In the basement of our house Tim had successfully harvested a series of marijuana plants that he was most proud of and primarily used for the enjoyment of family and friends. Marijuana was legal in Massachusetts, anyway, even though he had been growing these plants years before it was legalized. I wouldn't call him a pot head, though. He'd share a joint or two with his friends on a Friday or Saturday night and every now and again I'd join him and perhaps divulge in one of the special party brownies. Apparently I was great at making these brownies. As the doorbell rang, I was sure he was tinkering with his plants and didn't hear it, too busy to come up the stairs.

Since Tim was busy, I opened the front door, leaving the screen door closed, not 100 percent sure it was safe to let this mysterious man inside. Not only that, he wore sunglasses, even in the rain. Weird. I knew it could only be one person: Jamie Perron. That's his name, right?

If I had to guess, he was about the same age as Tim. Of course he was; they were childhood friends. His brown hair was in one of those stupid man buns, blond streaks visible through the pulled back strands. He was gruff-looking with a facial stubble, wearing torn, ragged jean shorts, frayed along the hem, his feet donned in brown hiking boots. He removed his sunglasses, revealing a pair of stunning blue eyes.

In a weird, strange way, I'd say he was even a little good looking. At least I thought he was. He slipped the sunglasses in his back pocket.

"Oh hi," he said. "I...uh...I'm Jamie. Tim's expecting me."

I stared at him for another minute or so. He was different than Tim's other friends. There was something more exciting about him, definitely not plain and boring and perhaps even more "punk ass" than the others.

I stood there, my eyes fixed on his, not inviting him in. My voice also wasn't cooperating. I mean, I couldn't find it at the moment.

"Hey," he said, looking down my body. "The Cure. You're awfully young to be into them, aren't you?"

What's he talking about? Oh yeah...my cheeks burned in embarrassment as I realized I was wearing a Cure t-shirt. My mother liked the Cure and by default so did I. "I like them too."

"What's your favorite song?" I asked, even surprising myself that I found my voice for a few fleeting seconds.

"In Between Days," he replied.

"Typical."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he said, slightly offended.

"It means it's typical." I didn't know any other way to explain it.

"Okay then," he said. "What's yours?"

"Pictures of You."

"That's a beautiful song," he said. "So...are you Jordan?"

Half-nodding, I still hadn't invited him in.

"I haven't seen you since you were like...how old were you? Hmm....maybe eight or nine? How are...?"

"Damn it, Jordan, what the hell?" Tim said, storming into the room. "Why didn't you let him in?" Tim opened the door, letting in his friend. "It's raining out."

"It's not so bad," the man said. "I'm Jamie," he said to me. Yeah, I sort of figured that.

"This is my brother, Jordan," Tim said.

"We've met," Jamie said with a smile.

His smile did something to me, something weird and unfamiliar, so in my usual freak-out mode, I immediately ran away and into the safety of my room.

Quickly finding my earphones, I stuck the ear buds in my ears and plopped down on my bed. Anything but the Cure, I told myself, but my fingers gravitated toward them, right to In Between Days.

"Typical," I thought to myself even though it was a good song.

As usual, I lay in bed listening to music until Tim called me. Sometimes he texted me even though we were in the same house, sometimes he called me the old-fashioned way, screaming my name and pounding on my door so I could hear him over the music. Today he did it the old-fashioned way.

"Jordan, wake up! It's your turn to cook."

Neither one of us were particularly good cooks. It was just something we had to figure out on our own as a necessity to survive or we would have starved to death or at least we would have lived off cereal.

Over the years, we had become great pasta chefs. Tonight was no different, except I decided to make homemade spaghetti sauce because we had all the stuff to make it and maybe, just maybe, I wanted to show off to Mr. Man Bun and I wasn't sure why. What was so great about him? He liked the Cure. He had a nice face I guess and I spoke to him with only a minor freak out. It could have been worse.

"Are you making homemade spaghetti sauce?" Tim asked, emerging from the back porch, that all too familiar glazed look in his eyes.

Jamie had a similar look, so I knew what they had been up to. He most certainly knew I was making homemade spaghetti sauce so I chose not to answer that stupid question.

"It's our mom's sauce," he said to Jamie. "It's just one of those things Jordan's never forgotten."

Over a couple of beers, then a bottle of wine, Jamie and Tim reminisced about old times, times I vaguely remembered.

I was so much younger, Tim's teenage years were all a blur to me. Mom was still around at that time, but she was hardly ever entirely there.

Tim always looked out for me, even back then. It's amazing how he managed to go to MIT and do as well as he did while raising me. Tim didn't have a normal college education. He never lived on campus or participated in all the traditional partying, and doing other things college kids do. Instead, he commuted to and from school everyday. Dad was only good for one thing: paying the bills.

On top of everything else, I was far from an easy kid. Tim could never leave me alone with babysitters because I'd cry the whole time and would occasionally wreck the house, having temper tantrums until he got home.

After Mom left, I barely spoke, which annoyed teachers to no end. Because I was so weird, I didn't have any friends and I told myself I didn't want any. Despite everything else, I was as intelligent as Tim and Dad, maybe even more so and found school way too easy. College was easy, too.

