Perfectly Damaged

by E. L. Montes

  It’s the first time in the last few days that Charlie has left my side. She’s been trying so hard to get me out of bed and I’ve been fighting her tooth and nail. She didn’t say a word when she stormed out, slamming the door behind her. It made me feel like crap. I know she’s frustrated with me and it isn’t fair to her.

  The guilt of disappointing my best friend seeps through me, so I carefully sit up. The slight movement causes a bout of dizziness. Breathing through it, I stand and slowly walk to the bathroom. I squint, covering my eyes as the natural light beaming down from the skylight blinds me. After a few seconds my eyes adjust and I turn on the showerhead. I brush my teeth and rinse my face at the sink as the mirror fogs, caused by the hot steam billowing out from the shower.

  I breathe in the soothing mist, allowing my lungs to inhale and exhale easily for the first time in three days. Stripping off my clothes, I step into the shower. The searing raindrops splash along my skin, turning my flesh from its pale, golden complexion to a reddish tone. It burns, but I want it to. I let it strip away the pain on the surface, knowing nothing can ever rid the pain deep within.

  If only I could peel away the top layer of my skin and continue to peel back each layer until there was nothing left beneath the scorching shower but my heart, still beating despite being ripped apart. Because that’s where it hurts the most. The muscle that somehow keeps me living makes me feel nothing more than dead—dead without him, dead without his touch, and dead with the knowledge that I will never love again.

  My life over the past two days has been on a repeating cycle. I wake up. I get ready. I go to work. I stare at Jenna’s bedroom window, hoping she’ll see me. But she never does. I finish my work shift. I stare at the window some more. I go home. I have a few beers while I search on the Internet until my eyes are heavy and I can’t keep them open any longer. Then after the two-hour sleep I manage to get in, I wake up and do it all over again.

  I’m a complete zombie on day three of this vicious cycle. Bryson mumbles something along the lines of how shitty I look as I walk past him. I ignore his remark and go straight into the kitchen area, where I work for the first half of my day by installing oak cabinets.

  As I finish adjusting the last cabinet for the top row, I hear an uproar in the living area. Santino yells, “You can’t be in here!”

  A female voice shouts over the loud sounds of hammers and saws going off throughout the house. “Fuck if I can’t. Where is he?”

  Santino shouts back, “Where is who?”

  She replies, “Logan! Where is he?”

  Santino screams, “The kitchen.”

  Before I have the chance to step forward and show myself, Charlie storms into the kitchen. My brows draw in as she struts up to me, her hand nudging my shoulder. “You’re an asshole!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know, I really had hope for you. I thought you were different, that your feelings for Jenna were true. But you’re just like the rest of them.” She inspects me; her eyes narrow as she shakes her head disapprovingly. “God, did you prove me wrong. Were you just trying to get in her pants this entire time?”

  “What?” Who the hell does she think she is? This time, I’m the one to narrow my eyes. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. It was never that way with Jenna. I care for her.”

  Charlie crosses her arms, cocking a brow. “Oh? I couldn’t tell because over the past three days I’ve been taking care of a brokenhearted girl. She’s devastated, Logan. How could you do that to her?”

  “You think I don’t know that? My head has been fucked-up the past few days. I’m trying to understand it all!” I snap.

  She takes two steps back, breathing out her anger and calming down a bit. “Understand what?” she asks mildly.

  “Her illness.” I calm too, defeated. I’m fucking tired and my head is pounding. “I’ve been up all night researching. I want to help her; I just don’t understand it. I keep reading articles and medical websites.” I huff out a laugh. “I’ve watched a dozen documentaries and even a fucking video blog with some guy who has the same disorder. I just don’t know how to help her.”

  Charlie’s expression softens. “Being there for her is helping her. Jenna doesn’t have much support in her life. The most important piece of her recovery is for her to know she has a solid team backing her up. It’s not easy all of the time, but she’s worth it. She used to have Brooke and me; now she only has me. Jenna isn’t close with her mother. Her father is barely around. So just being there for her, letting her know that you’re not walking away, that you’re not giving up, that’s a step toward help. And that’s what she needs.”

  “You’re right.”

  She smiles. “Damn straight I’m right.”

  As much as I want to laugh, I can’t. My shoulders deflate. “But how do I know if she’s being triggered or if I am setting her off or something?”

