Perfectly Damaged

by E. L. Montes

  And more is the last thing he needs.

  Finally tilting my head up, I look at him. His eyes are shut, his lips slightly parted. Just like that, he’s fast asleep.

  For the past hour this morning, I’ve scrolled through my phone, pondering whether I should or shouldn’t text him. Matthew has sent me a few messages since the day he landed on my doorstep unannounced and Logan was there to save the day. After each text was met with no response, he must have finally gotten the hint because he simply stopped messaging me altogether. The last text I received from him was over a week ago, asking if I wanted to go out for a friendly coffee date.

  When Logan said he wanted more from me last night, it scared the hell out of me. Maybe he was just drunk and it was the liquor speaking, but that’s a chance I can’t take. I’m not sure if going out with Matthew is the best option. I used Logan to get rid of Matthew. Now I might use Matthew to push Logan away. The thing is I don’t want to push Logan away; I want us to keep what we have. It’s simple and perfect. But the more he wants will only complicate things. Letting out a frustrated breath, I type a text, send it off, and then head downstairs where the others are.

  “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Ms. Drunkster herself,” Santino jokes. He’s seated by the kitchen table with Charlie on his lap as usual.

  I moan, brushing him off as I take the only empty seat, which is beside Logan. He smiles and pushes a full glass of water and a bottle of aspirin toward me. I open the cap of the bottle and pop two pills, gulping them down with the water. Everyone is minding their own business, chatting away. Logan leans in, quietly asking, “What happened to you this morning? I woke up and you were gone.”

  “I had to use the restroom, and I felt so sick I just went to bed upstairs. I didn’t want to chance it if I had to vomit. Sorry.” I really needed to just get away. To think. Alone. Without being in his arms.

  He reaches up and brushes my bangs aside in understanding.

  “Would the two of you just hook up already?” We both turn our heads and face Blair Mega Bitch. She rolls her eyes. “Don’t give me that look. We all think the two of you should just do it already,” she says, tossing both arms in the air in frustration.

  “We’re just friends,” I say. My phone buzzes. I open the text that came in and read it.

  “Well, with friends like the two of you, who needs fuck buddies, right?” she goes on.

  “Jealous?” Logan retorts.

  Blair’s eyes spread wide, then she laughs. “Of the two of you? Hell no. It’s just disgusting. The tiny whispers, giggles, cuddling, but no kissing or sex? Pfft. The entire scene makes me have blue balls and I don’t even have balls.”

  Logan opens his mouth to retort, but I cut him off by saying, “Well, like I said, Logan and I are just good friends. In fact I have a date on Tuesday.”

  “With who?” Logan whips his head around, eyes glaring and lips slightly parted.

  Shit. Why do I suddenly feel nervous? Most of all, why do I feel guilty? “Matthew.” I say it so low, I don’t think he hears me, but his twisted features tell me otherwise.

  “Matthew?”

  I look around at everyone. I guess I’m secretly hoping for help, but everyone turns their head and pretends not to be listening—except for Blair Mega Bitch, that is. The smirk on her face just proves she’s enjoying all of this. I’d like nothing more than to smack it off her face.

  “Yeah. We’re going out on Tuesday for a late coffee date. Is that a problem?” I face him, arching a brow.

  “Nope. Not at all,” he says smoothly. I study him. Interestingly enough, he seems to be okay with it.

  Is she fucking kidding me?

  Matthew?

  The same dude that stopped by her place when she forced me to kiss her so she could get rid of him?

  Do I have a problem with it?

  Nope. Not at all.

  I’m completely fucking cool about it.

  She can go out with Matthew.

  I couldn’t care less.

  I couldn’t give two fucks.

  Matthew?

  Fuck Matthew and Tuesdays and shitty fucking coffee dates.

  It’s Tuesday, six in the evening. Matthew took me to a quiet coffee shop nearby my house. Over the past hour he’s been going on and on about starting grad school in the fall, and how his parents are proud of all his achievements, and how he graduated top of his class, and how he wants to be involved with politics just like his father and hopes to one day be president of the United States, but before he can move up, he has to start from the bottom, so his first goal is to be a senator within six years and blah, blah, blah.

