“Oh my God, Nate.”
“I know,” he murmured into my hair. “He’s still not out of the woods, but the doctor seems hopeful. I had to see you before I went home. Came straight here. I just had to…hold you.”
A throat cleared behind us and Nathan shifted a bit, smiling down at me as he raised his eyebrows.
“Those your folks?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
“I guess I don’t exactly look presentable.”
“You look perfect,” I answered and then nudged him with my hip. “Even though you look like crap.” I paused. “Would you like to meet them?”
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.
“Stuff?”
“The stuff with Trevor. It’s in the past. New year. New outlook.”
I didn’t know what to say, because his analysis of the situation was so far off my grid that I couldn’t see it. He wanted a winning season.
I just wanted to get by.
And I didn’t ever want to forget what happened that night, because to forget meant that it could happen again. And I was never going to be so goddamn selfish and stupid. Never.
“Sure. Okay.”
I pushed past him, my gaze roaming over the field until I saw that familiar dark head. She was chatting with Brent and a few others, her parents several feet away with her grandmother.
I jogged across the field, my eyes only on her, and I lifted my chin when she looked up. My heart did that strange flipping thing—was I ever going to get used to it? And I pushed Brent out of the way so that I could get to her.
“Hey! What the fu—” Brent stalled when Mrs. Blackwell arched an eyebrow, and he punched me in the arm. “You could have asked me to move, douche bag.”
“Whatever.”
I bent down and kissed her nose, inhaling that summery scent that was all Monroe. My forehead rested on hers, and I hoped she didn’t mind that I was filthy and sweaty because I didn’t want to move.
“Hey,” I said.
She laughed and slid her hands up my arms until they hit my shoulders. “You’re really good, Nate. Wow. I mean, I knew you would be, but I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”
I grinned. “Good, because I was showing off for you. Look, I gotta go home and shower. Brent’s gonna pick me up later and we’ll head out to the party. Sound good?”
“Sounds great.”
She bit her lip in that adorable way that made me crazy, and I swear if it weren’t for her parents watching us like hawks, I would have slipped my tongue inside her mouth and kissed her senseless.
But I had to be good. Her parents weren’t 100 percent sure of me and I got that, but I didn’t want anything to interfere with our plans. Tonight was our last one together, and I had to make it count. I needed to make this girl so crazy about me she would never forget this summer, or me.
Because I knew I wouldn’t. She was burned into my skin like a tattoo, and I would carry her with me forever.
Chapter Thirty
Monroe
I changed my clothes at least seven times before settling on a pair of dark navy skinny jeans, ballet slippers, and a green halter top that made my eyes pop. Or at least that’s what the saleslady said when Gram had taken me shopping in New Orleans a few weeks back.
The top was on the skimpy side—most of my stomach was bare and the jeans rode low—but I couldn’t wait for Nate to see me. I had plans for tonight. For me and him.
I grabbed my purse from the table beside my bed and fumbled inside the hidden pocket until my fingers closed around the small foil packet.
I’d bought condoms when I was in New Orleans. My cheeks burned at the thought—I still couldn’t believe I’d had enough balls to do it. It had been hard, slipping away from Gram, and then, well, who knew there were so many different kinds? Ribbed. Glow in the dark. Stuff that vibrated.
God, there were different sizes!
I’d bought the plainest, smallest box I could find and prayed that Gram wouldn’t be able to tell. You know, in case there was some invisible sign on my forehead that said, “Monroe is going to have sex and she has a box of condoms in her bag.”
I’d been thinking about this for days. No. Weeks. I’d been thinking about it ever since Nathan had kissed me at Baker’s Landing. And tonight was my last chance. My last chance to be with Nathan. Really be with Nathan.