Boys Like You(8)

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 Mathews’ place. His parents were out of town and his older brother was home from college. It was supposed to be the summer kick-off 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, 30

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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?”

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Juliana Ston e

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.

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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 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.