Boys Like You

by Juliana Stone

  And that made me wonder just what it was that I had gotten myself into.

  We drove through town and I followed the directions in my head—the ones Brent had given me when he’d called earlier. I drove to the end of the main drag and turned left onto Fossil Street, biting my lip when Nate sat taller and glanced my way.

  “Where are we going, Monroe?” His voice wasn’t friendly anymore. In fact, it was downright harsh, and I bit my lower lip so hard I tasted blood as I took my foot off the accelerator and began to slow down.

  I cleared my throat, an exaggerated sort of thing that had me wincing, and pulled the car into a parking spot. What was I going to say to him? Shoot. Think, Monroe.

  I yanked out the key and turned to him. Crap. He looked angry.

  “Don’t be mad.”

  Wow. That was a great start.

  His eyes were flat, his mouth tight and tense. “I’m guessing we’re not here because you want to go to Chuck E. Cheese.”

  “No.”

  Nate ran his hands through his hair and glanced out the window, across the street to the Coffee House. There was a patio out front and it was filled with people. Mostly teenagers, a few I recognized from the bush party.

  “I ran into Brent today.”

  He said nothing, his eyes still on the Coffee House, and I shivered, my skin damp from the humidity. How was I going to fix this?

  “We can go somewhere else if you want,” I offered.

  “Where did you see Brent?”

  “Oh, at the, uh, market. He was buying stuff for his mom and I was there with Gram. He told me that it would be a good time and that he and the other guys you jam with would be here. I thought…”

  “Clearly you weren’t thinking.”

  No. Clearly I wasn’t.

  I exhaled and drummed my fingers along the steering wheel, not really sure what to do or say.

  “I can take you home,” I said slowly.

  “I don’t want to go home.”

  Okay.

  “Well, where do you want me to take you?”

  “I don’t want you to take me anywhere.”

  Nate was pissed, and though I couldn’t really blame him, the snark in his voice still stung.

  “Well, that’s pretty vague.”

  “It’s all I got,” he snapped.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you angry.”

  His eyes were flat. “I don’t want this shit pushed on me.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Quit saying you’re sorry. You’re not sorry. How can you be sorry when you just don’t get it?”

  Hurt, for a moment I couldn’t get the words out, and when I did, my voice was tremulous and weak.

  “You’re not the only one who’s been through shit, you know.”

  He yanked his hand through his hair, his eyes glittery and angry. “Look, you brought me here. I didn’t ask to come, but Jesus, Monroe, did you really think this was gonna be a good idea? I know I’m not the only one dealing with crap. I heard you the other night. Your mistake died? Is that it? Does that make your shit worse than mine?”

  Pain lashed across my chest so tightly that, for a moment, I couldn’t breathe. I looked away, afraid that I was going to lose it big-time, and I tried to still the trembling in my fingers.

  “I can’t believe you just said that.” My words were barely a whisper. How had everything fallen apart already?

  I stared across the street for the longest time, not really knowing what to do or say. Nate was right. This was my fault. I had brought him here. I must have known this wasn’t going to end well, so why had I done it? What was wrong with me?

  Me, Monroe Blackwell, the person who didn’t like to feel anything, and now I was so full of emotion I was choking on it. It hurt.

  I’d forgotten how much it could hurt.

  Brent poked his head out of the door and I watched him look across the street at us. He lifted his hand, gave a half wave, beckoned for us to come, and then disappeared back inside with most of the crowd following him.

  It was after nine, so I knew they were getting ready to play.

  I watched a couple walk along the sidewalk, the guy with his arm across the girl’s shoulder, leaning into her, laughing, talking, kissing her neck as they headed toward the Coffee House.

  They looked happy. Carefree.

  Something else ripped through me in that moment, and it took a few seconds for me to get what it was. Jealousy.

  I had to look away. I had to bury it or choke.

  “I’m going in,” I said quietly. “You can come with me, or wait in the car, or you can leave. I really don’t care.”

  Except that I did. I cared a lot.

  I yanked on the door, slammed it shut, and crossed the street without looking back. What was the point?

  I was alone.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Nathan

  I waited in Monroe’s car for about twenty minutes. I sat there, pissed off at everything. Monroe. Brent. Myself. Trevor. The Coffee House.

  I watched guys I knew walk in with their guitars, and it was hard not to get out and walk in the other direction. I couldn’t fathom hearing and feeling the music without Trevor. I didn’t think I could stand it.

  And yet, there was a part of me that was tired of fighting all of it, and I suppose it was that part of me that propelled me forward. I got out of the car, but instead of heading in the opposite direction, I found myself crossing the street.

  Out here, near the patio, I could hear Brent singing—or trying to sing. The guy was great for background vocals, but he didn’t have the chops to carry anything on his own. He hit a particularly difficult note—a high C—and I winced.

  “Please tell me you’re going in?”

  Janelle, one of the waitresses, wiped up the last table and nodded toward the door. With the music on, the patio was empty.

  I didn’t answer her because I wasn’t sure.

