by E. L. Montes
And then it starts to makes sense. The day I saw Jenna by the corner street sign and asked her about coming to the lake house, she mentioned how large crowds make her uncomfortable. And when she did make it to the lake house, she was always apart from everyone, distant, always tucked away, alone. To anyone else, it might appear that we’re just two people getting cozy because of how crowded it is in here. But they wouldn’t know that I’ve just put together another piece of the puzzle that is Jenna McDaniel.
Jenna lifts her eyelids, blinking as she looks up at me. There’s a small understanding between us. No words are spoken; they’re not needed. I can feel her discomfort here, and she can sense that I know. I nod once, lifting my hand to the side of her face and rubbing my thumb along her rosy cheek. “Wanna get out of here?” I whisper. She answers with a small nod. “Okay,” I say. I turn around, take her hand in mine again, and keep her close as we exit the place.
We’re settling back into my truck, and I turn the ignition on. I don’t pull away, though. If she feels this uncomfortable here, there’s no way she’ll like the next place. “I was going to take you to this small indie art show, but I think I purchased the last two tickets, which means there’ll probably be a lot of people there.”
“Oh.” Jenna’s voice is small. She looks away, her hands fidgeting in her lap.
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry, Logan. It’s just…I have anxiety around large crowds,” she whispers, bringing her head down, embarrassed.
“I figured.”
“I know it’s weird. I’m sorry.”
I chuckle softly. “It’s not weird, Jenna. Trust me, I know people, and they can be creepy fuckers sometimes. I’d freak out too, but I want to keep this badass act up as long as I can.”
She laughs. Good. “You’re so not a badass. You may look it, but you’re more of the good guy hiding behind the bad boy image.”
“Dammit. And here I thought I had everyone fooled. I need to work harder on this image thing.” I scratch the back of my head, trying to figure out what to do for the rest of the night. “I know this twenty-four hour diner that serves the best potato pancakes you’ll ever have in your life. It’s near my apartment. It’s usually crowded for breakfast or at like two or four in the morning, when drunk asses crave munches. But around this time, it’s usually dead. Wanna go there?”
“Okay.”
Jenna orders the banana French toast and a side of one potato pancake, which I told her was a bad idea because once she tastes it, she’ll want another. I order my usual, the big man breakfast meal, which comes with two of everything: eggs, pancakes, sausage, bacon, and potato pancakes. Yeah, I’m that hungry. I’ll devour my entire plate and then some.
Like I figured, the diner isn’t too busy. There’s probably a handful of people in the entire place. Jenna and I are seated at a booth in the far back. Though I can tell she feels a bit more comfortable, I still find her looking around. She’s keeping an eye out for something, but I don’t know what. It’s not weird, just different. Her mind always seems to be preoccupied with other thoughts.
“Is it weird we’re having breakfast for dinner?” she asks.
“Nope. Best time to have it, if you ask me,” I say, drowning my pancakes in syrup.
A slight moan escapes those pretty lips of hers when she takes her first bite of the French toast. “You’re right. Best time to have it. I’ve never had breakfast at any other time, never for anything other than breakfast.”
“Well, I like to break the rules sometimes. You know, to keep that bad boy image alive and stuff.”
Jenna leans back in the booth, patting her belly. “I’m stuffed.”
“You barely ate,” I point out.
“I ate half of it. Sorry I can’t clean off my plate like you.” She giggles. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
“No problem. It’s my pleasure, really.”
And just like that, it’s like she’s somewhere else, blankly staring at her plate. She lifts her hand to the side of her face, pressing on her cheek.
“What are you thinking?” I ask.
Jenna blinks, then looks up at me. “That I don’t know you. That you seem really nice. That I want to know more about you.”
“Okay. What do you want to know?”
“Everything. Where you grew up, your family, your likes and dislikes, everything, Logan.”
I nod, leaning back in the booth. “All right. Uh, let’s see, where can I start? Oh! Once upon a time—”
“I’m serious!” She laughs.
