Pretty hard to argue with that kind of logic.
Mrs. Blackwell sat down and passed a plate of barbecued chicken and ribs over to Monroe. Without skipping a beat, she grabbed a half rack and tossed it onto her plate before passing the platter along to me, her chin thrust forward as if waiting for me to say something.
Wow. They really did make them different in New York.
Chapter Five
Monroe
I wasn’t happy to be sharing dinner with Captain Sweaty Pants and I wasn’t sure why Gram thought it was a good idea. I guess she was just being polite, but I liked our low-key evenings. Dinner was done and the mess cleaned up by six. Gram changed into her comfortable clothes—I never seemed to get out of mine—and I read while she watched the Home and Garden channel. That was how it had been every night since I arrived.
There had been no fuss, no long involved conversations, and I hadn’t had to pretend to be normal. Or happy.
I made a mental note to email my therapist later. Apparently I wasn’t completely dead inside. There were things I cared about after all.
I liked quiet.
I liked simple.
I liked comfortable.
And the guy across from me was anything but those three things. He was one of those boys. One of the dark and complicated ones. He was a boy who could probably get any girl he wanted just by sliding a smile her way (a) because he had a nice smile, and (b) I was guessing a smile from him would make a girl think she was the only one he was looking at. A smile from him just might make her feel special.
Lucky for me, I didn’t want anything to do with boys like him—you know, the complicated ones. I wasn’t here at Gram’s to socialize. In fact, I hated socializing.
About a month ago, my friend Kate had convinced me to go to a party at Blake Mathew’s place. His parents were out of town and his older brother was home from college. It was supposed to be the summer kickoff party. I knew it was a mistake, but Kate had begged and I’d given in. At the time, I’d thought that maybe I was ready to move on. Maybe I was ready to be normal again.
I’d spent the entire night hiding in a dark corner, sipping the same warm beer. Any guy who approached was shot down because I had no idea how to act or what to say.
I studied my friends. I watched them laugh and have fun. I watched them dance and act crazy, and I watched them kiss and cuddle.
It made me furious. It made me sick…and it made me so sad. Because no matter how hard I tried to be that girl—to be the one who was light and happy, the one who my parents wanted back—I couldn’t be her. I knew she didn’t exist anymore, and I was pretty sure she was never coming back.
I frowned as I yanked on my top—the cami was long gone, but the coral blouse I’d thrown on was a little snug across the chest. I’d also axed the shorts, because, well, they were way too short, opting for a jean skirt instead. The fact that I’d finally brushed out my hair had nothing to do with Nathan Everets, even though I could tell that’s exactly what Gram was thinking.
But she’d be wrong. Way wrong.
Nathan, on the other hand, looked totally relaxed. He had tossed his bandana but covered up his muscles with a white T-shirt. It did nothing to hide the six-pack that I knew was underneath, mostly because it fit him like a second skin and was threadbare as if it had been washed many times. The Cramps spelled out across his chest in faded red letters.
Though it was rather presumptuous of me to claim the popular New York alternative band as my own, it bugged me that he even knew who they were. They were edgy and political, not hillbilly country blues.
I knew I was generalizing but couldn’t seem to help myself.
I passed Nathan the platter of ribs, after throwing enough pork onto my plate to feed a small country. I wasn’t even hungry, so what was up with that?
I took a sip of iced tea and glanced up at the clock, 5:15.
All I had to do was get through the next forty-five minutes, and then he would leave and I could go back to my totally inappropriate reading material—taken from my mother’s night table—and get on with my quiet Friday night.
“So, Nathan, how is Trevor doing?”
Nathan choked on a rib. Or at least I think he did. I glanced from him and back to Gram, wondering at the odd expression that crept over his face.
He cleared his throat as Gram poured herself some iced tea before offering the jug to Nathan. He shook his head and stared down at his plate. “He’s the same, I guess.”
“I see,” Gram replied softly.