  “I hope you do, hon,” she said before heading to the door. “I’m pretty sure Trevor would want you up on that stage.”

  I wasn’t so sure of that. I thought that maybe, if Trevor was here right now, he’d want to knock me on my ass. And I’d let him.

  She disappeared inside, and I stared after her until my eyes blurred. I took a step but froze because I couldn’t go inside. Not yet.

  I slid into a chair and leaned forward, resting my hands on my knees as I gazed at the stone floor. My shoulders felt heavy. So did my feet, like my boots were encased in cement or something. The air was damp, and I shivered as a wave of laughter rolled through the Coffee House.

  Someone was speaking, Brent maybe, but the words were muffled—it sounded as if he was talking underwater.

  For a second, with my eyes closed, I went back in time. Back to last summer when Trevor, Brent, and I would spend every other Friday night inside, playing until our fingers felt like they were gonna fall off.

  Trevor could pick apart any song we wanted to play. And his voice, man, we sounded good together. When the two of us were in the moment, when that rush of adrenaline pumped through our veins, when the crowd chanted and clapped because they wanted more—it was heaven.

  There was nothing like it.

  I wondered if he heard anything now. If, when he was alone, unable to speak or to communicate…did he hear stuff? Did he think of all these things from before? Did he wonder why he was in a hospital bed, frozen in time? Broken. Damaged.

  “Jesus,” I muttered and ran a hand through my hair. It was still damp from the shower, and as I leaned back and gazed up at the starless sky, I heard Brent and his buddy break into an old Skynyrd song.

  My fingers began to move, and as Brent found his place, his comfort zone, he began to belt out the lyrics. A little off key, but there was something there nonetheless, and
I heard the crowd singing along.

  I was up on my feet before I knew what I was doing, crossing the patio and pushing the door open.

  A wall of heat hit me.

  The Coffee House was full—standing room only—and even though the tables had candles burning, it was dark. Dark and intimate. Just like I remembered.

  It was a great place to be. You could find a dark corner and get busy with your girl while enjoying the tunes.

  I closed my eyes for a second, knowing that the coffee bar was to my left. That over the top of the door leading to the kitchen there was a fake talking parrot. I knew that if you asked it a question, it would answer with something nasty.

  I knew that Mr. J would be back there cooking and that his wife, Macy, would be serving up coffees and lattes, their daughter Kristy helping out. I knew that if I went over to the coffee bar, Kristy would try to slip me her cell number and her mom would frown but pretend that she hadn’t seen anything.

  In here, the sounds were the same as before. The smells. Cinnamon. Chocolate. The muted voices, the music. The vibrations along the floor.

  Nothing had changed and yet, as Brent sang a Foos song, his voice cracking a little, I felt the weight of my world crushing me from the inside out. I felt the weight of my existence.

  The weight of my change.

  Someone bumped into me and I moved forward, sliding through the crowd gathered along the edges. It was three bodies deep here, and I nodded at a few girls who waved, not stopping to talk. My eyes scanned for Monroe, and I found her near the stage.

  She was sitting at a table, just in front of Brent. And she was alone.

  Brent grinned when he saw me, and I felt a bit of that weight lift, though when Monroe followed his gaze, I kind of froze.

  Her large, expressive eyes didn’t waver as I took another step closer. Someone grabbed my arm and I glanced to the side, irritated. It was Rachel.

  “Hey, Nate,” she said. Her eyes were glassy and her smile was lopsided. She was high. “Come sit with me.”

  “It’s not gonna happen, Rachel.”

  Her eyes narrowed a bit and she looked past me toward Monroe. “So that’s her? That’s the girl you took to the festival?” Her voice trembled a bit and I felt bad. Some kids were looking our way, elbowing each other and waiting for something big to happen. Rachel had never had a filter when it came to public scenes. The girl liked it when everyone was watching.

  “Rachel,” I groaned, so not in the mood for a fight.

  “She’s pretty,” Rachel said. “Real pretty.”

  Surprised, I gazed down into her eyes. She had a wild look about her that went beyond being high. “Are you all right?” It didn’t matter that we weren’t together anymore—she would always be my first girlfriend and I cared about her.

  “No, but as soon as Brad Lawson gets me out of here, I’ll be flying.”

  Brad Lawson. No surprise there. At one time, the thought of her with that douche bag would have driven me crazy, but now…now I just wanted her to be safe and to not hate me.

  “I’m sorry, Rachel. I don’t want to hurt you, I just…”

  “So that’s it?” she asked. “We’re really over.”

  “It wasn’t good for a long time,” I replied softly.

  “I know,” she replied. “I know,” she said again. “But it doesn’t make me feel any better to see you here with her.”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “Oh?” she said. “What is it exactly?”

  I glanced back toward Monroe and found her eyes on me. I shrugged. “I don’t know.” But it could be something big, I thought.

  “Well,” Rachel said. “Maybe you should figure it out.”

  We stared at each other for a long time, and then she reached up and hugged me, her mouth near my ear. “I miss you. Please tell me we can at least be friends.” She pulled away and looked up at me. “No one knows me like you do, Nathan, and I…I don’t want us to act like strangers, you know? It would just be wrong.” She sighed. “It would be so wrong. After everything. After Trevor.”

