Boys Like You

Thoughts that went from X-rated to kind of pissed off to confused—and all of them were about Monroe.

I’d thought about how amazing it had felt to hold her and how much I wanted to do more than just kiss her. I thought of her laugh and the way it lightened everything, especially the heaviness inside me.

And I thought about Malcolm.

Who was he? A friend? A boyfriend?

I wanted her to share her secret with me. To trust me enough to do it. But I was willing to bet that Monroe would only come around when she was ready. And maybe she would never be ready.

“So when exactly are you collecting your prize?”

Monroe’s voice cut through my thoughts and I grinned.

“Tonight.”

“Tonight? But it’s nearly midnight and I’m already in bed.”

“Really,” I said, my grin widening. “And what does Monroe Blackwell wear to bed?”

She giggled, a soft, girlish sound that made my gut churn with anticipation.

“Guess you’ll never know.”

I grabbed my knapsack from my bed and shook my head. “Don’t count on it. See you in a bit.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Guess you’ll have to wait and see,” I answered before pocketing my cell and heading out of my room.

The house was dark—my parents had gone to bed as soon as we’d come home—and I crept through it silently. They’d never been super strict with me. I don’t think they’d ever given me a curfew, but considering everything that had happened this year, I was pretty sure they wouldn’t be too happy catching me sneaking out of the house at midnight.

I still couldn’t drive—my license was suspended until the fall—but that didn’t mean my dad’s bike was off limits. Slipping the backpack over my shoulders, I climbed aboard and set off for Oak Run Plantation.

The sky was clear, and my eyes adjusted quickly, so traveling the back roads was easy.

Would she like what I had planned? Or would she think it was stupid? Corny.

I thought of the connection we had shared the night before, and I had to believe that she would get it. I had to believe that Monroe would understand, ’cuz if not, I was gonna look like a total effing loser. The fact that I was willing to look like a total effing loser meant something, but right now I wasn’t going to think about it too much.

I rode up the silent driveway, noting the low light that fell from the main plantation house, though Mrs. Blackwell’s cottage was in darkness. The night felt electric. I heard the cicadas buzzing, the sad hoot of an owl close by, and the always humid, damp air filled with the scent of honeysuckle and whatever else Mrs. Blackwell had growing in her gardens.

I jumped off the bike and set it against the porch. Took one step up and froze.

Already erratic, my heart began to thump like a kick drum—fast and heavy. Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom.

God, what was it about this girl that had me all twisted up?

I couldn’t see her face—it was in shadow—but her hair spilled over her white T-shirt like long fingers of ink. She leaned against the edge of the railing, wearing cut-off jean shorts and runners.

“Hey,” she said slowly, a husky tone in her voice that I liked.

I took two more steps up until my head was level to hers. This close, I could see her features, the reflection of the stars in her eyes, the moisture along her bottom lip as if she’d just licked it.

I leaned forward and brushed my mouth against hers. Couldn’t help myself. But it was a quick one. We had to hurry.

“You ready?” I asked, my hand seeking hers and tugging her down the steps with me.

“For what?” She sounded breathless.