I didn’t.
“Who’s Trevor?”
Nathan’s head shot up, and the look in his eyes was so bleak that, for a moment, I forgot to breathe. His eyes were blue, dark blue like the Atlantic on a cold winter day, and at the moment, they were filled with something I was all too familiar with.
Pain. But not just pain. It was so much more.
Something inside me twisted, and a wave of nausea rolled through me.
“Sorry,” I said quickly. “That was rude.” I glanced at Gram and shook my head. “None of my business.”
I tore some meat off a rib bone and shivered, suddenly cold. Sweat beaded along my brow, and even though I felt like I was freezing, it was, in fact, hot as hell in the house.
This weird roaring started in my ears—it was thick and pressed into me, so I knew I was already running to catch up. If I didn’t get hold of my shit, Gram and Nathan would have a front-row seat to a one-of-a-kind freak-show panic attack.
I went through the steps my therapist had taught me.
I exhaled, fingers trailing through the condensation that gathered along the bottom of my glass as I tried to slow down. I counted, concentrating on the numbers, starting at twenty and working my way back. My chest hurt, but eventually my heart relaxed, and the pressure eased. It took a bit, but after a while, the fuzziness went away and everything became clearer.
It was then that I realized Nathan was staring at me as if I’d grown two heads and Gram’s eyes were misty, her lined face drawn in concern.
“Are you all right, Monroe?” she asked carefully.
“I’m fine,” I muttered and shoved a piece of meat into my mouth. I forced myself to chew it slowly and washed it down with a long, cold drink.
5:30. Nearly there.
I didn’t say one word for the rest of the meal. I didn’t really need to; Gram more than made up for the fact that Nathan wasn’t in his happy place anymore and that I had never really gotten there.
I listened as Gram chatted about some kind of peach festival that was going on in Twin Oaks for the weekend while studying Nathan covertly. I didn’t feel like talking, and he was more interesting than the rose pattern on Gram’s wallpaper.
His brown hair was longer than it had looked underneath his bandana, and I could tell he spent a lot of time outdoors because his ends were lighter. When he turned his head, the pieces shimmered like warm butter, which really wasn’t fair because I knew more than a few girls who laid down big bucks to achieve the same look.
With his blue eyes, square jaw, and hot body, there was no denying Nathan Everets was packing some pretty serious genes.
He smiled at Gram, and I could tell that she was charmed, but then how could she not be? He was polite, well-spoken, and really good-looking. I wondered if she sensed the darkness that ran just beneath the surface like I did. He was hiding stuff. I saw it, but then again, I guess that’s no surprise since these days I was all about the darkness.
He made some comment—I couldn’t tell you what they were talking about—and Gram laughed. She laughed like a schoolgirl, all deep-chested and animated and giddy. I wondered if Nathan was a player. Or if he had a girlfriend that he was faithful to. If so, I found it odd that on a Friday night, he was stuck making small talk with us instead of having fun with his friends.
He and Gram ate pea
ch cobbler while discussing football, and my eyes glazed over. I hated football. I mean, really, what was the point in lining up across from some huge Neanderthal whose only mission was to kick your ass all over the place?
I didn’t get it. When they started talking about some guy named Peyton, I couldn’t take it anymore.
“So you like The Cramps,” I asked, though it was more of a statement than a question, and judging by the look on Gram’s face, it had come out sorta rude.
Nathan sat back in his chair and nodded. “Yeah, they’re awesome. The guitarist is old school and I appreciate that. Too many guys these days are just hacks. They wouldn’t know what an arpeggio scale was if it hit them on the head.”
“Really,” I murmured. They weren’t the only ones. What the heck was an arpeggio scale?
Gram sat up and grabbed the empty bowls off the table. “Nathan here is quite the musician.”
Ah, now I understood the tattoos and hair. He wasn’t just into the look; he was part of the scene.
