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I shoved my hands into my back pocket and blew a curl out of my eye.
“New York.”
“And you’re here because…”
I’m here because no one knows what to do with me.
“Look, I don’t really want to do this talking buddy thing, so I’m just going to let you get started, okay?”
He shrugged but didn’t say anything, and for some reason that irritated me. I wasn’t used to being dismissed like that. I was used to being under a microscope—used to having every action analyzed and picked apart. I was used to my parents, teachers, and friends hanging onto every word that came out of my mouth as if it was gospel.
Of course, the gospel according to Monroe isn’t exactly full of rainbows and unicorns, but as long as I was talking, they were happy. Because a talking Monroe wasn’t as scary to deal with as the nonverbal version I’d been several months ago. Back then, I was almost straitjacket material.
Back then…I shuddered. Nope. Not going there today.
Once more, I yanked on my cami straps, pulling on the material a little so that it wasn’t plastered to my chest. Even though there was shade from the oak trees, I thought that it would be pretty awful to spend the afternoon out here painting. Because it wasn’t just hot, it was oppressive.
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.”