  None of this interests me.

  Physically, I’m here with him as I nod and smile. Emotionally, my head is wrapped up in Logan. He sent me a few texts last night. They were simple, as simple as Logan could be.

  LOGAN: Excited about your coffee “date?”

  ME: “Date?” Yeah, I guess I am.

  LOGAN: Yeah, “date.” I mean who takes a girl out for coffee as a date?

  ME: Believe it or not, it’s very common.

  LOGAN: It’s stupid.

  ME: What would you do for a first date?

  LOGAN: Take her out to a diner and then back to my house to watch a comedy ;-)

  ME: Sounds like a nice date. Lucky girl.

  And then I regretted texting it because it was flirty and I didn’t want to give him the wrong impression. So I changed the subject to something completely random, talking about the weather and how it’s going to be extremely hot in the coming week. He must have gotten the hint because he played along.

  “Are you okay?” Matthew prods.

  “Huh? Yes. Well, not really. I have a headache.”

  “Would you like me to take you home?”

  I know this is so bad in so many ways, but I ask anyway. “Do you mind driving me to a friend’s house in Philly?”

  “No, not at all.”

  I smile.

  I’m enjoying my second beer, playing a video game, and trying to focus on anything other than picking up my phone to bug Jersey Girl. I know she’s on her “date,” so I’ll just wait. But waiting is a bitch. I’m just about to break my own rule when the doorbell rings. I groan. Who the hell could that be? I’m not in the mood for visitors. Reluctantly, I stand from the couch and make my way toward the door, opening it while I take a sip of my beer. My eyes meet with Jersey Girl’s brown gems and I act natural. I don’t want her to see how much her being here actually excites me.

  Jersey’s eyes trail down my shirtless body and the PJs hanging low from my waist. Then she looks back up and smiles at me. “Can I come in?”

  I step aside, still holding the door open for her, and close it after she steps in. “How’d you get here?” I ask, following behind her as she makes her way into my kitchen.

  “Matthew.”

  Matthew. I’m happy her back is facing me so she can’t see the way my expression sours at the mention of his name. “You asked your date to drop you off at another guy’s place?” That makes me smile.

  “Nope. I told him it’s a friend’s place. I didn’t stress it was a guy’s place,” she says, opening my refrigerator. “I’m so hungry.”

  Jersey looks good. She’s wearing tight jeans—which accentuate her ass perfectly—and a loose yellow blouse that brings out the color of her eyes. Her hair is done in long waves that fall just past the middle of her back. I love when she wears her hair like that. It looks good on her. She’s bent over, her head in the fridge, and I can’t help but picture all of the things I want to do to her. In the kitchen. On the couch. In my bed. Then something flares in my stomach as an earlier thought prods my mind. She got dressed for another guy. She got dressed for another guy and it pisses me off. I lean back onto the counter, crossing my legs and trying to compose myself.

  “What the hell, Logan? You have nothing in your kitchen except for old Chinese food and a bag of large marshmallows.” She shuts the fridge, turns around, and fac
es me with a pout.

  She’s so damn cute. “Don’t downplay marshmallows.” I say, uncrossing my arms and legs. I open the fridge and grab the bag of marshmallows.

  Jersey lifts herself up onto the counter and sits beside the stove, facing me. She watches as I grab a fork and plate and turn on the gas stove. I stab a marshmallow onto the fork and roast it over the fire.

  “You’re roasting a marshmallow on your stove with a silver fork?” she asks.

  “Yep.”

  She shakes her head. “I’m hungry for real food, Logan.”

  “Matthew should have fed you. I’m sure you didn’t have any coffee either, since you don’t drink caffeine.”

  She stares at me for a few seconds before responding, “I had a water.”

  I shake my head. Douchebag didn’t even know that much about her. “I’ll feed you after you try this.”

  “Okay.” She nods.