“So am I. Let me tell my story.” She rolls her eyes, then nods. I go on. “Where was I? Ah, yes—once upon a time, there was this small, snot-nosed, pain-in-the-ass kid named Logan Reed. His mother couldn’t handle him. No one even wanted to watch him because everyone believed he was the devil’s sidekick, if not the devil himself.”
Jenna lets out a laugh, adjusting herself a bit to get more comfortable. She crosses her arms on top of the table and leans in. I continue, “But for some strange reason, his mother still loved him. So when it came to his mom, he was a bit of a pussy, or to say it nicer, he was a momma’s boy. His only father figure was and still is his uncle George because his biological father was serving time in prison.”
“Really? I’m sorry, Logan,” Jenna whispers.
“Yeah. It’s cool, though. I can’t complain. I’ve lived a good life. I had a family that always stuck by one another. I was always loved, still am. Just because I didn’t know my father, doesn’t mean my life was ruined. I didn’t blame him for anything. I may have missed out on a lot of things, but not having him in my life doesn’t define who I am now.”
“Where is he now?”
I suck in a deep breath. I had sometimes wondered if I should’ve reached out to my father, but before I even attempted to make a decision, it was too late. “Dead. He died in prison of a heart attack or something like that. He was doing time for drugs. Not just little shit. He was involved with a crime organization, busted in the middle of a huge drug deal. I wasn’t even born yet; my mother was pregnant with me when he got arrested. Gotta love the eighties.
“Anyway, I was never a part of my father’s family. You can’t miss what you’ve never had. I don’t even have his last name. My mother gave me her maiden name when I was born and paid for Sean’s last name to be changed when he was a kid. My mother worked hard to make an honest living, hoping her sons wouldn’t end up like their father.”
“I know your brother was arrested and did time. How about you?” Jenna asks, tilting her head, waiting for my response.
“Have I ever done time in jail?” She nods. “Nope.” I answer.
“Were you ever arrested?”
“Enough about me. Let me hear something about you.”
“Logan,” she says, stressing my name as it rolls off her tongue.
Fuck my life. “Yeah. I was arrested. Once,” I confess.
Jenna’s eyes widen. “For what?”
“DUI,” I respond blankly.
“But your brother and the reason behind his jail time… Why?”
Huffing out, I scoot forward, lean over the table, and fold my hands. “Look, after Sean’s death, I lost it. I was pissed. Angry at him. At myself. At everyone. I wanted to feel numb and liquor and weed wasn’t doing the trick. I’d never done drugs before. I mean, I’d smoked pot before, but never any hard-core shit. So, I met up with a few friends who did all of that. My boy Joe said he had something for me that would get the job done. It was this tiny grey pill. Some new drug dealer, experimental shit. It was a mixture of different drugs; they called it the blackout dose. He warned me it was strong and to wait until I got home. I did.
“As soon as I got home, I tried it. It took probably fifteen minutes before it hit me. I don’t remember anything after that. I completely fucking blacked out. Go figure. What else should I have expected with a drug named that, right?” I shake my head, going on. “I woke up twelve hours later. It didn’t take long before I
got addicted to it and needed it to sleep every night. But I always made sure I was home before I took one.
“Then, one shitty day or night—I don’t even remember—after I left a bar, I was completely wasted. Even though I was drunk, I still felt everything. The memories of Sean were too hard to bear and I just wanted to feel numb again. I got behind the wheel of my car with no business being there in the first place. I remember digging into my pocket, popping the pill in my mouth, and driving off.
“After that I woke up in a hospital, groggy and in a daze. I felt lost. I had no idea how I got there. Then the entire night began to piece together. The first thing I remember thinking was that I’d killed someone. I’d done the same thing Sean did. I killed someone. But I didn’t. Thank God, I didn’t. I just killed myself.”
“What do you mean?” Jenna asks.
