by E. L. Montes
Right here, right now, I feel pride. So much pride. I can’t contain myself. I pull Jenna up, face her, and place my hands on her shoulders, looking excitedly into her eyes. She narrows her stare, not exactly sure what I’m about to say or do. I breathe in and, in my best Will Ferrell impersonation, blurt out, “Did we just become best friends?”
Jenna smiles, nods once, and says in a deep tone, “Yep!” It’s the worst John Reilly impersonation I’ve ever heard. I burst out laughing. She’s seen Step Brothers.
Motherfucking score!
Then the most perfect plot of all fucking plots stirs in my head. I can be friends with her and slowly make her fall for me. “Do you like ice cream?” I ask.
She raises a brow. “Uh, yeah?”
“We’re gonna go out for ice cream this week.” I say.
“Logan. That’s a date.”
“Since when has going out for ice cream been a date? Kids go out for ice cream. It’s friendly. Very, very friendly. In fact, to prove it’s not a date, I’ll even put my ego aside and allow you to pay.”
Jenna laughs. It’s the sweetest laugh I’ve ever heard. “You’re trying to sneak in a date with me.”
I raise my hand to my chest. “Promise. Not a date, just a friendly outing. Two friends, chatting over gelatos, sharing the same hate interest for a Blair Mega Bitch.”
“All right,” she says.
I smile.
This weekend at the lake house was—well, I can’t explain it. I just needed it. It was the perfect end to a screwed-up beginning. I won’t admit this out loud, but I’m actually happy Charlie talked me into going. At first it was difficult for me to be social and open up, but Logan made it easy. No, I didn’t open up one hundred percent about myself. But there were times this weekend when he brought out a side of me I hadn’t seen for a long time. I miss that part of me. And even though I get this tingly feeling in the pit of my stomach when I’m around him—which is more than what a friend should feel for another friend—I like that we agreed to be just friends.
Because deep down I know he’ll never want to be with someone like me. The real me. The me he has yet to see. The question is if I keep spending time with him, will I be able to keep that part hidden?
We’re on our drive back to Jersey now. Charlie’s chatting away as I lean back in the passenger seat. My eyes catch the reflection of my smile in the passenger window. Smiling. It’s such an odd expression for me. And it’s because of Logan. The way he treated me this weekend. The way I felt around him. He made me laugh, made me feel comfortable with being a goof, playful even. And for the first time in as long as I can remember, it was okay to feel those things.
I must admit, when I first laid eyes on him in my backyard by the swimming pool, I would’ve never pegged him for the friendly, gentle goofball—probably one of the biggest I’ll ever meet—that he is. So what if I only spent a few days with him? I still can’t imagine Logan being the person Blair Mega Bitch claimed him to be. If she’s anything like she was back in high school, I’m certain it was just a ploy to get back at Logan—or me, for that matter—for one thing or another.
“You and Logan seemed a bit friendly this morning,” Charlie prods.
I turn my head, facing her, “What do you mean?”
Charlie looks straight ahead, focusing on the long tree-lined road. “Well, for starters, he was practically all over you this morning…and it was kind of awkward.”
I’m caught off guard. “He was not all over me this morning. And what was awkward?”
“Yeah, okay. He was sitting beside you with his arm over your shoulder, and you were leaning into him. The both of you kept whispering in each other’s ears and laughing.”
She’s talking about when Logan and I were cracking jokes about Blair Mega Bitch during breakfast. “And what’s so awkward about that?” I ask.
“It’s not a bad awkward. It’s just like, I don’t know—it felt weird watching you like that. You seemed happy.”
“It’s weird to see me happy?” I retort. Charlie’s little statement causes a flash of heat between my ears, and I’m sure my face is flushing right now. Have I been that out of touch with myself that I haven’t even realized how miserable I’ve been? So miserable, in fact, that seeing me happy is out of place? Now I’m kind of angry with myself.
“No. No, Jenna. I’m just curious. The two of you were, well, out on that swing the entire night in your own la-la land. Did something happen? Are you guys, like, well…hooking up?”