  She watches the white puff light up in flames. I slowly rotate the fork until the marshmallow turns charcoal, then I blow it out. I let it cool down before bringing it up to her mouth. She looks down at it first, hesitant. Then she wraps her lips around the fluff and closes them over the fork, taking the gooey sweetness into her mouth. And fuck is that sexy. I wish it were something else her lips were wrapped around.

  “Mmm. Delish,” she says.

  “Told ya, Jersey Girl. Don’t knock it ’til you try it.”

  “Food. Please,” she demands.

  “All right, all right. I’m gonna go throw on some clothes.”

  “Why? I don’t mind if you go like that,” she jokes.

  I smile. “I bet you don’t. Wanna go to the diner?”

  She nods, her gaze lingering over my chest.

  I shake my head, laughing as I head to my room.

  As much as I try to repair my damaged soul, it’s useless.

  How can you fix me, when I can’t even fix myself?

  It’s dark out. I can barely see…

  No. My head turns to the right.

  I’m cold from the rain. My breathing is uneven as I search around…

  No. My head moves to the left.

  I’m so scared. I can hear the boots trudging through the mud. They’re getting closer. I run…

  No. White-knuckled, my fingers grip the bed sheets.

  I run faster, harder. Out of breath and lungs burning, I run, not looking back, just pushing forward…

  No. Go away. Just go away.

  I lose balance, slip, and fall. With shaky hands, I try to lift myself up. My gaze meets the tombstone.

  No! My eyes flash open.

  The dream. It’s the same nightmare over and over again. When I think there’s no way it’ll come back, it proves me wrong every single time. It usually happens when I’m under a lot of stress, when my life is chaotic. Like now—or at least I think it is. I don’t know. I’m more confused than I’ve ever been.

  I wet my dry lips and sit up, leaning my head against the headboard. There’s nowhere to run or hide. I’m trapped in this room. My eyes quickly scan the space. The creeping feeling that someone is watching me crawls over my skin, and I nervously peer into the dark corners, praying someone isn’t lurking there, waiting to attack.

  My large bedroom feels small all of a sudden, like the walls are caving in. I’ve felt safe behind these walls for the last twenty-one years of my life, but now they’re betraying me.

  My stomach churns and my throat starts to close, as if an invisible hand is slowly choking me.

  I’m suffocating.

  I need air or water or an escape. I just need to breathe. Find some way to just breathe. I push the sheets off. It’s so damn hot in here; I brush away the sticky strands of hair from my face. Talking myself into it, I allow my legs to dangle off the side of the bed. I’m dizzy, my mouth is dry, my chest is tight—I need to call someone. I reach for my cell phone on top of the nightstand. With a shaky finger, I skim through the short contact list. Charlie is away on vacation with her family for the Fourth of July week.

  I’m stuck. The walls are zooming in. Closer. I breathe in and out, three soothing breaths.

  Logan.

  He’s been an amazing friend over the last month, but the more time we spend with one another, the closer I feel to him. Too close. And I’m frightened that one day he’ll pull away. He’ll pull away as soon as he knows. I suspect he has an idea of what’s wrong with me. Even though I feel better about myself when I’m around him, I sink right back into reality when we’re apart. The reality where Logan can never be mine.

  Mine? What is wrong with me? He’s not an object I get to claim; he wasn’t handed off to me or gifted or purchased. Logan remains the sole owner of himself. But shamelessly, I still want him to be mine.

  “Hello?” Logan’s voice, low and raspy, prickles through the speaker. I look down at the phone in my hand. Oh God, I didn’t realize I hit the call button when I saw his name on the list. “Hello…Jenna?” I hear again, his voice sleepy.

  I quickly bring the cell to my ear. “I-I’m so sorry, Logan. I didn’t mean to wake you. Please, try to go back to sleep,” I whisper.

  He yawns. “It’s cool. What time is it?” He pauses. I look at my clock just as he recites the time. “It’s almost two in the morning, Jersey Girl. Are you all right?”

  The sound of his voice is soothing, especially when he says the nickname he made up for me. It’s something I’ve grown accustomed to over the past few weeks. “Yeah…I just had a bad dream.”

