The driveway was impressive if you were interested in that sort of thing, lined on each side by huge oak trees that were generations old. Their branches spread over the top, reaching for the other side like a canopy, and I enjoyed the shade as I walked toward the main house.
Several cars were parked beside a small outbuilding to the right, and at the last minute, I paused, because I was pretty sure Mrs. Blackwell didn’t live in the main house anymore. I spied a smaller place on the other side, set back a good twenty feet. There were flowers planted in the front, beneath the veranda. Purple and white petunias just like at my grandparents. Old lady flowers.
I decided to start there first.
I dropped my bag on the bottom step, took the stairs two at a time, and rang the doorbell. A few minutes passed and I rang it again, this time pressing hard for several seconds. I could hear it echoing inside and took a step back.
“Shit,” I muttered, glaring at the door—like that was going to make it open. I was hot, sweaty, and didn’t exactly feel like searching a freaking plantation for some creepy burial site.
One more minute ticked by before I decided that’s just what I was going to have to do, when I heard a scuffling noise and the door swung open.
I’d just tied a bandana around my head to keep my hair out of my eyes, and with a smile plastered to my face, I turned back to greet Mrs. Blackwell.
Only it wasn’t Mrs. Blackwell who stepped out onto the porch.
It was a girl. I knew that much. How old was she? I couldn’t say exactly, because in that moment, I couldn’t even tell you if she was pretty or not.
I was way too focused on a pair of eyes that hit me in the chest like a hammer against stone. The color was unusual—a light gray/green—and sure, they were pretty damn striking, exotic even, but it wasn’t the color or shape that got to me.
It was what I saw inside them. Something indefinable and yet so familiar because it was like looking in the mirror, and my first thought as I stared back at her, my smile slowly fading away?
Man, that sucks.
Chapter Three
Monroe
The boy who stood on the porch was sweaty and half naked and not the old guy I was expecting. At all.
I suppose he was going for some kind of badass look with a red bandana wrapped around his head and his jean shorts hanging so low off his hips I could see the top of his boxers, but seriously?
Did all guys think us girls really gave a crap what brand of boxers they wore? Personally, I thought the whole look was ridiculous and couldn’t imagine what it felt like to walk around with your pants falling off. Uncomfortable maybe. Ridiculous for sure.
He wasn’t wearing a shirt either, and I’m sure that’s why my eyes automatically focused on his tattoo. It was interesting to look at—exotic symbols in black ink—starting from the top of his shoulder and traveling down to just above his bicep.
I had never wanted a tattoo, but the summer before my world went into the toilet, I’d wanted a belly ring. Badly. All the girls at school were getting them, and I didn’t think they came close to tattoos on the trashy scale, maybe a seven out of ten, but my mother was horrified at the idea. Her comeback had been, “that’s something you can think about when you’re old enough to vote.”
End of story, because my dad is a wuss and always sided with her.
“Hey,” he said.
I didn’t answer at first and moved so I could peek around him, but there was no old guy, and he seemed to be alone.
“Are you here for the fence?”
His eyes narrowed slightly, most likely because I came off sounding rude. But in my defense, he was late and had interrupted my nap. And these days, napping was a pretty important part of my day. Too important, according to my parents, which was one of the reasons they’d sent me to Gram’s for the summer. In the city, they were at work and I was alone—free to sleep as long as I wanted to and free to spend my days in pajamas.
Gram didn’t let me hang in my pajamas. She might not have figured out how to make me brush my hair every day, but she sure knew how to guilt me out of my pajamas.
“Who are you?” he asked instead of answering my question.
“Who are you?” I shot back.
“I asked first.”
Okay, what are we, like, five?
He scrubbed at his chin and sort of sighed. I got the impression that he wasn’t exactly in a great mood, but then I wasn’t either, so I guess we were even on that count.