Perfectly Damaged

by E. L. Montes

  “Yeah. People do.”

  Logan reaches for another beer bottle and twists it open. “So what’s your story?”

  “I don’t have one,” I reply automatically, but my words come out flat.

  “Everyone has a story, Jenna.” My name on his tongue sounds foreign, odd, but nice.

  “Mine’s not worth telling.”

  “I doubt that.”

  I snap my head over irritably. “Why are you so interested?”

  He shrugs, trying to school his features despite my nasty outburst. “I just think you’re interesting. That’s all. Is that a problem?”

  “Trust me, the last thing you need is to know anything about my life. And the last thing I need is someone else judging me. So save yourself and become uninterested. Okay?” I hop to my feet. When I look down at him, a sigh escapes me and I relax my shoulders. He was sweet this morning, and now I’m being a bitch. “Look, I’m sorry for that. Just ignore me, okay? Thank you for being friendly.”

  I turn to walk away. Halfway down the dock he calls out, “I didn’t tell anyone it was you this morning.” I stop, but I don’t look back.

  “Thank you,” is all I can say. Before he has the chance to say another word, I walk away, following the path back to the house. I climb the stairs to the deck and pass the partiers, who are now in various stages of inebriation. Charlie is sitting on Santino’s lap on a patio chair. He hands her another shot glass; she tosses her head back and takes it. But the liquor must be too strong for her to handle. It’s either that or she’s over her limit because she spits it back out, coughing.

  “Oh shit.” Santino laughs.

  I storm over. “Come on, Charlie. You’ve had enough. It’s time for bed.” I grip her arm and she stands sluggishly, stumbling into me.

  “Oh, come on! It’s still early. The party just started!” Santino raises his arms, begging.

  “No. She’s had enough.”

  Bryson stands up. He seems to be the only other person besides me that’s not stupid drunk. “I’ll help you get her up the steps.”

  “Thank you,” I reply. He tosses Charlie’s arm around his shoulder, grabs her waist, and hauls her in the house and up the stairs.

  As soon as Charlie is settled in one of the twin beds and Bryson leaves, I lock the bedroom door and place a chair securely underneath the knob. I check the tiny closet in the room. It’s clear. Then I make sure the window is locked and the curtains are drawn before hiding myself underneath the unfamiliar comforter and forcing myself asleep.

  It’s quiet in this room, quieter than my own bedroom. There’s no sound whatsoever. No creaks of the floorboards. No rotating blades of the ceiling fan. Nothing. Not even the voices I’ve grown accustomed to are present. Complete silence. Except for my own intrusive thoughts, which are rapidly running through my mind like a hamster on a spinning wheel. There’s no stopping my thoughts of Logan, my mother, and Brooke.

  I hate that Logan is even on my mind. He’s no one. No one at all. Yet here he is, present and accounted for, drawing almost every ounce of my attention. I hate it. I hate it so much I almost wish for the voices to come back. At least with the voices I know what to expect for the most part. I’ve adjusted to them controlling every memory, every thought, and every image. And the fact that I’d rather their presence than the chaos of my own thoughts scares the hell out of me.

  My chest tightens at my realization and a moan slips out as I force myself to sit up. My eyes scan the room. On a nightstand between the twin beds, bright red numbers blink at me. 5:00 a.m. Great. I groan, rub a frustrated hand over my face, and gingerly step out of bed. Charlie is sleeping away and I don’t want to wake her. Being as discreet as possible, I reach for my cell and tiptoe toward the door, where I remove the chair from under the knob, unlock it, and close it gently behind me as I leave the room.

  What now? It’s five in the morning and I’m standing in a dark hallway by myself while everyone else sleeps. I need to wash my face to cool off my damp skin. Bryson mentioned last night that there’s a bathroom on the second level, but with all of the doors down the hall closed, I can’t make out which door leads to which room. Screw it. I’ll just use the one downstairs; the last thing I need is for me to sneak into someone else’s room and accidentally wake them up.