  “Another one, huh?” he says, his tone a bit clearer now. I can hear his bed squeak, as if he’s adjusting himself to sit up.

  Last weekend at the lake house, Logan and I fell asleep on the couch in the living area. That couch has been known as our spot for the last month. We’d stayed up most of the night watching movies while everyone else sat out back partying. I didn’t realize I’d dozed off until Logan gently shook me awake. He said I was shaking and whimpering in my sleep. Even though I knew, I couldn’t tell him what my dream was about. I did tell him, however, that it’s a nightmare I’ve been dealing with for a very long time. He didn’t question me, thank goodness. He rarely does. But waking up to Logan made me feel safe. I guess that’s why I subconsciously called him just now.

  “Yeah,” I say. “The same one.”

  “Wanna talk about it?”

  “Not really. I guess I just needed to hear your voice,” I confess. “It calms me.”

  He chuckles. The sound of the low rumble deep within his chest shoots a warm liquid through my heart, and a tug starts at the corner of my lips. “That’s good to hear,” he says.

  “Yeah,” I say, trying to think of something else to keep him on the phone a bit longer.

  “Jersey Girl?”

  “Yes?”

  “Want me to come over? I mean, I know your father is away on a business trip and your mother left for that stupid spa retreat with her friends. And Charlie’s on vacation with her family. You’re all alone in that house. I know you’re probably afraid.”

  He’s right. I am alone. I’ve never felt more alone than I do now. “I am scared, I guess. But I don’t want you to drive here at this time. It’s late—or early… Whatever. I’ll be okay.”

  “I don’t mind. Tomorrow is the Fourth and I’m off. If I leave now, at this time, there shouldn’t be any traffic. I can make it there in thirty minutes. Only if you want, of course. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”

  “You don’t make me uncomfortable, Logan.”

  His silence says he doesn’t believe that. Have my reactions to certain things convinced him otherwise? “Well, the offer is still there,” he says.

  “Okay.” I finally cave in. I want him here with me. I’m afraid of this house, of my dream, and of my own thoughts. I want Logan to clear all of it away, like he always unknowingly does.

  “All right, see you soon.”

  We end our call. I hop out of bed and walk into the bathroom. I look like crap, so I wash my face, b
rush my teeth, and comb my hair. Then I tread down the stairs and wait at the bottom step, in the foyer by the door.

  I just sit and wait.

  The doorbell sounds, startling me a bit. I stand, rubbing the numbness out of my behind from sitting on the marble stairs, and then shut off the alarm and open the door. With sleepy eyes, Logan smiles adorably at me and scratches the back of his head. His hair is a bit longer than when we first met. Right now, the right side is crushed flat against his head while the rest is wildly all over the place. A little giggle escapes me. “You have bed hair.”

  Logan’s mouth slants into a crooked grin as he brushes his hand over the wild locks. “Well, I did hop out of bed and run to your rescue. Give me some credit, huh?”

  Even at almost three in the morning he’s an ass. I playfully shove my hand against his shoulder. “All right, big guy, no need to be all cocky.” I smile. “Come on in.” Stepping aside, I give him room to shuffle in. When he does, I shut the door, lock it, and punch the code into the alarm. “Are you hungry or thirsty?” I ask him.

  “Nah. You?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “Well, um, I guess we can go up to my room.”

  Logan nods once. It’s not like I’m nervous or anything. I’ve been alone with Logan a lot in the past few weeks, especially in his apartment. But he’s never been in my bedroom, and I’ve never been in his. A bedroom is kind of a sacred space. Asking someone to go in with you could give the wrong impression—especially for us. Will he be able to see right through me and know the exact person I am by my possessions? I shake that thought aside. I trust Logan, so I walk up the stairs, and he slowly follows behind me.

  As I enter my room, I look around. Suddenly I’m insecure of my things. I wonder what he’s thinking as he takes in the cave I spend most of my time in. Is he judging the light grey walls and sleek black furniture? What about the built-in bench by the window? It’s filled with three stuffed animals my father gave me as a child, and I just can’t seem to let go of them. Does he think them juvenile?