Perfectly Damaged

by E. L. Montes

  Here we go.

  My shoulders tense uncomfortably. “I’d rather not. I just want to enjoy lunch with you without Mom ruining my day, as always.”

  “Well, how about we just get it out of the way so we can enjoy the rest of our lunch? What do you say?”

  “Fine.” There’s no escaping this conversation, so I give in. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “First, I feel you owe your mother an apology.” My eyes narrow to a harsh glare, and he lifts a hand to stop me from an outburst. “Before you say anything, I feel she owes you an apology as well. I’m not picking sides, Jenna. I love you both. It’s very difficult for me to see two women whom I love deeply despise one another. She’s your mother, and you are her daughter. I’m already swamped with work in the office. I have a potential client I’ve been trying to pull in for years that’s finally beginning to cave. The last thing I need is to come home to the two of you acting like juveniles. I shouldn’t have to deal with it. It’s infuriating. Do you understand?”

  I cross my arms over my chest. Is this what our little lunch date was for? For him to just educate me on my rights and wrongs? For him to judge my relationship with Mom, even though he has yet to witness just how cruel she can be? I can’t help but laugh. “Yes, I understand,” I say, hoping it ends this topic.

  “Good. I arranged for the two of you to have a girls’ spa day tomorrow.”

  “What?” I nearly shout.

  “Can you at least pretend to be thrilled about it?”

  “I’m sorry if I’m not bursting at the seams with excitement at this very moment. But I’m not ready to face a woman who told me I shouldn’t blame others for my failures during one of my episodes,” I blurt out. My father’s twisted expression immediately has me feeling guilty for not thinking before I spoke.

  “She said that to you?” he asks, his tone low, his eyes darkening in distress. Not toward me—he’s disappointed in my mother. And I know I shouldn’t care if he is or isn’t, but when it comes to my mother and me, my father has a very soft spot. When he looks at her as if she’s let him down, I can feel exactly how she feels. The burning whole within your chest. The shame of knowing that you’ve disappointed a loved one. It’s how I feel every time she looks at me.

  My mother, when she gets one of those stares from my father, does everything and anything to win back his affection. She would be nothing without my father. If she had to, she’d crawl through a pile of nails, walk through fire, and swim through a tank of sharks to win back his love. Because that’s what you do for people you love, right? And she loves him. Truly loves him. And she knows if he ever left her, she’d have no one. She’d always be alone.

  Maybe she’s more fucked-up than I am.

  Sometimes I wonder if she would be better off alone. Other times, I wonder why I feel bad for her in the first place. Is it because deep down she’s still my mother and I’m still waiting for her validation? No matter what has happened between us, if she were ever to change, if she were to ever tell me she was truly, sincerely sorry and wanted to work on our relationship, I’d do anything to win that from her, to win the affection of my mother’s love. But we’ve gone through this for so many years now, and she’s always been the same with me. I’ve gone bitter. And my mother? Well, she has too much pride to ever ask to rebuild what’s been damaged between us.

  “Yes,” I confess quietly, averting my eyes in shame. I lower my head and stare at my hands as I press my palms together, trying to absorb the dampness.

  “I see,” he says. “I wasn’t aware—”

  “You’re not aware of a lot. You’re hardly around anymore. So, yeah.”

  Silence.

  I don’t dare look up at him, though I can feel his stare burning into me. It’s not normal for me to lash out at my father, or even talk back. I respect him far too much to treat him like I treat my mother. So, of course, the guilt sets in.

  His phone buzzes against the table. I peek up as he reaches for it, hesitates, then swipes the screen and lifts the cell to his ear. “Honey,” he answers, his voice calm and monotone, “I’m having lunch with our daughter.” I swallow a large lump wedged in my throat. Dad keeps his eyes on me but continues on with Mom, “Yeah. We have a lot to talk about when I get home tonight.” Oh shit. He’s going to tell her about what I said. No. I can’t deal with the aftermath. She’ll be angry, she’ll take it out on me by saying things, hurtful things. I can’t handle this right now.