I laugh self-consciously. “Hooking up? No. We realized we have a lot in common, that’s all. And I told him I’d prefer to just be friends. He was fine with that. I don’t know Logan entirely, but it’s nice to have someone to talk to.”
“You can always talk to me.” Her voice is soft, perhaps with a bit of jealousy.
I reach out, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Charlie, I will always have you, and you’ll always have me. You’re an amazing friend. But you’re the one who said I should stop being the antisocial kid. This is me stopping that.”
She sighs, nodding. “You’re right. I just want you to be careful, ya know? I want to make sure you’re careful. That’s all.”
“I already told you I don’t feel like he’d hurt me.”
“I know he won’t harm you physically, Jenna. I’m talking about emotionally. I don’t want to see you get hurt, emotionally.” I stare at her, taking in what she just said. I know exactly what she means. Slowly, I push my feelings for Logan aside. I tuck them away in the back of my chest, hiding them behind a large brick wall. Charlie peeks over at me. “Did you tell him? About…you know,” she asks. She’s referring to my illness.
I look straight ahead, and only the memory of a smile remains on my face. “No. And I’d like to keep it that way,” I respond.
The sound of Charlie’s tires screeching to a stop is much louder in my head than in actuality. My chest feels heavy as I look out the window and see my home. Home. What actually defines a home? Is it simply a place you reside, surrounded by four walls and topped with a roof? Or is home a place someone looks forward to returning to after being away for a long or short period of time? A place where someone can feel safe? A place that, if you were alone on a deserted island, you could dream about in order to keep your hopes for survival alive? Is that what home is?
For me? I dread home. Every bit of it.
I haven’t faced my mother since I ran out of the house during my last episode. Fear of what will be waiting for me pulls at my chest.
Charlie reaches for my hand and brings it down from my face. I didn’t realize, yet again, I’ve been chewing the inside of my cheek. “Do you want to stay at my house? You’re welcome to stay as long as you like,” she says softly.
I shake my head, let out a long shaky breath, and force a smile as I face her. “No, but thank you—for everything.” I reach over, wrap my arms around her, and squeeze her in a hug.
“Of course,” she mumbles into my hair. “Always, Jenna. If you need me to come pick you up, I’m only a phone call away. Okay?” I nod and pull away.
After collecting my luggage from the trunk, I wave good-bye to my friend and walk up the pathway toward the double wooden doors. The entire time, my mind races with various scenarios of what to expect on the other side. I freeze once I reach the first step of the porch. My hand grips the handle of the black luggage. My teeth skillfully maneuver the raw meat of my inner cheek, gnawing away. My heart thump thumps in slow motion, yet every nerve in my body is sensitive, on high alert.
Take a step, a soft voice in my head urges. I’m not sure if it’s mine, but I do what it says. Another step. I do it again. One more. Now at the top, I move forward to the door. Grab your keys. I reach in my purse and dig them out, searching for the right one. I place it into the keyhole.
Click.
It unlocks. Cautiously, I tap a finger against the door. It swings open. I blink a few times and look straight ahead. It’s exactly the same, except the black
and white marble tiles in the foyer are shinier. The large round table is still there; the only difference is the color of the fresh-cut roses in the center. These are pink. It’s quiet. Eerily quiet. Swallowing back my anxiety, I step in, close the door behind me, and quickly run up the stairs.
One Day Later.
“Hello?” I answer the call on the first ring.
“Hello, Jenna. It’s Tiffany.”
“Hi, Tiffany,” I respond to my father’s assistant for the last ten years.
“Your father asked me to call you. He wanted you to know he received your text, and it just so happens an opening for tomorrow is available. Would you like to have lunch with him at noon at the restaurant Moon?”
“Okay.”
“Great! I’ll schedule you in. I’ll have a driver pick you up around an hour and a half prior. How does that sound?”
“Sounds great. Thanks again.”
The call ends.
