BoysLikeYou.indd (25 page)

ten minutes later, I was trudging down the stairs, wet hair

leaving streaks down my green sundress as I took them two

at a time.

Eager to get back to the hospital and Nathan, I rounded the

bottom step but froze when I heard voices from Gram’s kitchen.

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For a second, I wanted to run back upstairs and turn back

the clock, because I knew that, for me, summer was almost over.

And that meant no more Nathan.

Pain twisted inside my chest at the thought of what Labor

Day weekend meant, but I forced myself to take those steps

until I leaned against the doorframe and watched Gram chat-

ting with my mother.

Instead of her usual business clothes— Mom was a lawyer in

Manhattan— she was dressed in a simple white T- shirt and a pair

of blue- and- white plaid shorts. Her golden hair, normally kept in a sleek, straight cut to her jaw, touched the tops of her shoulders.

She’d left it natural, and the waves looked incredible on her.

She was still too skinny, but it was nice to see her looking

relaxed. Kind of normal. I suppose it was all we could hope for.

Kind
of
normal
.

Dad leaned against the counter by the sink, watching his

mother— Gram— as she talked up Mom. He was casual too,

wearing an old pair of jeans and a Rolling Stones T- shirt. There was a lot more gray in his hair, and he had lost weight as well,

but he looked good.

They both looked good, all considering.

Just then, my dad glanced up and my heart turned over as he

stared at me in silence, Gram and his mom still talking softly,

unaware that I was there.

In that moment, I saw the love, the pain, the anguish, and

the question…was I better?

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Juliana Ston e

Was I?

Were they?

For so long, he’d acted as if our small, battered family had

already moved on. As if the tragedy that had happened to

Malcolm had been dealt with— wrapped up in an ugly box and

put into storage. It used to piss me off so much. How could he

not
wallow in the pain? Pain is what made us remember.

But I think I kind of got it now. It was how he’d been trying

to deal with the fact that his son was gone, and even though his

daughter was still around, she’d pretty much taken a vacation. I

had been nothing after Malcolm died.

Just skin over a bunch of bones with no heart and no soul.

I’d been so wrapped up in my own pain that I hadn’t once

considered my parents didn’t know how to deal with theirs.

I’d thought that Dad’s apathy and Mom’s need to overcom-

pensate in everything was their way of dealing with me. But it

wasn’t. God, it wasn’t at all. It was them falling away and trying to deal with their own pain.

The thing was?

We were still here. My mom. My dad. My gram.

Me.

I
was
still
here.

I thought of the dream I’d had less than an hour ago, and I

realized something. Even though Malcolm was dead, he wasn’t

gone
. Not really.

He existed inside each and every one of us, in that one place

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where he’d never left. That one piece of my soul that hadn’t

faded to black like the rest of me.

Malcolm had never really left us; it was me who had gone

away. Me who had crawled deep inside myself because I wasn’t

strong enough to deal with everything. But Malcolm? He was

still here with us.

I saw his hazel eyes reflected in my dad’s. I saw his gentle,

curious smile appear on my mom’s face as she nodded at some-

thing Gram was saying.

Malcolm would always be here.

My feet started moving before I even knew what I was going

to do and I didn’t stop until his arms encircled me. Until I was

breathing in that scent that was all Dad— part soap and musky

cologne and just…just Dad.

When was the last time I’d let him touch me? The last time

I’d given him a hug or a kiss? I couldn’t remember, and I thought that, that alone was tragic. He used to be my king, back when I

was little, and when had all of that fallen away?

Finally his hands slipped away and I took a step back, my

gaze sliding from him to Mom.

“I missed you guys.”

Mom didn’t look like she knew what to say, and I could see

tears sparkling around the corners of her eyes. She still sat at the table with Gram, who squeezed her hand and slowly rose.

“Monroe, why don’t you grab the iced tea off the counter and

pour us each a glass?”

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“Sure, Gram.”

I bent low and kissed my mom’s cheek, but then quickly

crossed the kitchen before she said anything. Our relationship

had always been more complicated, and things were still fragile.

But the road back to good, though fragile, wasn’t one I was

scared of anymore.

I poured four iced teas and leaned against the counter sipping

mine while Gram served peach cobbler. I hadn’t had breakfast

yet, but the thought of food— any kind of food— made my

stomach turn.

“Nathan hasn’t called, has he?” I finally asked when I couldn’t

stand it anymore. My cell still showed no calls or text messages, and I thought maybe he’d called the house.

Gram shook her head. “No, dear. I haven’t heard anything.”

“Who’s Nathan?” Dad asked, sitting a little straighter in his

chair as he fingered his glass.

The
boy
that
I
love.

Just then, a loud rap sounded on the back door that Nate

always used and my heart nearly beat out of my chest as I

watched it slowly open.

Nathan strode into the kitchen, his tall, lean form still in

the wrinkled, dirty clothes he’d worn the day before. He hadn’t

shaved in a few days, and his jaw was shadowed while his hair

was a wild mess— a hot, sexy, wild mess that haloed his head in

burnished waves.

Burnished waves that I wanted to touch.

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He pulled up short and my heart turned over when I saw

how tired he looked.

“Hey,” I said softly.

He held my gaze for several, long seconds and then attempted

a smile. “Hey.” Shoving his hands into the front of his jeans, he slowly looked around the room.