  My leg begins to shake. Tugging on the skin of my lip, my eyes shift his way as I hear him go on, “I’m not discussing this with you right now; I want to enjoy lunch with my daughter. No. Tonight, Laura… Hold on.” He pulls the phone away, glares at the screen, and then brings it back to his ear. “I have to take this call. I’ll see you tonight.” He swipes the phone, dismissing my mother, and goes on to the next call. “This better be good, Stanley—” Dad stops to listen. It must be good news. His lips curl into a smile, and it’s as if my mother and I are no longer a concern. “That’s amazing. I want the contract drawn up immediately, before he changes his mind. Yes. While you’re preparing the contract, I’ll make the necessary phone calls. I should be back in the office within”—he glances at his watch—“fifteen minutes.”

  Dad ends the call. He reaches for his wallet, pulls out a few hundred-dollar bills, and places them on the table. “Jenna, I’m so sorry—”

  “It’s okay. I get it. No worries. You’re a busy man.”

  His smile is gentle. “I’ll make this up to you. I promise.”

  A promise he’ll never be able to keep, but I go along with it anyway. “I know.”

  Before I know it, he’s up and out of sight.

  Lips trembling, I bite down to focus on the physical pain rather than the emotional. There’s an ache in my chest that I’m not sure how to soothe. Brooke would’ve known what to do; she would have made me laugh. I wish she were here.

  I miss her.

  I’ve suddenly lost my appetite. Reaching for my phone, I call the driver and ask to be picked up.

  I wanted to keep going, to just drive and drive and never look back. But the driver was growing impatient, and I had no choice but to finally direct him home after four long hours.

  We pull up in front of the house. I feel suffocated, stuck. I don’t want to get out. This backseat has become a protective bubble over the last few hours, but time’s run out and I have nowhere else to go. Charlie isn’t picking up my phone calls, so as the driver opens the back door and reaches in to give me his hand, I reluctantly take it. “Thank you,” I mumble as I step out.

  “My pleasure, Ms. McDaniel.” Sure it is. He nods, shuts the door, and steps back to the driver side. My back faces my home. I breathe in, trying to soothe my nerves and muster enough courage to turn around and go inside. The car drives off, and my breath whooshes out as I turn around and see her. My mother. A knot twists painfully in the pit of my stomach. She’s standing with the door wide open at our front entrance. She must have heard the car and expected my father. From this distance I can’t see her features, but I can tell by her slumped shoulders that she’s disappointed. Then she lifts her head and straightens up, turns around swiftly, and slams the door closed. The resounding thump is so loud I can hear it clearly from where I stand.

  I fucking hate her.

  “How was that date, Jersey?”

  My head snaps to the left. Logan is by his truck, packing his tools away. I didn’t realize how late it is. His shift must be over. I roll my eyes, not in the mood to joke or flirt or anything. My fingers clench the strap of my clutch as I focus directly on the double doors, behind which my mother awaits. Do I go in, dreading what’s to come, or do I just walk away and give us both some space?

  The second sounds like a better idea. I chuck off my heels, reach down for them, and then turn, walking up the slight hill of our long street.

  “Jenna?” Logan calls out. I avoid him and keep going. Not running, not strolling, just walking at a normal,
even pace with my focus determinedly straight ahead.

  She’s pissed off at you. She hates you. She’s never cared about you…

  Well, I hate her back.

  You’ll never live up to her expectations. You’ll never be perfect—her perfect little girl…

  My feet push forward faster now, keeping up with the voices trying to seep through my sanity, trying to take over. I realize now—and damn me for never putting it together before—that my mother is a major trigger for me. I don’t know how or why I allow her to crawl so deep into my psyche, but she does and she always has.

  Tires crunch over rocks alongside me. Looking over, I see Logan driving slowly in his truck with a smile tilting his stubble, irritatingly gorgeous cheeks up. Irritating because I don’t want to look at him this way. I don’t want to notice his handsome features and I don’t want them to do anything to my heart or my chest or my head or anything. I just want him to go away.

  “You know, I’m starting to get a feeling you like to be barefoot outside,” he says.