Nathan’s face hardened, and the darkness or sadness or whatever you wanted to call it was there again. It was in the blank expression that crept into his eyes, the way his hands froze, and the way his shoulders hunched forward as if trying to protect himself from something.
It made me wonder. From what?
“So you must be a guitarist,” I said.
He shrugged and didn’t answer. Instead he pushed his chair back and got to his feet. “Thanks a lot, Mrs. Blackwell, that was way better than what I had waiting for me at home.”
Gram leaned against the counter. “Thanks for your hard work today, Nathan. You’ll be back Monday, or will it be your uncle?”
He shoved his hands into his front pockets, and for a moment, I glimpsed the tops of his boxers again, along with a pretty impressive span of flat, toned skin. My cheeks flushed when I glanced up and realized he was watching me watching him.
A hint of a smile touched the corner of his mouth, and I didn’t like the way his eyes glittered beneath the soft light from overhead.
He was arrogant, and I didn’t like him.
Or maybe I didn’t like how he made me feel, which was something I didn’t want to think about. At least, not right now.
“I’m pretty sure I’m here for the next few weeks,” he answered, his attention once more on Gram. I exhaled a long, hot breath and pushed at a few pieces of hair that stuck to my neck.
Gram smiled. “Wonderful.” She paused, her eyes swinging my way, her forehead drawn thoughtfully. About a half a second before she spoke, I knew what she was up to. I opened my mouth in an effort to dodge the bullet, but she beat me to the punch.
“Do you have plans tomorrow afternoon, Nathan?”
Oh. My. God.
I gave Gram the stink eye but she ignored me, even with my right eyebrow raised at least an inch or more.
If Nathan was surprised by Gram’s question, he sure didn’t show it.
“Nope. Some of the guys are up at a cottage, and I’m stuck here, so…”
“I see,” Gram said, still avoiding my glare.
I swear, if she goes where I think she’s going to go—
“So, would you be able to take Monroe to the Peach Festival in town? She’s been stuck with me for a week, and I’m not exactly exciting company for a sixteen-year-old.”
“I’m almost seventeen,” I interrupted.
Okay, Nathan seemed surprised now. He hunched his shoulders even more and rolled on the heels of his feet.
“Uh…”
Oh great. From the pained look on his face, I gathered that he’d rather eat rat poison than take me to some stupid Peach Festival.
Not that I wanted to go or anything, but still…something about the way he avoided looking in my general direction pissed me off.
“I’d for sure take Monroe, Mrs. Blackwell, but I…”
His face flushed deeply, and for a moment, I forgot to feel insulted, mostly because my curiosity was piqued. Something was up, and for the first time in a long time, I wanted to know what it was—probably because it wasn’t me under the microscope. But still, my therapist would be fist-pumping right about now.
“I can’t drive, so…I mean, I can drive, I’m just not allowed to, um, drive right now.” Nathan said the words as if he could barely get them out. His eyes narrowed, like he was mad, and he looked at the floor.
Gram’s face softened. “That’s not a problem. Monroe can take my car.”
What? Wait a second. She was going to let me drive her big boat?
I glanced out the window at the big beast, or what Gram referred to as “the Matlock.” I had no clue who or what a Matlock was, though she told me once he was a judge or an actor…or an actor judge. Who knows, but the car was long and silver and shiny, and did I say long? She was crazy to let me drive it.
“Oh,” Nathan mumbled. “I guess that could work.”
Gee, don’t be all excited or anything.
“Thank you, Nathan,” Gram said with a big, embarrassing smile on her face. Nothing like being pimped out by your own flesh and blood. “Do you want Monroe to give you a ride home tonight?”
“No,” he answered quickly.
So quickly that I whipped my head up, no longer interested in the pretend piece of lint I was picking off my skirt. Okay, I knew I wasn’t supermodel material or anything, but I wasn’t dog meat either, so his attitude hit a nerve. The thing of it was I was surprised at my reaction.
