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Boys Like You

Cover of Boys Like You

Boys Like You

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If I hadn't fallen asleep.

If I hadn't gotten behind the wheel.

If I hadn't made a mistake.

For Monroe Blackwell, one small mistake has torn her family apart—leaving her empty and broken. There's a hole in her heart that nothing can fill. That no one can fill. And a summer in Louisiana with her grandma isn't going to change that...

Nathan Everets knows heartache firsthand when a car accident leaves his best friend in a coma. And it's all his fault. He should be the one lying in the hospital. The one who will never play guitar again. He doesn't deserve forgiveness, and a court-appointed job at the Blackwell B&B isn't going to change that...

There's no going back

Captivating and hopeful, this achingly poignant novel brings together two lost souls struggling with grief and guilt—looking for acceptance, so they can find forgiveness.

If I hadn't fallen asleep.

If I hadn't gotten behind the wheel.

If I hadn't made a mistake.

For Monroe Blackwell, one small mistake has torn her family apart—leaving her empty and broken. There's a hole in her heart that nothing can fill. That no one can fill. And a summer in Louisiana with her grandma isn't going to change that...

Nathan Everets knows heartache firsthand when a car accident leaves his best friend in a coma. And it's all his fault. He should be the one lying in the hospital. The one who will never play guitar again. He doesn't deserve forgiveness, and a court-appointed job at the Blackwell B&B isn't going to change that...

There's no going back

Captivating and hopeful, this achingly poignant novel brings together two lost souls struggling with grief and guilt—looking for acceptance, so they can find forgiveness.

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  • Available:
    1
  • Library copies:
    1
Levels-
  • ATOS:
    4.8
  • Lexile:
  • Interest Level:
    UG
  • Text Difficulty:
    3

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Excerpts-
  • From the book

    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...

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Boys Like You
Boys Like You
Juliana Stone
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