Some Kind of Normal Page 21

  “Show me,” I said with a smile. He took a step back and nodded. He knew. That was enough.

  He turned and hopped onto the stage, striding across it like he owned it. He grabbed a guitar, and Link grabbed the other one, and then they were sitting right in front of us.

  Trevor flexed his fingers and then started strumming, but his eyes were on me and they never left. He cleared his throat a couple of times and then started to speak.

  There’s this extra cadence that you can hear when someone is on a mic, like, it picks up all the warm parts and makes them larger than life. Trevor’s voice was like that—I had the whole goose bumps thing going on. I had it huge. And man, it felt great.

  “It feels good to be back,” he said to a chorus of cheers and we love you. “Yeah,” he said with a grin that melted my heart. “I love you too.”

  He kept strumming his guitar, and Link joined in, the two of them filling up the place with something that was perfect.

  “I’ve had a shit year, you know? But ah, this girl right here.” He pointed to me, and the place erupted into more catcalls and whistles. “I know, right?” He laughed. “Well, this girl taught me a few things over the summer.”

  Someone shouted something that I didn’t quite get, but Trevor laughed and shook his head. “No way, man. Some stuff is just for me, got it?”

  More catcalls and whistles.

  And then his playing got softer, more intimate, and I thought that if I wasn’t careful, I’d drown in his eyes.

  “I haven’t played this particular guitar in over a year and, uh, I’m glad that my dad’s here to see it put to good use again.”

  I cranked my head around and spied Trevor’s parents near the coffee bar, along with his sister Taylor. His dad raised his chin, and his smile was so huge I could see it from where I sat.

  “I’d try to play my old Epiphone, but my chops, well, they weren’t up to snuff. I almost gave up, and the only reason I’m here tonight is because of this girl right here. Everly Jenkins.” His eyes were on, intense, and beautiful. “I love you.”

  Okay, I was blushing and blushing hard.

  “This song is for you.”

  And then something magical happened. Trevor closed his eyes and started to sing a song about a man who loved his mother and loved his God. It was a beautiful song. A simple song. It was a song about love, acceptance, and listening to your heart.

  I don’t know if he screwed up, got the words wrong, or played the wrong notes. If he did? It didn’t matter, not to me anyway. He was up there for himself, and he was up there for me. Singing to me. Singing a song that made my throat tight and my heart ache. A song that I would never forget.

  It was Trevor’s song.

  And for that one perfect moment, it was my song too.

  After

  Trevor

  It’s funny the things that you think are important when you’re invincible. When you think that nothing can touch you. Music. Parties. Girls. Getting laid. Two years ago, that was me. I was that guy. The one who had it all.

  Until I wasn’t.

  But the thing is? I don’t care anymore. I’m okay with the fact that I’m not the guy I used to be. Not even close. But whatever I am is some kind of normal, my version of normal at least, and that’s all that matters.

  I was glad that Everly let me in. Glad that she gave me a chance to prove that I wasn’t always gonna be a dickhead. And let’s face it, I’d acted like a total douche toward the one girl who made me want to be a better person. My dad had been right. She was the one. And I was willing to do whatever it took to be the kind of guy who deserved her.

  I wrote my government test and got a C. Everly helped a lot, and I don’t think I would have snagged my diploma without her. Without her I wouldn’t be in New York City. I wouldn’t be living my dream, writing music with Nathan, and living in this awesome loft that Monroe’s parents own. Our rent is doable, and well, the acoustics, man, they’re out of this world.

  I still have things to work on. I still mess up my words, and sure, the whole epileptic thing sucks. But who needs to drive in New York City anyway? My meds are working, and I haven’t had an episode since the summer.

  So yeah, life is good. It still has its challenges, but with a girl like Everly in my life, I can believe that things will only get better.

  I miss her. She’s at college in another state, but we Skype and we’ll both be back in Twin Oaks for Thanksgiving. I’ll get to hold her, inhale that sweet scent that is all her. Everly Jenkins. The girl who knocked me on my ass.

  And for now, that’s all I need.

  After

  Everly

  If someone had told me at the beginning of the summer that (A) I would fall in love with Trevor Lewis, and (B) my family would be broken and fractured, I would have told them they were full of crap.

  The Trevor Lewis thing came from nowhere, and sure, I’d known my family was hurting, but as it turns out, I just didn’t know how badly.

  Funny how things work out.

  My dad lost half of his parish, but the ones who stayed were amazing. They were supportive and nonjudgmental, and well, it was exactly what he needed.

  I’m not going to lie. Things were tough at first. Hell, they still are. As much as I wanted to accept who he was, who he’d been all along, it’s hard getting past the broken family his truth had destroyed. I got it. I really did. But it still hurt. In a perfect world my family would be whole and intact.

  We’re working things out, and for now that’s enough. I’m happy that he’s found some kind of happiness. He’s on his own. I think he’s seeing his first love, Kirk, but it’s not like he shares that stuff with me. And for what it’s worth? Not like I want to hear the details of my dad’s love life anyway.

  I’ve learned to accept things and move on, because really, there’s no point in living in a past that was a lie. Mom moved to Maine with Isaac to live with her brother. I hate that Dad doesn’t get to see Isaac all that often, but I get why she did what she did. My dad hurt her, and in a way, he destroyed parts of her. I just hope one day she finds someone who can help put those pieces back together.

  She deserves to be loved. Everyone does.

  We talk all the time, and I Skype with Isaac, who I miss more than anything. But we’ll be together again, and for now, I know that his life is settled.

