Boys Like You(38)

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 under water.

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.

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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 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 157

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Juliana Ston e

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 vibra-tions 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, irri-tated. 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 158

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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.