  I scowl at him, shake my head, and focus forward, not bothering to pay him any attention.

  Logan chuckles. “How ‘bout you hop in and we can go for that ice cream you owe me?”

  “I’m not in the mood for ice cream,” I say, deadpan.

  “Even more reason why you should definitely go.”

  “Can you just leave me alone?” I continue along. My thoughts are racing. What I need is a distraction and he is not helping right now.

  “No.”

  I stop and whip my head toward him. “No?”

  He stares down at me as he sits up high in his truck, the whisper of a smile on his lips. “No. I’m not leaving you alone.”

  “What do you want from me? What does anyone want from me?” Anger bubbles up from deep within. I tighten my jaw and clench my teeth. “I just want to be left alone. Is that so damn hard to ask?” I’m not sure where it came from exactly. I’m just frustrated. Logan shrugs once, one hand hanging casually out the window, while the other grips the steering wheel. His worn-out Phillies baseball cap hangs low over his eyebrows. The rim shadows his eyes, concealing any emotions within them, which means I can’t get a read on him at all. I hate it. Just effing hate it. “Would you take off that stupid hat?” I practically yell.

  He laughs.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You,” he says.

  “Well,” crossing my arms, upset with myself for getting worked up—especially in front of him—I retort, “I’m glad I can entertain you. At least you’re a first.”

  His lips tug into a lopsided grin. “Come on, Jenna. I can tell something is bothering you and in my experience, ice cream solves everything.”

  Now I laugh. I laugh because I’m exhausted. I laugh because I’m exasperated. And I laugh because I want to cry, but I don’t.

  I shake my head, temporarily releasing all of the emotions bottled up within me. Fine. If I want to get away for a while, maybe he can distract me. Maybe he can help rid me of this ache, even for just an hour or so.

  Watching Jenna struggle up into my truck is an exercise in self-restraint. I’d love to wrap my hands around her waist and... Fuck me. I mentally kick myself in the ass. I should’ve gotten out and helped her, but the fact that she’s even agreed to hop inside my truck to begin with has thrown me off. My mind has been wrapped up with Jenna since she left the lake house Sunday morning. I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I actually looked forward to work on Monday just so I could see her. But I never did. Tuesday went by, and still no sight of Jenna. Until today, when I saw her all dolled up and beautiful—for another guy. Yeah, it stung, but I couldn’t show her it affected me in any way. So, as always, I used humor to distract her from how I truly felt. But that’s the thing—it shouldn’t have affected me nearly as much as it did.

  I make a mental note for next time to help her in and out of my truck.

  Finally settled into the seat, she moves on to her next battle—this time with the seatbelt. She huffs and puffs a bit before clicking it in place and facing forward. Though she’s looking straight ahead and isn’t making a peep, it’s obvious she’s pissed off about something. I’m sure it has nothing to do with me because for the first time I haven’t done anything. My mother’s advice hums through my mind as I put the car in drive. She said when a woman is pissed, leave her alone to cool off, but never leave her side because if she’s in need of a hug, you’ll be the first person she’ll find. So I turn up the volume on my radio and allow my favorite band to fill the silence.

  As I drive, Jenna remains quiet. The last notes of one song fade as another begins. The melody of a guitar strums through the speakers. It’s one of those songs that once it begins, you just know—you know the words are going to hit you hard, and the melody… Well, it’s as if the melody weaves its way into your very existence, easing itself inside of you, altering your mood with its highs and lows. When the lead singer’s powerful voice begins, you pray for mercy, because you know what it’s capable of. It seizes every emotion you’ve ever experienced and wrenches them all to the surface, leaving you completely exposed. Exposed because sometimes we keep everything bottled up for a reason. But it’s songs like this that have the potential to change everything. They can put everything into perspective and make you feel like the words and the song itself belongs to you and only you.

  I love this fucking band. This band does that for me—every single time. The words and music course through me, and I have to sing along.

  “Who’s this?” Jenna asks, her tone soft. I shift my eyes toward her. She’s blankly staring at the radio, taking in every word, hypnotized by the sound, the lyrics. She feels a connection too.