  After I use the restroom, wash my hands, and tie my hair back in a ponytail, I step out. Just as I close the door behind me, I hear a loud thump.

  I look over toward the kitchen to my right. Bryson is standing by the counter with an apologetic look on his face. He mouths, “Sorry.” Then he bends over, grabbing an item off the floor, and straightens back up. “You’re up early,” Bryson whispers as he waves me over. Looking down at my feet, I slightly sway in place and inhale shakily. What’s wrong with me? He’s not going to attack me. Exhaling, I relax a bit and walk toward him.

  “So are you,” I respond as I reach the table. I stand there with my hands crossed behind my back.

  He holds up an iPod, ear phones dangling from the device. “Yeah, I’m getting ready for my morning run.”

  “Ah.” I nod and take note of his workout gear: sweat pants, a sleeveless T-shirt, and running sneaks.

  “Would you like some coffee?” He points to the pot brewing, and then places the iPod on the counter.

  “No, thank you. I don’t drink caffeine.”

  He smiles. Bryson is just as good-looking as Logan. They’re probably the same height, but where Logan has low-cut brown hair, Bryson has shaggy, dark blonde locks. Logan has blue-grey eyes. Bryson has green. Logan’s arms are covered in tattoos. Bryson seems to have just a few, not nearly as many as Logan. “You don’t drink alcohol or caffeine,” he remarks. A small chuckle escapes his lips. “You’re probably the first person I’ve met who doesn’t drink either.” There’s no point letting him know that caffeine and alcohol have a bad effect on my condition and sometimes worsen my anxiety. It’ll just lead him to questions about my illness.

  He backs away from the counter and pours himself a cup of coffee.

  “You drink it black?” I ask him. He nods in response with a smile. “No sugar?” He nods again, this time pressing the cup to his lips. “That’s gross.” I wrinkle my nose.

  He raises a brow teasingly. “Coming from someone who doesn’t drink it and who’s anti-anything delicious.”

  I drop my arms from behind me. Shaking my head, a low, arrogant laugh tickles my throat. I pull a chair from underneath the table and have a seat. “I used to.” I smile matter-of-factly with my arms crossed over the table.

  Bryson pulls out a chair as well and sits across from me. “So did you have a good time last night, aside from having to babysit Charlie?”

  My fingertips tap along the table. “Uh, yeah. It was okay.”

  He places both hands to his chest, feigning a hurt expression. “I’m wounded, McDaniel.”

  I shrug. “Sorry. It’s just not my scene. But the place is beautiful. The lake is peaceful. I do love the scenery.”

  “Nah. I get it.” He lifts the mug and takes another gulp of his coffee. “Well, if you decide to stay today, it’s going to be awesome.”

  I just remembered something. “Today is your birthday, right?” He nods. I grin at him. “Happy birthday.”

  His smile spreads wide. “Thanks.”

  “How old are you?” I’m not sure why, but this small talk is distracting me from my own thoughts. Why not keep the momentum going?

  “Twenty-eight,” he replies.

  I wonder how old Logan is. “You and Logan are the only ones related between all the guys?”

  “Yep. Logan is my cousin. His mother and my father are siblings.”

  “Who’s older?”

  His forehead wrinkles. “Between his mother and my father?”

  I laugh. Stupid me. I wasn’t clear. “No, between you and Logan.”

  He flicks his brows in realization. “Ah. I am. Logan is younger by two years.”

  Which makes Logan twenty-six. Five year
s older than me. I shouldn’t be so curious, but I am, so I take advantage and continue to ask questions. “Are the two of you very close?”

  “Yeah. I’m an only child, but I grew up living’ next door to Logan and Sean all my life. We were the Three Musketeers.”

  “Sean is Logan’s brother, right? The one who passed away?”

  He nods, clasping his hands before him cautiously. He’s just sitting there, not resisting or backing away from my interrogation. I lean into the table a little. “How did he pass away?”

  “Accident,” he answers.

  “What kind of accident?”

  “Motorcycle crash.” Whoa. A chill shoots down my back and I cringe.

