I'm a 24 year old book reviewer I review mostly contemporary Fantasy and Thrillers and I have a lot of fictional boyfriends
Jethro has brown hair and true hazel eyes—though sometimes they look almost gray. He’s the oldest and the most likely to give you a sweet smile while he steals your car and/or wallet.
Billy is the second oldest. His hair is a darker brown and his eyes are a bright, startling blue. He’s the most serious and responsible (and incidentally the worst tempered) of the bunch.
Next comes Cletus, number three; shortest, brown beard, olive green eyes. You can tell him apart from Jethro because he doesn’t smile often and his beard is longer. Instead of stealing your car, he’s more likely to take apart your toaster and tell you how it works. And he’s always been a little…odd. Sweet, but odd. As an example, he’d started attending my first period advanced placement calculus class two months ago. Apparently, he’d talked to my principal and had been cleared to sit in for the rest of the year. Ashley is number four. She’s the girl and looks just like a beauty contestant version of Billy.
Then the identical twins—Beau and Duane—with their red beards and blue eyes. Good luck telling them apart if they don’t talk; but if they do, Beau’s the friendly one. Last but not least is Roscoe. He’s a mixture of Jethro and Billy—big smiles that hide a more serious nature. He’s also a huge and indiscriminant flirt (or at least he was when I last knew him).
“I think anyone who’s been in that much pain must have a pretty big heart.” Grace’s voice was thoughtful. “And no matter what, Maya and I won’t give you back.” “Nope,” Maya added. “This was a final sale. No returns, no backsies.” Joaquin smiled a little. “But what if—” “Nope!” Grace said. “You heard Maya.” “But maybe—” “No!” both girls cried this time, and Joaquin laughed, clear and sharp in the cooling air, the sound echoing back in his ears and filling him up.
Peach was born at 9:03 p.m. on homecoming night, right when Max was being crowned homecoming king because, Grace thought bitterly, boys who get girls pregnant are heroes and girls who get pregnant are sluts.
“The poorly behaved part is true, I fear. I’m the worst. Alex tolerates me anyway.”
Every person, especially artists, needs a calming influence. For me, that person is Marc Stewart. My voice of reason. My best friend. My probable husband if not for the fact that we both like men.