  As for me? I’m loving college, although I miss Trevor so much sometimes that I ache. At first I wanted to come to New York City with him, but then I realized that was his dream and he needed to do it on his own. Prove to himself that he could.

  But that doesn’t mean that I don’t still love him. I think about him every day. About the way his eyes get all dark when he’s about to kiss me. Or the way he holds me, touches me.

  I miss every little bit of him, even the imperfect parts.

  But that’s okay. I’ll see him in a few weeks when I go home for the holidays. And in the meantime? I’m working on me. Working on happy.

  Working on some kind of normal.

  And right now, in this moment, it feels pretty awesome.

  Acknowledgments

  This book was partially inspired by a true event and partially inspired by my daughter and her big heart. Her mantra, that love is love, is one we should all aspire to live by. Our world would be a much kinder, gentler place if we did so.

  I’d like to thank Kristen and her friends Hailey, Mariah, Maggie, Abbey, and Danielle for being bright, compassionate, funny individuals. I so enjoyed all the “BAE” conversations I overheard while you were all gathered around the kitchen table. I wish all of you much success and hope that no one ever breaks your heart. Ever.

  I also need to give a shout-out to my wonderful agent, Sara Megibow, my editor Aubrey Poole, the team at Sourcebooks, and all my author buddies who are in this crazy world of publishing with me. It’s a crazy ride,
but hey, I wouldn’t want any other job in the world!

  About the Author

  USA Today bestselling author Juliana Stone fell in love with her first book boyfriend when she was twelve. The boy was Ned, Nancy Drew’s boyfriend, and it began a lifelong obsession with books and romance. A tomboy at heart, she split her time between baseball, books, and music—three things that carried over into adulthood. She’s thrilled to be writing young adult as well as adult contemporary romance and does so from her home somewhere in Canada.

  Two shattered hearts are about to collide in small-town Louisiana.

  Don’t miss Juliana Stone’s

  Boys Like You

  Chapter One

  Monroe

  My gram told me once when I was eleven that I could do anything. She’d been very matter of fact as she poured us each an iced tea on a steamy afternoon.

  It was the kind of afternoon when the air sizzled and stuck to the insides of your clothes. The kind of afternoon that made your skin clammy and your muscles lazy. I remember that the birds were quiet but the locusts chimed like mini buzz saws.

  Funny, the things that you remember, and the things that you can’t forget no matter how hard you try.

  On that particular afternoon, we’d sat on her front porch in the rain, Gram’s hyacinths bent over from the weight of the water, her two cats Mimi and Roger curled at our feet. I’m sure I wore some trendy New York outfit that was totally inappropriate for Louisiana in August, and Gram Blackwell was dressed in what she liked to call “genteel southern attire,” which basically meant cotton instead of linen or silk.

  We settled back in our chairs and chatted about the soccer team. I told her how much I wanted to make first string, and she told me that anything was possible as long as I applied myself. Of course I believed her with all the enthusiasm an eleven-year-old who has never been hurt or disappointed feels.

  Why wouldn’t I? This was Gram, and she was never wrong.

  I tried my hardest and made the team.

  But that was before Malcolm. Before the awful year that had just passed. That was before I learned that my charmed life could bleed. That pain could become an everyday kind of thing, and that happiness was just a word that didn’t mean anything.

  And now, at the ripe old age of sixteen and a half, I don’t know what I believe in anymore, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be fixed.

  It’s not like I haven’t tried.

  I went to private therapy. I went to group counseling. I read the books that I was supposed to read, did the relaxation exercises that I thought were stupid, and took the meds that they gave me.

  In fact, I loved how those little blue pills made me feel nothing—which isn’t very different from the way I feel most of the time—but medicated nothing is so much better than the real, hard nothing I had been living with.

  I suppose it’s why they weaned me off them. “Addict” wasn’t exactly a label my mom wanted to add to the impressive list of everything else that was wrong with me.

  My point is…I did it all. I tried.

  It’s just hard to succeed at something when you don’t really care, and as much as I want to get better for my parents, I can’t make myself care. Not even for them. My therapist says I need to care for myself first.

  And therein lies the problem. The catch-22. I just don’t care anymore. Not really.

  Yet there are moments where, if I try real hard, I can close my eyes and smell the rain. Not just any rain, mind you, but that rain. From that long-ago afternoon.

  Gram’s rain.

  “Monroe, I’m heading to town in a few minutes. Do you want to come along?”

  I turned as Gram walked into the kitchen. It was nearly noon and I had been sitting at the table for about an hour, trying to decide if I was going to eat the bowl of pears she’d put out for me earlier or if I was going to put them back in the fridge.

  I liked pears. I liked them a lot. I just wasn’t all that hungry.

  “Uh, I think I’ll stick around here, if that’s okay with you.”

  Gram put her purse on the table, and I pretended not to notice how her eyes lingered on my hair. I’d pulled it back in a ponytail yesterday—or maybe it was the day before—because I couldn’t be bothered with it. I’m pretty sure I hadn’t brushed it since.

  She pointed to the bowl in front of me and raised her eyebrows, waiting half a second before grabbing it and setting it on the counter. She pulled plastic wrap from the drawer and covered the pears before putting them back in the fridge.

  Gram turned and leaned against the counter, and for a moment, we stared at each other in silence.

  I’d arrived a week earlier and we hadn’t had a real chat yet—the one that I sensed was coming—and my stomach churned at the thought.

  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.