  In a lower tone, I ask, “How long ago?”

  “Two years ago,” he responds, just as low.

  I look up at him. I know how it feels to lose someone you love dearly, especially a sibling. “Am I asking too many questions?”

  Bryson nods.

  “I’m sorry.” Great job, Jenna. You’re finally around people and you just don’t know how to keep quiet.

  “It’s okay. Can I ask you a question now?”

  Well dammit. I guess I really don’t have a choice. I nod for him to go on.

  “Why are you so curious about Logan?”

  Whoosh. That felt like a blow to my lungs. I lean back in my chair. “I’m not.”

  He doesn’t seem so convinced. “Yeah, you are. All these questions, they’re mostly about Logan.”

  I shake my head. “No. They were about both of you.”

  Bryson presses his hands flat on the table, pushing himself up to stand from the chair, and grabs the now empty mug. “No worries. I gotta go for my run. It was nice chattin’ with ya.” He places the cup in the sink and heads out the back door.

  That was just awkward. What the hell is wrong with me? I need to learn how to control my impulses. A buzzing noise catches my attention. My phone is vibrating. I pick it up and look at the screen: DAD. He never calls me this early. I swipe the screen and hurriedly answer the call.

  “Hello?”

  A deep sigh comes through the earpiece. “Sweetheart, I’ve been calling you.”

  “You have? I don’t have any missed calls.”

  “Yes. I—” Shit. He’s breaking up. I look at the phone. Dammit. I only have one bar.

  “Dad, hold on. I’m not getting any reception in here. Let me step outside.” Now out on the deck, I check my bars again. All five are active. “Dad?”

  “Yes. Where are you?” He sounds clearer, worried.

  I relax my shoulders. “I’m with Charlie. I’m fine, Dad. I just needed to get away.”

  “You can’t do that, Jenna. You know better.” Here we go again. The lecture. I see a bench swing up ahead, hanging from one of the trees. I head for it.

  “I’m twenty-one. I can come and go as I please.”

  “Not in your condition,” he argues.

  My condition? I freeze. I hate it when he and Mom make it sound like that. “What did Mom tell you?” Silence. I push my feet forward until I reach the bench. I take a seat and push back off the ground, leaning into the sway as I swing forward and back. “What did she tell you?” I ask again.

  “She said the two of you had an argument and that you said a few hurtful things, which caused her to retaliate.”

  Wow. She manages to bullshit her way through everything, all the time. I laugh. “And you believe her?”

  My father lowers his tone. “Jenna. Come home. We can talk about this in person.”

  “No.” I can’t believe this. He believes her. Short, quick breaths start to take over. Calm down, Jenna. Breathe easy. “You always take her side. Always. Why?”

  “You know that’s not true. I’m trying to help both of you.”

  “Because of my condition. Is that right?”

  “Jenna.” He breathes heavily. “I didn’t mean it that way. You know I love you.”

  I do. My father has always been there for me. Even with the differences between my mother and me, he’s tried not to take sides. But lately she’s managed to win him over. I inhale and exhale a shaky breath. “I know.”

  “Good. Listen, I know you’re in good hands because you’re with Charlie. Take as long as you need. Just text me to let know you’re okay. Okay?”

  I nod before realizing he can’t see me. “Yeah. Okay.”

  “And you know what?”

  “What?”

  “How about when you get back we set a date for just the two of us?”

  A comforting warmth floods through me. We haven’t had a day like that in forever. After Brooke’s death, he buried himself in work. I think it was the only way he knew how to deal with losing a daughter. I don’t blame him; I buried myself away from the world the day she was taken from us. “I’d love that.” I choke over the words.

  “Good. I love you, sweetheart. Be safe, okay?”

  “Okay. Love you too, Dad.”

  We end our call. I sit back, lift my feet onto the bench, and admire the beauty of the early morning as I swing alone.