“I could use a walk after eating all that food.” Nathan glanced at me, and I hoped he could tell that I wasn’t into this peach thing. It wasn’t my fault that Gram was hopelessly looking for ways to—what had my therapist called it? Engage me. She wanted to bring me back to life and was willing to sell me to the local hottie to do it.
“Monroe will pick you up around four tomorrow, sound good?”
His eyes were still on me, so I thrust out my chin, though when his gaze wandered down to my chest—just for a second—my breath caught, and I hated the blush that stained my cheeks.
I could say no. I could ruin Gram’s expectations that her granddaughter would have a great night. Or her hope that, finally, Monroe would snap out of the funk that was never ending. I could disappoint her and watch the light fade from her eyes. I could watch her smile disappear altogether. Lord knows I’d done it to my parents many times in the past year.
But I couldn’t. Not with Gram. Besides, it would be worth it just to make Nathan as miserable at the thought of a night out with me as he obviously felt.
“Monroe?” Gram asked again, and I glanced toward her.
“I’ll try and fit it into my schedule.” I pushed my chair back and left.
Of course I didn’t want to seem too eager or anything.
Chapter Six
Nathan
At two minutes after four, I watched Mrs. Blackwell’s old Crown Vic make its way up my driveway. The thing was practically an antique, but man, she kept it mint. American-made and a pig on gas, the car had to be at least twenty feet long. And judging by the speed at which Monroe turned into our driveway, it would be lucky if it was returned to its owner without a ding or two.
She drove like a city girl, which would be one speed—fast—and it was obvious she didn’t know how to corner the damn thing. I wasn’t sure what Mrs. Blackwell was thinking letting Monroe drive, but then, it wasn’t my car.
My jaw tightened as I glanced toward the garage. Toward the car that was mine. The one that was off limits.
Monroe pulled up and threw the Crown Vic into park, her eyes finding mine as she sat there for a moment. I wondered if she was as uncomfortable about this situation as I was.
It wasn’t like it was a date or anything, and I wasn’t sure if she knew that. I decided as I took the first step off the porch I was going to have to set Monroe straight on that point.
/> Technically, I still had a girlfriend. And even though I had decided sometime in the night—most likely between the twentieth and thirtieth pathetic, drunken text I had received from Rachel—that I was gonna call it quits as soon as she got back from the cottage, this thing with Monroe still wasn’t a date.
I yanked on the passenger door, slid in beside her, and was immediately hit with the smell of…summer. Fresh, sweet summer.
I glanced at her in surprise, noticed that her hair was down, and again was hit with summer…and something else. Something heavier. Something I had no name for, but man, it was nice.
“Hey,” I said, clearing my throat because suddenly there was a frog the size of a baseball lodged in my throat.
God, you smell good.
“Hey yourself,” she replied as she reversed the car into a three-point turn. Once she had maneuvered the vehicle back down the driveway and turned right onto the road, she cleared her throat. “And just so you know? This isn’t a date or anything. I don’t date boys like you.”
Okay, that got my attention, hard and fast. I glanced at her. I let my eyes roll over the mint-green halter top that did nothing to hide the curves this girl had. Her legs were smooth, trim, and athletic, and from where I was sitting, the white skirt she had on was on the short side. Hell yeah, was it ever. Her toes were painted green to match the halter top, her feet slipped into casual sandals.
At least the girl was practical when it came to shoes. Good to know. The last time I had taken Rachel to a music festival in the neighboring parish, she’d worn these four-inch platform things that (a) looked ugly as shit, and (b) hurt her feet so badly that I had to listen to her complain for freaking hours.
Shit. When Rachel and I had first started dating, it was all about being together—just hanging out at my place and getting to know each other. But the last year was more about how we looked when we were out together, and that got pretty old after a while. I wasn’t sure what had changed, but there had been a time when Rachel was a lot of fun.
Boys Like You Page 3