“I died. At least that’s what the doctor and my mom told me. Apparently, when I drove away from the bar, I didn’t make it too far before I blacked out and drove straight into a light pole. I had a few broken ribs; my arm was literally broken in half, hanging. I dislocated my hip and fractured my skull. But I had my seatbelt on.”
I laugh at that. “My fucking seatbelt. There must’ve been an angel with me that night because I don’t even remember putting it on. I remember popping the pill and then driving off. Not the seatbelt. Anyway, I’d lost a lot of blood by the time the ambulance came and took me. I was bleeding internally. My rib had punctured a lung. When I got to the hospital, they took me into surgery immediately. I died on the table for approximately forty-two seconds.
“Some say when you die, you see a light. I didn’t see shit, nothing but blackness. And then, by some miracle, I was revived. After that, I didn’t want to experience the blackouts anymore, especially after seeing how much pain I caused my mother. I was being so selfish, trying to rid the pain without realizing there were others who were suffering too. So I got my shit together.
“After I got better and left the hospital, I was arrested for destruction of city property, DUI, and other stuff. I was bailed out within hours, but the charges stuck. Since it was my first offense, I had to do six months of a rehabilitation program and my license was suspended for a year. Actually, I just got it back six months ago.”
Yeah. Now she’ll probably run as far away from me as possible. That was my past. I’m not like that anymore.
Jenna’s features distort in confusion. “You don’t do drugs or anything anymore?” she asks.
“No.”
“But you drink?”
This is difficult to explain. “Yeah, I do. I’m not addicted to alcohol. I know that’s what an addict would say, but I’m not. I never was. I drink from time to time, socially, but I don’t turn to booze to solve my issues. When I’m dealing with something, I work out instead. I take out all my frustrations at the gym.”
“Oh,” she says.
I lean forward, lowering my head in an effort to coax her into looking at me. Her eyes meet mine. Finally. “Tell me what you’re thinking right now. Tell me if what I just told you changes your opinion of me. One thing you’ll learn about me, Jersey, is that I’m very honest and I don’t like to sugarcoat anything. What you see is what you get. And I’d like it if you could be that way with me as well, okay?”
“All right.” She straightens her shoulders, her eyes boring into mine. “What do you want to know?”
“What are you thinking right now?” I ask.
“That you’re not perfect,” she responds, deadpan.
I snort. “I’ve never claimed to be.”
“I know. I like that about you.”
“You like that I’m not perfect?” I ask, waiting for her to clarify.
“Yes. It makes you real, authentic. I’m not perfect either.”
“So are you saying you have a dark side you’re withholding from me?” I ask playfully, but the look in her eyes transforms my smile into a thin line. “What are you not saying?”
“Judgments are given so easily; learning about a person and their struggles is far more difficult.”
“You’re right—judgments are easily given. But I’m not judging you, Jenna. I would never do that. I genuinely want to learn about you. If you allow me to, that is.”
She seems to be struggling with her own thoughts. Her eyes are downcast as she brings a shaky finger to the side of her temple, rubbing it as if her head aches. “Excuse me. I have to use the restroom,” she says before she stands and walks away.
Pacing back and forth inside the bathroom, I try to breathe. I’m having an anxiety attack; at least it feels like I am. Why is it so hard to just come out and say it? Logan could walk away right now and it wouldn’t hurt too bad, would it? Then again, he shared personal things with me about himself, which I’m sure wasn’t easy for him to do.
“I’m schizoaffective.” I say it out loud in the empty bathroom. “I’m schizoaffective.” I allow it to roll off my tongue.
I can’t do this.
How will he look at me? Logan says he won’t judge me, but I know the truth. It’s never easy to look at someone the same way after hearing news like this. It’s different when you tell someone you’re dying because of an illness. Then, you just get the sympathy treatment. When you tell them you have a mental illness, especially when it’s associated with schizophrenia, you get the is-she-going-to-jump-out-and-stab-me-because-she-must-be-crazy look.