Dresses are not my thing; I hate them. I just feel out of place and boyish when I wear them, which is weird, actually, since dresses are the most feminine attire women can wear. Most women feel sexy in them. I just don’t. Yet here I am, standing before a tall mirror in my bedroom, wearing a pale yellow knee-length, strapless sundress. I could change into something a bit more comfortable, but since it’s lunch with my father and I want to look my best and Moon’s such an upscale place, my usual ripped-up jeans, loose T, and flats probably wouldn’t be received too well.
I take in a soothing breath as my eyes scan over my reflection. My hands pat over the loose waves of my hair to smooth down any flyaway strands. There’s nothing else I can do to perfect my appearance. It is what it is. I turn on the heels of my nude open-toe shoes and tread out of the room and down the stairs—very carefully, since heels aren’t my friend either.
For the past two days, I’ve made sure to stay locked in my room to avoid my mother. I’m not ready to face her yet. Even though it’s been four days since our last disastrous encounter, I just can’t bear to see her. I know what will happen anyway. It’s not the first time we’ve had an argument. When it happened before, we’d either ignore each other, as if the other didn’t exist, or she’d ask me a question about something irrelevant, like the newspaper or the weather, when the silence between us became strangely awkward—anything to spark a conversation. Depending on my mood, I’d ignore her or respond with a low one-word answer. And then the next day, she’d act as if nothing had happened.
My mother and I never discuss our feelings or talk out our issues. We leave them behind us and move forward. Some say it’s good for the soul to leave your troubles in the past, but I think that’s bullshit. If you can’t resolve it in that very moment, or even try to, how is it good for the soul? For me, moving on and ignoring the animosity that exists between my mother and me only darkens my soul and reaffirms my mother’s rejection.
Well, screw that. I’m not dealing with her today.
With my clutch in hand, I open the front door and step out into the sweltering mid-June heat. My skin begins to prickle from the sun immediately. I continue down the pathway, at the end of which is my father’s driver and a limo. In one hand he’s holding the back door open for me, and in the other, a gorgeous bouquet of yellow roses. I can’t contain the smile tugging at my lips. Every time Dad took Brooke and me on one of our father-daughter dates, he always had one of his drivers meet us, and they always had our favorite flowers: red tulips for Brooke, yellow roses for me.
A loud thump draws my eyes to the right. Logan is jumping off the back of his pickup truck when I spot him. He tosses a stack of two-by-fours over his shoulder and carries them across the lawn. My stomach twirls as I appraise him. His Phillies baseball cap is pulled down low, obscuring his eyes, but I can imagine the clear blue of them just fine. My tongue darts out, wetting my dry lips as I watch his sketched, bulging arms flex through his sleeveless shirt. He looks good with tats. Really good. For the better part of the weekend, we were up close and personal, but I still have no idea what kind of ink he’s sporting. I couldn’t risk him catching me studying his arms. There was just no way to do it surreptitiously, and it would have felt too personal to ask him about them. I didn’t want to give him the idea I was interested after all.
Logan’s head turns my way. He catches me staring and flashes a white, toothy grin. My heart skips a beat.
Shit.
“Hey, Jersey,” he shouts. Then he drops the wood down in front of him and lightly jogs my way. Why am I so damn nervous? We had a good weekend together, but I shouldn’t feel this fluttering in the pit of my stomach. “Hey,” he says again with a smile. Small beads of sweat glisten on his upper lip and neck.
“Hey,” I respond.
“You look really nice. Hot date?” he jokes.
I peek over to the driver, and then back to Logan, who follows my gaze. His smile falls a bit.
“Something like that,” I respond. What the hell possessed me to say that? It’s not like I’m trying to make him jealous or anything. But then again, it’s none of his business. Maybe if he thinks I’m dating, he’ll get the hint and won’t ask me out again.
“Oh. Well, he must be one hell of a guy,” he says. Then he fidgets with the rim of his cap, pulling it lower.
“Why’s that?”
“Well, I mean, it’s obvious. Look at me. If you passed up on something like this, the tool must be a hell of a guy, that’s all.” He’s joking, but something tells me it’s a cover-up. Either way I laugh because he has this amusing side of him that makes it difficult not to smile or giggle or find his charming sense of humor intriguing.
