here because…”

  I’m here because no one knows what to do with me.

  “Look, I don’t really want to do this talking buddy thing, so I’m just going to let you get started, okay?”

  He shrugged but didn’t say anything, and for some reason that irritated me. I wasn’t used to being dismissed like that. I was used to being under a microscope—used to having every action analyzed and picked apart. I was used to my parents, teachers, and friends hanging onto every word that came out of my mouth as if it was gospel.

  Of course, the gospel according to Monroe isn’t exactly full of rainbows and unicorns, but as long as I was talking, they were happy. Because a talking Monroe wasn’t as scary to deal with as the nonverbal version I’d been several months ago. Back then, I was almost straitjacket material.

  Back then…I shuddered. Nope. Not going there today.

  Once more, I yanked on my cami straps, pulling on the material a little so that it wasn’t plastered to my chest. Even though there was shade from the oak trees, I thought that it would be pretty awful to spend the afternoon out here painting. Because it wasn’t just hot, it was oppressive.

  It made me
wonder about Nathan.

  His shorts were Abercrombie, his boots Doc’s—his aforementioned boxers, again Abercrombie. He didn’t talk like an idiot even though the bandana was hick, and he looked like he came from money. It made me wonder why he was stuck out here painting some old lady’s iron fence on an afternoon meant for pools or beaches. Or anyplace other than here.

  He glanced back at me, and I turned quickly, because even though it looked like I was staring at him—I wasn’t. Well, I wasn’t staring at him exactly.

  “What does your tattoo mean?” I said in a rush.

  “I thought you didn’t want to talk.”

  “I don’t,” I stammered, hating how flustered I felt.

  He didn’t say anything for a moment; in fact, several moments passed before he looked at his shoulder and shrugged. “It’s Celtic.”

  Wow. Wasn’t he just brimming with information?

  “Celtic, as in…”

  He cleared his throat in that way my dad does when my mom grills him about something and he doesn’t want to answer. For whatever reason, this Nathan was more closed off and unfriendly than I was, which made me even more interested in him—or rather, in why he was like that.

  “As in I don’t know what it means, I just thought it looked cool.”

  I didn’t believe him. You don’t get ink for no reason.

  “Well, at least you didn’t get your girlfriend’s name on your skin because…”

  His head snapped up.

  I did not just say that.

  God. Now he was going to think that I was fishing to see if he had a girlfriend, and I wasn’t. My cheeks stung and I knew they were even more red than before. Well, crap. Now he was really going to think I was into him, in that way.

  Instead, he looked at me as if I was a retard. “That would be stupid.”

  Okay, so the girlfriend thing was a sore subject, and he totally didn’t care what I was thinking. In fact, he seemed kinda pissed. “It’s been known to happen,” I retorted.

  His eyes narrowed as if he was trying to figure me out, and that’s when I realized it was time to go. I was sinking out here, and suddenly the effort to stay on solid ground was too much. I felt a little woozy and thought of my bed.

  I took a step back. “Okay, I’ll leave you to it.”

  “Sure. Nice meeting you, princess.”

  “It’s Monroe,” I shot back with the voice of a five-year-old. Hello. What was it about this boy that turned me into an immature child with no filters?

  Nathan bent over to open up his paint can without saying another word, and I hurried back to the house. Not once did I look back. Not even when I reached the maze and could have snuck a peek without him seeing.

  I marched straight into the house and, once inside, drank two glasses of water before the weariness of my life—my very existence—pulled me down. It took way too much energy to be anything other than apathetic.

  It was a heavy feeling and one I was used to, so I did what I always did when it hit. I trudged upstairs, flopped onto my bed, and thought longingly of the little blue pills that were no longer mine to enjoy.

  I closed my eyes, turned and snuggled into my pillow, and prayed for sleep.

  Chapter Four

  Nathan

  When my cell dinged for the fifth time in just over an hour, I swore and yanked it out of my shorts.

  Rachel.

  Did the girl not understand that some of us have to work? Didn’t she know that some of us have court-appointed work dates to keep our asses out of juvie? Anger rushed through me with a hot, hard thrust, and I had to take a minute. What part of that didn’t she get?

  Ever since the accident, she acted as if nothing had changed. Like we were the same. Like she needed us to be the same to deal with the fact that Trevor was in the hospital and probably never coming out.

  But I couldn’t do that, and whenever I tried to talk to her about it, she shut me down. She tried to change the subject or tried to have sex. She was willing to do pretty much anything not to talk about that night, but pretending that everything was going to be okay was freaking exhausting.

  God, Rachel was so exhausting.

  I heaved a sigh and glanced at the text message.

  Find a way to come. I miss u.

  Her words were like sugar, but they made me angrier than I already was, and I considered calling her right there and then. I considered having it out right there and then, but after a few moments, I turned off my cell instead and shoved it into my front pocket. This had to be done face-to-face.