Like I said, the only thing Dad was ever good for was paying the bills. Sometimes Tim and I would refer to him as his first name: Art. I really didn't blame Tim for resenting me. At the same time, he continued to look out for me as if I were still that same innocent boy.

Okay, so maybe I was still innocent, living a rather secluded, sheltered life in the middle of nowhere.

Throughout the course of the evening, I found out that Jamie was a high school art teacher in the inner city. As part of this teacher exchange program, he was going to teach in London for a year, beginning in September. Apparently that was something he had always wanted to do.

"So Gina had no problem kicking me out, seeing I was leaving anyway," he said. I realized Gina was his girlfriend and had been his girlfriend for the past six months.

"Why did you move in with her, anyway?" Tim asked.

"She thought it would be a good idea," he said. "It's expensive to live in Boston and she lived close to the school."

"So you moved in with her out of convenience," he said.

"Well, yeah," he said as if it made perfect sense.

"I think you should stay away from women," he said. "It never works out for you."

"It doesn't work out with me and guys, either."

"What about Gavin? Didn't you go out with him for like two years when we were in college?"

"Oh yeah...Gavin...and it was after college," he said with a smile that quickly faded. "Hey, you're one to talk. You've never had a girlfriend for more than two months."

"We weren't talking about me," Tim said, conveniently getting up to clear the table. Most of his friends had started to get married and settle down, some even had babies.

"How about you?" Jamie said to me. "Do you have a girlfriend?" I didn't respond, staring blankly back at him. "A boyfriend?" Why would I have a boyfriend? It was easier to stare and not speak.

"Good luck in getting anything out of him. He's never been one for talking," Tim said.

"So I've noticed," Jamie said. "Were you always quiet?"

"He doesn't like to talk," Tim said. "I don't know why. He just doesn't. He can. It's not like he's mute or anything. He's also stubborn and..."

I didn't want to hear anymore and got up to go outside. Tim thought he knew everything, which included everything about me. Well, he didn't.

"Hey, Jordie, don't be like that!" he called to me. I hated it when he called me Jordie, like he hated it when I called him "Timmy."

Alone, I walked along our spacious backyard and up the stairs of our above-ground pool that had yet to be opened. Tim hadn't gotten around to opening it and said he wasn't sure he was going to open it this year although he said that every year. The cover was still on with loads of leaves on top of it.

While I sat on the deck, I enjoyed the summer rain. To me, it was a beautiful June night. To someone else, it was just a rainy night. I particularly enjoyed thunder storms. When I was little, Tim and I would turn off all the lights in the house to just listen to the thunder and watch the lightening flash in the sky.

As I sat there, I didn't pay any attention to the quiet footsteps. He had obviously removed his boots. As for me, I rarely, if ever, wore shoes and socks in the summer. The bottoms of my feet were perpetually black, which drove Tim crazy.

"Hi," Tim's friend/house guest said, climbing the wooden ladder. I didn't invite him up, but he climbed up anyway. "Do you like to be called Jordie?"

I crinkled my nose when he said "Jordie."

"I'll take that as a no. It's nice here. I haven't been here in years."

Even though our house wasn't very big, my dad owned the surrounding ten acres of land. Deer would often pay us a visit and once a black bear showed up in our yard.

I assumed Jamie was bored and had nothing better to do while Tim did the dishes. "What do you like to do for fun?" Silence was my friend tonight.

"This is going to be a long summer," he sighed. "I don't work during the summer. Do you work? No, of course not. You don't even speak."

He obviously forgot I spoke to him earlier.

"Go to school?" he asked.

All I could do was blink, a raindrop or two stuck to my long eyelashes. Tim always said I had eyelashes like a girl.

"Maybe? What are you? Seventeen? Eighteen?"

No, I was nineteen, turning twenty in October, I thought to myself.

Through the light rain, I combed my fingers through my dark head of curls. I hadn't had a hair cut in awhile, so it was a little wild at the moment, curls everywhere, some hanging over my eyes. Some people said my dark hair matched the color of my eyes. Tim was lighter than I was, fairer like Dad. I was more like Mom.

I desperately wanted Jamie to go away. I wasn't used to being around anyone besides Tim. Whenever anyone was over, I'd hide in my room, always shying away from his friends, but I couldn't hide in my room all summer.

"I can see you're really not interested in talking, so I'll just go back in," he said.

"Man buns are stupid," I said as he headed back down the ladder.

"Did you say something?" he said, returning to me.

"Your hair. It's stupid," I said.

"I was hot so I tied it back," he said.

"Get it cut then," I said.

"I don't want to get it cut," he said. "Why don't you get your hair cut?" I shrugged.

"My hair's not long," I said.

"I don't know about that," he said and went to ruffle my hair, but I backed away, jumping to my feet.

What did he think he was doing, anyway? He can't just go and touch me, I thought to myself.

"I'm sorry. I just..." he said.

I couldn't stand it anymore. He had no right to try and touch me so I shoved him by his shoulders, pushing him out of the way so I could climb down the ladder to run into the house. He tried to touch me. I didn't want to be touched. Who did he think he was?

A/N

True story: I had an exchange art teacher in high school from Scotland.