Boys Like You

It made me

wonder about Nathan.

His shorts were Abercrombie, his boots Doc’s—his aforementioned boxers, again Abercrombie. He didn’t talk like an idiot even though the bandana was hick, and he looked like he came from money. It made me wonder why he was stuck out here painting some old lady’s iron fence on an afternoon meant for pools or beaches. Or anyplace other than here.

He glanced back at me, and I turned quickly, because even though it looked like I was staring at him—I wasn’t. Well, I wasn’t staring at him exactly.

“What does your tattoo mean?” I said in a rush.

“I thought you didn’t want to talk.”

“I don’t,” I stammered, hating how flustered I felt.

He didn’t say anything for a moment; in fact, several moments passed before he looked at his shoulder and shrugged. “It’s Celtic.”

Wow. Wasn’t he just brimming with information?

“Celtic, as in…”

He cleared his throat in that way my dad does when my mom grills him about something and he doesn’t want to answer. For whatever reason, this Nathan was more closed off and unfriendly than I was, which made me even more interested in him—or rather, in why he was like that.

“As in I don’t know what it means, I just thought it looked cool.”

I didn’t believe him. You don’t get ink for no reason.

“Well, at least you didn’t get your girlfriend’s name on your skin because…”

His head snapped up.

I did not just say that.

God. Now he was going to think that I was fishing to see if he had a girlfriend, and I wasn’t. My cheeks stung and I knew they were even more red than before. Well, crap. Now he was really going to think I was into him, in that way.

Instead, he looked at me as if I was a retard. “That would be stupid.”

Okay, so the girlfriend thing was a sore subject, and he totally didn’t care what I was thinking. In fact, he seemed kinda pissed. “It’s been known to happen,” I retorted.

His eyes narrowed as if he was trying to figure me out, and that’s when I realized it was time to go. I was sinking out here, and suddenly the effort to stay on solid ground was too much. I felt a little woozy and thought of my bed.

I took a step back. “Okay, I’ll leave you to it.”

“Sure. Nice meeting you, princess.”

“It’s Monroe,” I shot back with the voice of a five-year-old. Hello. What was it about this boy that turned me into an immature child with no filters?

Nathan bent over to open up his paint can without saying another word, and I hurried back to the house. Not once did I look back. Not even when I reached the maze and could have snuck a peek without him seeing.

I marched straight into the house and, once inside, drank two glasses of water before the weariness of my life—my very existence—pulled me down. It took way too much energy to be anything other than apathetic.

It was a heavy feeling and one I was used to, so I did what I always did when it hit. I trudged upstairs, flopped onto my bed, and thought longingly of the little blue pills that were no longer mine to enjoy.

I closed my eyes, turned and snuggled into my pillow, and prayed for sleep.

Chapter Four

Nathan

When my cell dinged for the fifth time in just over an hour, I swore and yanked it out of my shorts.