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Gram’s long hair was swept up in a clip at the back of her head, the silver strands glistening in the sunlight that poured in from the window above the sink. She wore pink lipstick, a casual cream skirt—cut to an inch above her knee—a moss-green blouse, and low open-toe heels to finish off the outfit. Pearls were in her ears, and the matching pendant lay at her neck. A classy choice that was totally Gram.
She was beautiful.
My gram had turned sixty last year and still carried that simple elegance that set her apart from a lot of women. She’d been a real hottie in her day, and though my mother said I was her spitting image, I didn’t see it. But then I suppose beauty is more about your state of mind, and since mine was all dark and gloomy, that’s what I saw when I looked in the mirror.
“All right,” she said after a while and glanced at the clock above the stove. “I have someone coming by the house anyway, and I’ll need you to show him where the job is.”
Great. I thought of my bed and the nap I’d planned.
“Who is it?”
I didn’t really care, but I could at least be polite and ask.
“I’ve engaged the services of a local contractor for some repairs and maintenance around the plantation. Today the fence around the family crypt and burial plot will be painted.”
Gram’s ancestors had lived in Louisiana for generations and this place—Oak Run Plantation—had been in the family for just as long. Years ago, Gram’s father had turned the family home into a successful bed and breakfast/museum, which Gram had inherited, because according to my father, Gram’s brother, Uncle Jack, was a no-good drunk who couldn’t find his own butt if he needed to.
My grandmother even stayed on after her husband died, but instead of living in the big house, she moved into what used to be the carriage house. And that’s where I’m staying this summer.
Everyone—which would be my parents and my best friend Kate—was hoping the hot Louisiana summer and laid-back atmosphere would somehow fix me. They think that the city and the memories are too much, and I don’t have the heart to tell them that the memories will never leave. That much I’ve learned.
So location doesn’t really matter, but I was glad to be away from my mother and her large, expressive, puppy-dog eyes. She looks at me a lot when she thinks I won’t notice, and every time she does, I feel like the biggest failure on the planet.
I don’t know how to react to her anymore—do I pretend I’m better to make her pain go away? Do I ignore her? Do I tell her to get out of my face?
And my father, God, he’s the total opposite. He acts as if everything is normal. As if the last year and a half never happened—as if each one of us is whole—and that makes me angry. And kinda sad.
Gram grabbed her purse, bent low, and gave me a hug. “I love you, Monroe.”
“I know,” I whispered.
She grabbed her keys and paused. “Barbecue sound good for supper?”
I shrugged. “Sure.”
“All right then.” She moved toward the door but paused, her hand on the ivory handle. “He’ll be here in an hour.
Why don’t you brush your hair?”
“Okay,” I answered, though I’m pretty sure we both knew it wasn’t likely to happen.
Chapter Two
Nathan
The crap thing about not being able to drive is that I do a lot of waiting around for rides, and I hate waiting. Doing nothing makes me crazy, and crazy Nathan isn’t exactly the kind of thing I’m going for these days.
But mostly I hate waiting because it gives me too much time to think about the reasons I’m waiting in the first place. About how one stupid mistake changed everything. About how I screwed up so badly that now, the summer before my senior year—the one that I should have spent hanging with Rachel and Trevor and the rest of the guys—is going to suck.
Though it won’t suck as much as Trevor’s.
I wiped sweat from my brow and scooped up my bag from the porch. I hate waiting. I hate thinking.
In the fourth grade, Alex Kingsley tripped Trevor in the hallway, just outside our classroom. We had been in line waiting to head into the gymnasium, and Trevor tumbled into me. Long story short, we both wiped out, and the entire row of girls laughed their butts off. So did Alex—until we cornered him in the schoolyard at lunch.
Trevor and I taught the little turd exactly what happened to dickheads. After that, Alex pretty much left everyone alone, and though Trevor and I were punished—we had to stay after school every day for an entire week—it solidified our friendship.
We bonded over our mutual dislike of Alex Kingsley and our love of music and sports. Eventually, I forgave Trevor his thirst for all things country—he couldn’t help it, his parents were true hicks—and he learned to like my progressive ear. He was into country music, bluegrass twang, and he also had a soft spot for the New York Jets. I was all about the old classics my dad loved, hard rock, and loud guitars. I also preferred the Dallas Cowboys, but he was cool with that.
