Authors: Juliana Stone
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BOYS LIKE YOU
“I’m almost seventeen,” I interrupted.
Okay, Nathan seemed surprised now. He hunched his shoul-
ders 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 micro-
scope. 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
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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.
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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.
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At two minutes after four, I watched Mrs. Blackwell’s old
Crown Vic make its way up my driveway. The thing was prac-
tically 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.
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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 twen-
tieth 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.
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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 county, 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.
Or maybe it was me who had changed.
I pushed all thoughts of Rachel away and snuck a peek
at Monroe.
Her hair was down, a mess of inky- black waves, and those
eyes were as interesting as I remembered— so light they appeared
almost clear— and her mouth…
Bingo.
This might not be a date, but she sure as hell was dressed
for one.
My gaze rested there, on that perfect, lush, and glossy mouth,
for a heartbeat— maybe longer. No girl put on that glossy shit
and let her hair down unless she wanted to look good. And
smell good.
I smiled.
She scowled and arched an eyebrow.
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“A guy like me?” I settled back in my seat, indicating that she
turn left. This would be good, I thought. “Should I be insulted?”
I continued, thinking that I kinda sorta was.
“Don’t take it personally, Romeo, but you’re not my type,”
she said, a hint of rasp in her voice, as if there was something
caught in her throat. Words, maybe?
“You have a type?”
“Don’t you?” she shot back.
I shrugged but didn’t answer.
“I’ll bet your type is tall, blond, and tanned, but then, what
do I know?”
That annoyed me. Mostly because she was right. But hey, in
my defense, Rachel was a good time in addition to being real
easy on the eyes, and she rocked a string bikini liked no one’s
business. At least she used to. Hell, I’m sure she still did, it’s just not something I noticed anymore.
She still wanted to drink and smoke weed and party, and I
didn’t. Not with her and not with anyone else.
“And you think this because…” I glared at her.
She made another weird sound, and I noticed that she gripped
the steering wheel so hard her knuckles were white.
“Do you have a girlfriend?” she asked, eyes straight ahead on
the road.
Shit. This was going to make me look bad. I could lie but
that really wasn’t my thing.
“Yeah, at the moment, I do.”
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“At the moment?” She laughed and muttered, “Unreal.”
“It’s not what it sounds like,” I retorted, pissed off that she’d managed to piss me off minutes into our non- date.
“I’m sure it’s not.”
“Look, I don’t know what your story is and I really don’t care.
In case you forgot, it was your grandmother who arranged this
little whatever the hell it is, not me. So get over yourself.”
“Whatever,” she muttered.
“Besides,” I continued, feeling a wave of heat rush through
me, one that was full of anger. “You’re right about one thing.”
She slowed down as we approached the city limits. “Oh yeah,
Romeo, what’s that?”
“I do have a type, and you’re not it.”
“Ouch,” she replied sarcastically, eyes on the road ahead.
“I can’t imagine with that attitude you’d be anyone’s type.”
She had no comeback for that one, and I exhaled, sinking
into my seat as I stared out the window. I thought that maybe it
was going to be the longest afternoon of my life.
We reached the festival grounds about five minutes later.
After Monroe refused to take money off me for parking, we
headed into the Peach Festival, one that I hadn’t attended since
I was, like, twelve.
As we headed into the main area, I remembered why. It was
for kids. I looked around and sighed. Old people and kids.
Lots
of old people and kids.
There was a midway near the back. I could see the Ferris
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wheel from where we stood, and game alley was set up just in
front. Between us and the midway was a huge number of arts
and craft booths, and beyond that were food stands.
“You want something to eat?” I grumbled, wanting nothing
more than to end this thing as quickly as I could. I figured if I shoved some food into her and toured the grounds quickly, we
could call it a night and be done with it.
“Sure,” she said. “In a bit. I want to look at the craft booths,
if that’s all right?”
I glanced down at her sharply, but she stared straight ahead.
It was then that I realized a few things. She was small next to
me, probably five- four, while I was a couple of inches over six
feet and still growing. With her pale skin, pale eyes, and dark
hair, she really was the opposite of Rachel or any other girl I’d ever dated.
There was something about her though. I couldn’t put my
finger on it, but I thought that maybe if I wasn’t so screwed up
and she wasn’t such a bitch, she could be someone I’d be inter-
ested in.
Maybe.
“Oh, look,” she pointed toward a booth. “Rag dolls.”
I groaned and followed her into the craft center.
Maybe
not.
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“You’re right about one thing. I do have a type, and you’re not it.”
Ouchie.
Or at least it would be an ouchie if I cared. Which I didn’t.
Not really. I was used to people backing away from me. It was
usually in response to me opening my mouth and saying some-
thing nasty, which was easy enough to do when your parents
were just grateful that you spoke at all.
I knew I’d been a bitch in the past, just as I’d been right now.
I just couldn’t seem to help myself.
And sure, my therapist told me it was my way of keeping my
distance— of avoiding contact, but whatever. For the most part,
I preferred to be alone, which was why this whole festival thing
was stupid.
I grabbed my peach sundae and chose a seat as far away
from anyone as I could. I didn’t do crowds real well, so for the
hundredth time, I asked myself why I had let Gram manipulate