“You know, I’ve never met such an egotistical man.”
“Pfft. Imagine how I feel. I have to live through it. It’s not easy being me, Jersey.”
“Jersey? Is this a new name for me?” I ask, amused.
“Yeah. I figure two friends like us should have nicknames for one another.”
“I see. I don’t like nicknames, but I think I can come up with something for you.” I smile.
“Make it good, Jersey. You only get one shot at this. If it sucks, then you lose.”
“I wasn’t aware we were playing a game.”
He leans in, his gaze dropping to my mouth. “I didn’t think so either, since I’m not so keen on playing games. But there’s nothing wrong with a little fun.” His voice is low, rough. He’s not talking about the nicknames anymore; he’s talking about us. Before I can think of a witty response, Logan looks over at the car waiting for me. He straightens up and adjusts his cap again. “Well, I don’t want to keep you,” he says, suddenly upbeat.
I breathe in the chemistry wrapping around us. I feel it. I see it in his grey-blue eyes and right now, I want him to keep me. I want him to continue his attempts at flirting. I want him to make me smile, make me laugh, and bring back the side of me I’ve missed for so long. But then reality sets in. It whirls back around to the forefront of my mind, sweeping away any hopes I have of normalcy, of affection, of…love. Again, I’m reminded of all the reasons why Logan and I can’t be more than what we are. I let out a slow breath, one I’d been holding since he leaned in close enough to kiss me. “Okay. Well, um, chat soon?” I ask nervously.
“Yeah, sure.” He nods and turns away, walking back to the stack of wood assuredly. I watch as he bends over, picks it up, and tosses it over his shoulder. He doesn’t look back.
The drive into Manhattan is better than I had anticipated, except for one thing—the entire drive all my thoughts trail off to Logan. I question whether I should just come clean and tell him about my “issue.” At least that way if he wants to back off, he can. It won’t bother me. I’ve only known him for a little more than a week. And we haven’t shared anything more than what we’ve shared, which isn’t much.
The car pulls up and stops in front of Moon. The driver opens the door for me and gives me his business card with instructions to call him when I’m ready to be picked up. I quickly take in the busy streets
of New York and hurry into the restaurant. Being in and around large crowds, especially the hectic crowds of New York, makes me feel uneasy.
My anxiety kicks in as I step into the waiting area of the restaurant. It must be a busy day for the restaurant. It’s jam-packed. I weave through all the people waiting to be seated and approach the hostess. “Hello, I have a reservation under Gregory McDaniel.”
The hostess skims through the list. “Yes, he’s already seated.” She tilts her head toward a gentleman beside her. “Please take her to table 45.”
The gentleman’s gaze lands on me. With a smile he says, “Please, follow me.” And so I do. I follow closely behind, focusing my eyes on the back of his head. “Here you are.” He halts. I almost stumble into him, but I catch myself before I do.
My anxiety quickly dissipates as he walks away and my father turns to face me. His warm smile lights up his face. “Jenna, you look absolutely beautiful.” He stands, places a peck on my cheek and guides me into the booth. He settles in as well, across from me. It’s the same booth he always reserves—tucked in the far corner of the restaurant, beside a large window that looks out over Manhattan’s skyscrapers. Although Moon is surely filled to capacity, our little corner feels private, like it’s just the two of us in the crowded space.
“I’m glad you were able to make it,” Dad says. He stretches his arm out across the booth and grabs my hand.
“Me too.” I gently smile at him. “We haven’t had one of these in a long time. It’s nice.”
“Yes. It was quite overdo, wasn’t it?” He grins. The waiter approaches us and we order our usual. Dad leans back, unbuttoning the perfectly tailored suit jacket as his eyes pierce mine. “So, tell me, how are you feeling?”
“All right, I guess,” I answer with a slight shrug.
“Jenna,” he hesitates. “I don’t want to make you upset”—which means he will—“but I want to speak to you about your mother.”