Boys Like You

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.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Nathan

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.

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 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.