  I dunked the edge of my paintbrush in the can and spread another coat of fresh black paint over the iron fence section I was working on. It was close to five and I was about half done with the job. I figured if I got an early start on Monday, I’d have the entire fence finished by noon. Or I could just keep painting until dark, because it’s not like I had anything better to do.

  I paused for a bit and grabbed a bottle of water out of my bag, my gaze focused on the smaller house, beyond the plantation home. I took a good long drink, not taking my eyes from the place.

  Monroe.

  No, more like Princess Monroe. I smiled at that. Princess Monroe with the big chip on her shoulder.

  What the hell was her story?

  I suppose most guys would consider her hot. Heck, I considered her hot. That little tank top she had been wearing showed some curves, and with all that dark hair and big eyes, she was definitely nice to look at. But her attitude was not something I wanted to tangle with. I was pretty sure she was high maintenance and a snob to boot. She was from New York City, after all.

  Shit. I screwed the cap back onto my water bottle and tossed it back into my bag. Technically, I was still with Rachel, even if mentally I’d left weeks ago, so why was I even thinking about this girl?

  “Nathan?”

  Surprised, I turned as Mrs. Blackwell walked toward me. Where the hell had she come from? She was a nice lady, and I’d always liked her, especially considering she was a huge football fan. She didn’t miss a Friday night game and sure liked to ride Coach when she didn’t agree with a play.

  I smiled. “Hey, Mrs. Blackwell. I’m okay to keep going, if that’s all right with you.”

  She smiled back at me, and as I studied her, I realized exactly where Princess Monroe got her unusual eye color. Funny, I’d never noticed it before, but then again, it’s not like I spent much time checking out anyone over the age of twenty-five. That would be weird.

  “You most certainly will not. It’s five o’clock, and you’ve been out here for hours.” She glanced at the fence and her eyes softened some more. “It looks wonderful, Nathan.”

  For a moment, the two of us stared at the half-done fence that surrounded her family crypt. The iron had been forged into a pretty intricate design, and though I thought it was kinda creepy—keeping your family bones on the property—I wasn’t about to judge anyone. Around these parts, a lot of folks did the same.

  “All I did was slap some paint on it, Mrs. Blackwell. It’s pretty hard to screw that up.”

  “I suppose.” She smiled and turned back to me, her hands on her hips. “Your uncle called. He’s been trying to get hold of you but your cell phone must be dead. He’s still having problems at one of his work sites, so he won’t be able to give you a lift home.”

  Her eyes settled on me with a clarity that made me uncomfortable. Of course she knew about that night. Of course she knew that I was suspended from driving. Everyone in the whole freaking parish knew about that night.

  I thought of the fridge at home. It was full of Dad’s beer, and I knew that if I locked myself away in the dark and took the time to get good and drunk, then maybe I wouldn’t think about that night. I wouldn’t care about the dark holes in my head. The ones that I’d been desperate to fill. The ones that shouldn’t be there. The ones that wo
uld tell me why I’d been so damn stupid.

  But for now, I just wanted to forget everything.

  “Come have dinner with us—”

  I started to protest. “No, really, Mrs. Blackwell, I’ll just head home. I don’t mind.”

  “Nathan Everets.”

  I stood a little straighter, because in my world, when a lady spoke at you like that, you paid attention.

  “I know for a fact your parents are on holiday, and I’ll bet you haven’t had a proper meal all week.”

  “Honestly, I’m cool with working some more and heading home before dark.”

  I didn’t want to see Monroe, and I sure as hell preferred to be by myself.

  “It’s not a bother, really, and after dinner, I’ll have my granddaughter drive you home.”

  I shook my head, but she wouldn’t listen, and five minutes later, I found myself in a small bathroom just off the kitchen, scrubbing the dirt and grime from my hands and trying to clean up as best I could.

  My stomach rumbled as the smell of good old Louisiana barbecue wafted in from the kitchen.

  “Better than the frozen crap at home,” I muttered. My mom had made me a few casseroles, but they were still in the freezer where she’d left them. I’d been surviving on frozen pizza and burgers from The Grill whenever Link came to visit.

  One last glance in the mirror told me it was as good as it was gonna get, so I tugged off my bandana and shoved it in my pocket, pulling out my cell as I did so. I turned it back on, and a quick glance told me Rachel had texted a few more times, the last one barely intelligible.

  U cmign?

  Guess the party was in full swing up at the cabin.

  “Dinner’s ready, Nathan.”

  I pushed the door open, and the first thing I saw was Monroe. She’d changed out of the tight little top she’d been wearing and the short shorts were gone too. Bummer, because even though she was a prickly little thing, the shorts were kinda hot. She placed a bowl of taters on the table and slid into her seat. She looked pale, paler than anyone I knew, but that could be a New York thing.

  I thought of Rachel and her obsession with being tanned and skinny. It’s all the girl talked about when she wasn’t shoving beers down her throat and avoiding anything that wasn’t green and leafy. I tried to explain once that beer and alcohol were just as bad as eating a Big Mac, but she laughed and said, “not when you puke it all up, it isn’t.”