“Nathan,” Gram interrupted, “you look exhausted. Have

you eaten?”

He shook his head. “I’m not really hungry, thanks, Mrs.

Blackwell.”

He glanced around the room and cleared his throat. “I didn’t

know you had company.” And then he turned. “I should go.”

I sprang forward. “Nathan, no. Wait.”

I was at his side in an instant, my hands reaching for him.

Needing him. And when I slid my arms around his waist, I felt

his muscles release and he sagged against me.

It was as if we were the only two people in the room. Heck,

in the entire universe. He was all I was aware of and I glanced

up at him, eyes searching, needing to know.

And like we were a part of each other, I didn’t have to ask.

“He made it through the night and they think…” Nathan blew

out a long breath. “They think that he’s going to beat the infection.”

“Oh my God, Nate.”

“I know,” he murmured into my hair. “He’s still not out of

the woods, but the doctor seems hopeful. I had to see you before

I went home. Came straight here. I just had to…hold you.”

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A throat cleared behind us and Nathan shifted a bit, smiling

down at me as he raised his eyebrows.

“Those your folks?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“I guess I don’t exactly look presentable.”

“You look perfect,” I answered and then nudged him with

my hip. “Even though you look like crap.” I paused. “Would

you like to meet them?”

He tucked a piece of my hair behind my ears and stood back,

and I don’t think my heart could feel any more full. It was full

of life. Full of love and family.

It was full of Nathan.

“Sure.”

“Okay,” I teased. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” My hand

slid down to his and I tugged him forward.

“Warn me?”

I nodded. “Yep. Both of my parents are lawyers and they kind

of, you know, like to ask a lot of questions.”

“Good to know,” he said softly. “Let’s do this.”

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Labor Day weekend. Where the hell did you come from?

Man, it didn’t seem that long ago when summer felt as if it

was as long as a school year. Back then, my life had been divided into two things. School. And summer. And in my young little

mind, each was like a season, as long as each other.

When I was in elementary school, I hated Labor Day weekend

because it meant no more lazy summer days spent out at my

grandparents’ place. No more afternoons in the pond at Baker’s

Landing, fishing or frogging. It was back to the classroom, and

who the heck wanted to spend every day inside?

Not me. I’d rather be exploring, pretending to be the meanest

pirate this side of the Mississippi.

But as I got older, went through middle school and then into

high school, things changed. Traditions formed and Labor Day

weekend became a three- day celebration of not only the end of

summer, but the beginning of another school year.

There was the annual football game. Fathers against sons.

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And then there was the annual blowout bush party, held at

a different location each year. It was a music- and booze- fueled night of mayhem, good times, and making memories.

This year, my senior year, would have been epic.
Would
have
being the choice words.

Trevor was still in the hospital, and though his body had

responded to the drugs and he’d fought off the infection that

had basically shut down his organs, he was still in a coma. Still existing somewhere other than here, and I had no idea if he was

gonna make it.

He wouldn’t be starting senior year with me. Wouldn’t be

catching my throws on the football field or gigging at local clubs.

And tomorrow…shit, tomorrow Monroe was flying home to

New York City.

“Everets, your arm is looking damn good!”

I turned as my coach, Mr. Forster, jogged over from the other

side of the field. We’d just finished playing against the fathers and I had thrown for a win by twenty- one points. Wasn’t hard to

do. They had a few players with some legs— my dad was one of

them— but for the most part, they were a bunch of overweight,

middle- aged guys who were already searching for the beer tent.

Coach Forster knocked his hat back and planted his hands

on his hips. “Should be a good year.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Truthfully, I wasn’t all that interested in playing ball. Wasn’t

all that interested in much, but I’d made a promise to Monroe

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and I planned on keeping it. I had to be positive for her. Positive for myself.

“We’ll miss Trevor for sure, but I’ve got my eye on that young

Caleb Obinksky.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Sure.”

I didn’t give a shit about Caleb Obinksky. Where the hell

was Monroe?

“Look, coach, I gotta go. Hit the showers.”

Mr. Forster grinned, slapped me on the back, and then paused

to shake my hand. “I just want to say that all that stuff…” He

cleared his throat.

“Stuff?”

“The stuff with Trevor. It’s in the past. New year. New outlook.”

I didn’t know what to say, because his analysis of the situa-

tion was so far off my grid that I couldn’t see it. He wanted a

winning season.

I just wanted to get by.

And I didn’t ever want to forget what happened that night,

because to forget meant that it could happen again. And I was

never going to be so goddamn selfish and stupid. Never.

“Sure. Okay.”

I pushed past him, my gaze roaming over the field until I saw

that familiar dark head. She was chatting with Brent and a few

others, her parents several feet away with her grandmother.

I jogged across the field, my eyes only on her, and I lifted my

chin when she looked up. My heart did that strange flipping

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thing— was I ever going to get used to it? And I pushed Brent

out of the way so that I could get to her.

“Hey! What the fu— ” Brent stalled when Mrs. Blackwell

arched an eyebrow and punched me in the arm. “You could

have asked me to move, douche bag.”

“Whatever.”

I bent down and kissed her nose, inhaling that summery

scent that was all Monroe. My forehead rested on hers, and I