It’s the same look my mother gave me when I was diagnosed. Maybe it was like reliving her childhood all over again, I don’t know. Either way, she couldn’t bear to even look at me. My own mother turned on me. What makes me think Logan will be any different? He has no ties to me; he can just up and leave and never look back. My mother had no choice but to deal with me.
Dammit. I feel dizzy. I grip the sink to keep my balance and then look up at my reflection in the mirror. Look at me. All this makeup, my perfectly styled hair, these clothes neatly paired together—it’s all just one big cover-up. No matter how hard I try to perfect being normal, I will never be able to. There’s not enough foundation or eye shadow or even clothing in the world to conceal who I really am. And even if I were to fool everyone around me, I could never fool the villains inside my head. I will always be me: Jenna McDaniel, the girl with more issues than she can carry. No man will ever be able to handle them. Not even Logan Reed.
When Jersey comes back from the bathroom, she seems distracted, distant. She’s barely said a word in the last ten minutes and I’m beginning to wonder if I said or did something wrong.
The waitress dropped off the check and I paid cash, leaving the money on the table. “I’m thinking maybe we can go to a movie, since the art show didn’t work out.” Shit. Stupid ass, a theater will be just as packed with people. “I mean we can go back to my apartment to watch a movie.”
That didn’t sound right either. Just shut the fuck up. Jenna is back to feeling uncomfortable. I can tell as she shifts nervously. Great, asshole. “Or I can take you home. Either way, whatever you want.” I try to save my sorry ass, but I don’t think it did any good.
“Sure. I don’t mind going to your place.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I’d like to see how Logan Reed lives. I’m sure it’ll be very amusing.”
“It’s a thousand-square-foot, one-bedroom apartment. Nothing special. Bachelor pad to the fullest, trust me. Oh, and there are copious amounts of video games.”
She finds this funny. “You know, I had a feeling you’d be a gamer. After spending time with you, it just seems like you.”
“If you keep figuring me out, Jersey, we’re gonna have to end this friendship. It’s getting out of hand.”
At least she gets my humor. Most women find it arrogant and not funny at all.
“All right, I’ll go to your apartment, and if I find anything un-badass, I promise to keep it to myself. Under one condition.”
“What is that?”
Jenna’s face turns serious. “I need your address. I
need to text it to Charlie. Please don’t think I’m weird or anything. It’s just that I’ll feel safer if someone knows where I—”
I cut her off, reciting my address. I can understand this. I don’t ask her anything or the reason behind it. After all, I don’t want her to feel unsafe in any way. She pulls out her cell, and I can tell she feels embarrassed to ask if I’m being truthful. So instead of reciting the address again, I pull out my wallet and hand her my driver’s license.
Jenna looks down at the plastic card; it takes her a few seconds to finally grab it. She punches my address into her phone and sends it off to Charlie, who kind of scares me a bit if I’m being completely honest.
Jenna is by the entryway just outside of my apartment; I’m inside with my hand on the knob, holding the door wide open. She looks down, focusing on the shift of her weight from one foot to the other, as her fingers find one another and start to fidget. I wait patiently. I don’t rush her or push her or say a word. I just allow her to think. The more time I spend with her, the more I’m curious about what makes her this way—the nerves, the paranoia, and how she’s always lost in thought. There’s a lot more to Jersey than she’s letting on, and I want to know what.
My foot stomps down on the doorstopper to keep the door open on its own. I let go of the knob and shove my hands into the front pockets of my jeans. “I can leave the door open,” I say, my voice low.
She looks up, her eyes tracing my features and roaming down the length of my body. Her vision lands on my hands in my pockets, and then she drags her gaze toward the doorstopper. She takes in a silent, deep breath, drops her arms to her side, and steps forward. I turn, my back facing her, and walk farther into my place. I can’t hear her footsteps, but I definitely feel her following closely behind me. My hands still in my pockets, I take a seat on the sofa.