  “It’s City of Sound. They’re an indie rock band from Philly. You’ve never heard of them before?” I ask, completely shocked. They’re popular and have been around forever.

  She shakes her head, her solemn gaze still stuck on my dashboard. “No.”

  “Oh. Well they’re one of my favorite bands. This song is called ‘What’s the Point?’” The lyrics speak about life and whether it’s worth it. With all the fucked-up things we all go through, what’s the point of still living? There are times when you just want to give it all up. But then it goes on to say that maybe, just maybe, there’s a purpose in your life and that purpose could be sitting right next to you.

  The light ahead of me flashes to red, and I take this time to study Jenna. Her head rests against the headrest, and her eyes are shut. Brown hair tumbles down her shoulders and touches her hands as they rub along her biceps. Goose bumps cover her arms. I have the air conditioner on, but it’s low. “Are you cold?” I ask.

  “No. It’s just…the words. They’re dead-on. So dead-on. That’s all.”

  I know exactly what she means. “I love their music. It’s always powerful, real, and raw. Their albums got me through some tough shit in my life. I can’t believe you’ve never heard of them.”

  Jenna tilts her head along the headrest, large beautiful brown eyes looking into mine. “I’m surprised I haven’t either. Do they have more like this?”

  “Ch-yeah!” She smiles at my response. “Do you want to hear one of my favorites?” She nods. I scan through the album on my radio until I find it. “This is ‘Rain on Me.’”

  Her lips curl into a grin as the song starts. Listening intensely to the words, she leans back again, closes her eyes, and allows the music to just seep through. After the first verse, she starts bobbing her head side to side along with the beat. She’s enjoying it, feeling it. I can’t stop smiling. It’s like I’m listening to the words for the first time.

  Jenna flashes her lids open when the song ends and looks at me. Her eager eyes widen at catching me staring at her, but then she blinks as she beams from ear to ear. “I love it. I want to hear more.”

  I chuckle. Whatever was bothering her before isn’t on her mind now. “All right, here’s another one of my favorites.” I find the song and continue to d
rive.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t let me pay,” Jenna argues, her round button nose wrinkling as she slumps down into a chair.

  “I told you, it wouldn’t be fair to make you pay when you’re not in the mood for ice cream, so it’s my treat.” I wink, settling in a seat across from her.

  “You think you’re just so smart, don’t ya?”

  “Well, I didn’t get the highest SAT scores out of my entire senior class for nothing.”

  “Really?” she asks.

  “No,” I confess. “I had a terrible score.” Jenna’s cheeks color as she laughs at me. I smile charmingly and continue, “But I’m sure I could’ve done better. I didn’t bother to study. There was no reason to. I already knew college was out of the question for me.”

  Her features shift out of curiosity. “Why was that?”

  “’Cause I knew I had a set job with my uncle. I hated school to begin with. I hated studying, for that matter. I just didn’t see the point.”

  “Is that what you always dreamed of doing? Working in construction your entire life?” She seems disappointed.

  “Look, Jenna, not all of us have it easy. I didn’t want to try and scrape up money and then work three dead-end jobs just to pay for a diploma. I knew a piece of paper wasn’t gonna get me anywhere in the end.”

  “I see.” She looks down, dips her plastic spoon into her ice cream, and then brings it up in salute. “Here’s to stupid, overpriced pieces of paper.” She smiles, drops the spoon into her mouth, pops it out, and licks her lips afterward, letting out a slight moan as she does. “This is so good.”

  Fuck me. I wet my lips and look down, stabbing my spoon into my own bowl. I just can’t. It’s taking every fucking ounce of my willpower not to lean across the table and suck on her chocolate-flavored lips. This is going to be harder than I thought. “Yeah,” I add. “I tried to convince Bryson to return his diploma after he freaked out when he received his first student loan bill. He said it doesn’t work that way.” I know it doesn’t work that way, but it was my way of using humor to make a shitty situation better. A new noise brings my head up. Jenna’s hand is covering her mouth. “Did you just snort?” I ask her.