  “I know.”

  And then her friend Gia grabbed her arm and dragged her away from me.

  After a few seconds, I turned and slid through the crowd, not stopping until I was inches from Monroe.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, hating the way her eyes fell away from me.

  For a second, I thought I’d blown everything. I thought my need to hurt and to lash out had ruined whatever it was that we had.

  But then she moved her chair, and I knew things were going to be all right. A bit more of that weight left me, and I slid in beside her.

  Brent and his buddy broke into some kind of hillbilly crap that Trevor would have loved, and after a few seconds, I relaxed enough to sit and watch. Link, the drummer in our band, was a table over and grinned, his arm around a redhead. I nodded but kept my focus on Brent.

  Monroe and I didn’t talk or even look at each other, but when my hand crept over hers, she didn’t move away. Her fingers were cool and I loved how they fit inside mine. I felt as if I’d just won the war or something.

  Brent played for nearly twenty minutes more, his eyes laughing as the girls up front sang along to everything that came out of his mouth. His buddy, a guy I vaguely knew from a town in the next parish, was pretty good, and by the time they were done, I was completely relaxed.

  Was it the music? Maybe. Though I’m guessing it had more to do with the fact that Monroe’s hand was still in mine and her bare thigh was pressed up against my leg.

  Brent finished off with a flamboyant chord run and then leaned over to whisper something to his buddy. The guy slid from his chair and jumped off the stage, his eyes on me, his guitar outstretched.

  “Hey guys, why don’t y’all make a lot of noise and maybe we can convince Everets to get his ass up here and play for us.” Brent was standing, clapping his hands and gesturing to the crowd behind me.

  His buddy grinned. “Dude, you should get up there.”

  Monroe nudged me with her leg and I glanced down at her.

  “I’d love to hear you play,” she whispered.

  My eyes moved from her shining eyes down to her mouth. To her lips that were slightly glossed and so damned kissable they should be illegal. I thought of the week before. I thought of our kiss.

  And I thought of what she’d said.

  I jumped up and grabbed the guitar that was held in front of me, but before taking the stage beside Brent, I bent forward, my mouth close to her ear.

  “I’ll play for you, Monroe. Just for you. But remember it will cost you.”

  She shivered a little, and I tucked a strand of hair behind her ears as I straightened. The weight that was on my shoulders was nearly gone, and the girl in front of me was the reason for it. I knew that it would come back. It would come back with a vengeance, but I was willing to forget about it for tonight.

  I was willing to see where this was gonna take me.

  “Huh,” she said huskily. “What’s the price?”

  I chuckled, a grin in place as someone let loose a long wolf whistle.

  “I play for you and in return, I want that kiss.”

  “Kiss?”

  “Yeah. The one you promised. I’m gonna collect tonight.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Monroe

  I could have watched Nathan play his guitar and sing all night.

  He was that good. No. He was better than good. He was charismatic and hot and sexy and talented and…

  I shivered just thinking of how he’d bent low over the mike, guitar cradled in his hands when he sang, and of how his eyes had never left me for the entire time he’d been onstage.

  Not once.

  He was riveting, and I was still buzzing from the high I’d gotten watching him perform. Still buzzing from
what he’d said to me.

  It was just after midnight by the time we pulled up to Nate’s place. There was no moon and no stars, so it was pretty dark. I stopped the car behind his father’s truck and tried to swallow the lump in my throat.

  Have you ever tried to swallow something that was as big as a freaking golf ball? It’s not fun. Especially when you’re trying to act like everything is cool, when clearly, everything isn’t.

  It was the total opposite of cool. It was hot. And scary. And exciting. And did I say hot?

  My hair stuck to the back of my neck and I pushed at it impatiently, exhaling as I tried to wipe my damp palms along my dress without him noticing.

  Nate hadn’t made a move to collect his payment yet, and I was pretty sure now was it.

  I rotated my shoulders and glanced up at his house. It was as dark as everything else. His parents had either gone out themselves or they were in bed already. Either way, it felt like there was no one around for miles.

  “Are you gonna shut this thing off?”

  “What?” I jumped at the sound of his voice. The little bit of light from the dashboard illuminated his face—his strong chin, high cheekbones, and a mouth that made me think of things.

  It made me think about the kiss we’d shared the week before. And what his body had felt like pressed up against mine. With his longish hair and that little bit of stubble on his chin, he looked dangerous. He looked hot.

  And though he looked perfect, I knew that he was as un-perfect as I was. We were damaged, the two of us, in ways not a lot of people could understand. And for the first time since all the bad stuff had happened to me, I didn’t feel so alone. I didn’t feel like the freak with too much shit inside her. The one who couldn’t talk. The one who fell into herself and hid.

  I felt almost…normal.

  I felt like a girl, sitting in a car with a boy. A boy who she liked.

  I turned the key and settled back in my seat, not sure what to do or say, and for the first time, the monumental inexperience of my life hit me in the face.