  Seriously? It’s six in the morning. I don’t even get up this early for work, let alone on a fucking Saturday. This sucks balls. I grumble out of bed, head for the kitchen, and grab a bottle of water. I almost choke on it. I’m never drinking again. Never. The fuck. Again. My body can’t handle hangovers as well as it did in my early twenties. I toss the empty bottle of water, completely missing the overloaded bin filled with empty beer bottles. Oh well. I need more water. Opening the fridge again, I twist the cap off the second bottle and guzzle it down.

  After Jenna left me on the dock last night, I pretty much chugged the rest of the beers, hung out for a bit, then called it quits. Well, I called it quits after Santino forced me to take a few shots with him. Then he called me a pussy for calling it a night so early. But I was tired as hell, and tonight will be the party of all parties. Last night was just a warm-up.

  Which reminds me. Jenna was acting kind of weird last night. Weirder than usual. I don’t even know how to get through to her. She must be strangely uninterested in me—or a lesbian. For my ego’s sake, I hope it’s the latter.

  The back screen door squeaks as it’s hurled open and closed. Bryson walks in from the deck with his headphones plugged into his ears, sweating and panting. I’m sure he’s coming back from his early run. He’s committed to that shit. Every morning, seven days a week. He never misses a morning. Don’t get me wrong, I work out, but it’s always in the evening. Like I said before, this early morning shit is not my thing.

  He looks over at me. “Hey!” he shouts over the music blasting in his ears. I lift my hand, gesturing him to lower his voice. He removes the plugs. “My bad.”

  “It’s cool. Happy birthday, man.” I walk over, lifting my fist in front of me.

  He taps a closed fist to mine. “Thanks. Tonight’s gonna be wild. I think there’s gonna be over fifty people here.”

  Fifty people is a lot for our parties. We usually keep it low-key and to a maximum of thirty. “That’s cool,” I say. “You need me to pick anything up for tonight or you think we got it all covered?” I ask. I’m pretty much up, so I reach for the already brewed pot of coffee and pour myself a cup.

  “Nope. We have plenty of burgers, ribs, and chicken for the grill. I think we have enough beer and liquor to last the entire summer.” He laughs, but I know he’s probably right. The entire shed is stacked with cases of beer.

  “Cool.”

  Still trying to catch his breath, he asks, “What are you doing up this early?”

  I gulp down half the coffee. “Pfft. I wish I knew. But I was out early last night, so that may be it.”

  “Ah.” He nods.

  “What?”

  “I didn’t say anything,” he says, raising his hands.

  “You didn’t have to. Your face says it all. What?”

  He grabs a bottle of water from the fridge. “I thought maybe you were keeping tabs on Jenna.” What is that sup
posed to mean? “You know, since she’s outside and all.” He nudges his head toward the door.

  I look out the window above the sink and scan the outside. I don’t see anyone on the deck or the dock by the lake. Then my eyes catch movement by a large tree on the left side. She’s on the bench swing. By herself. “What does her being outside have to do with me?” I look back at Bryson, who’s slowly backing away into the living area.

  “I don’t know. Go and talk to her.”

  “I did. Last night. And she doesn’t seem interested. And you seem kind of pushy. What happened to not flirting with our clients?” I shrug it off as no big deal. “Why are you smiling like that?”

  “Well, I had a little talk with her this morning. She seemed very interested in you. She couldn’t stop asking questions.”

  “Really?”

  “Now who’s smiling?” he asks.

  “Dick.” I look back out the window. “Maybe I can take her out a cup of coffee.”

  “Nope. She doesn’t drink coffee.”

  “Does she drink orange juice?” I ask, facing him again.

  “How the hell should I know? I need to shower. Peace.” He flashes two fingers, turns, and then jogs up the stairs.

  I don’t know why, but Jenna seems different than the girls I’ve always interacted with. Girls I’ve pursued in the past never pushed me away. They’ve always been pretty flirty, willing. Jenna is distant, shy, and keeps to herself. Sometimes, if a girl is worth it, I kind of like the chase. I’m curious to find out about her, to slowly break through her defenses, in a non-stalkerish, friendly kind of way. I’m not sure that even makes sense. But I’m damn well gonna try.