  Charlie places her hand on my shoulder. “Talk to her,” she says kindly. “Once she sees that you haven’t given up, that you were just afraid of not being enough to help her, she won’t keep anything from you any longer.”

  “Does she tell you everything?”

  “No. I don’t push her. Well, except when she has her down days.”

  “Down days?” I ask.

  “Yeah. She has her really low moments. It’s difficult for her to do anything when she’s suffering from the depressive side of her disorder. Like she is now. She won’t eat. It’s hard to get her out of bed. It’s like she’s a stone, just waiting for life to pass her by. Everything is hard for her to do. So I push her out of bed—literally. She tries to fight back and hates me for it, but in the end it’s worth it. These past three days, though…they’ve been really hard.”

  Great. I feel like an even bigger asshole. “Do you think she’ll see me?”

  She shrugs. “We can try.”

  Placing the hammer on top of the counter, I wipe off the sawdust from my hands and then look up at Charlie. “Take me to her.”

  “Okay,” Charlie says. “Oh, and Logan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m glad you look like shit.”

  This makes me laugh. “Thanks.”

  “No, I mean it just further proves that I was wrong.”

  I raise a brow. “About what? I think you were pretty accurate on the asshole part.”

  She twirls around and starts walking. I follow behind her. “Oh no, you’re still an asshole for not seeing Jenna sooner, but I admit I was wrong about your feelings and intentions toward her. I can tell now that you really care about her.”

  “Thanks,” is all I can say. “Before we go in, I just need to grab something from my truck.”

  “Sure.”

  Wrapping the towel around my chest, I stand before the mirror. I wipe away the fog and stare at my reflection. “What now?” I say to myself. I guess I just keep going. There’s nothing else I can do. I don’t know what will happen tomorrow, but I need to keep going for today. It’s the only way to regain my strength.

  Breathe. It’s the first step, which I do.

  After I’m done, I step into my room and freeze. My fingers grip the towel in place; my chest expands too quickly, trying to fight for air as my heart pounds away. I press my lips together, composing myself so as not to launch across the room and cling onto him. There’s no way this can be real.

  “Charlie let me in,” he says, standing by the edge of my bed.

  I close my eyes tight, willing my head to take the image away. When I open them he’s still there.

  He bows his head, looking down at an item held in his hand and then looks up at me. Red lines the rims of his stormy blue eyes, those eyes I’ve fallen in love with.

  “What are you doing here, Logan?” I choke over the words scraping up from my dry throat and mouth. This is real. He’s actually here.

  Logan wets his lips, hesitant to say anything. We both just stand there, waiting. Finally he speaks first. “Jenna, I’m sorry.”
/>   “For?”

  “For everything; the way I acted when you told me about your—” He pauses. “About your disorder. The last few days I’ve been trying to wrap my brain around all of it. And no matter how much I’ve researched and tried to figure out why you suffer from this disorder, it hasn’t changed the feelings I have for you.”

  “It hasn’t?”

  He shakes his head, taking a step forward; there’s still so much space between us. He goes on, “No. I still care for you. I still want you.”

  “But—”

  “No. There are no more ifs, ands, or buts between us. There’s no mistaking any of it. I want us to be together. I want your struggles to be mine. I want you to be able to come to me for everything, Jersey Girl. I want to be there for you. You have to trust that I will never give up on us.”

  I look down. “I felt like you did, that you decided to just give up.” My shoulders slowly lift into a shrug. “It’s understandable. I couldn’t blame you. I couldn’t ask you to take this on. It’s a lot to ask.”

  His boots slide across the floor until they’re in my view. His closeness knocks the air out of my lungs. I continue to look down, staring at the round peep of his scuffed-up Tims. Logan crooks a finger under my chin, lifting my head back until he’s fully gazing at every emotionally-shattered feature etched on my face, and I witness all the wretched pain stamped on his.

  His eyes take on a look of sorrow, of compassion, of regret, of love. “I hate seeing you like this and I hate even more that I’m responsible for it.” He releases the finger under my chin and frames the right side of my profile with his hand. I weaken against his touch, fluttering my eyes closed at the comfort found in the connection.

  “I’m never giving up on what we have, Jenna.”

  I know it’s wrong to ask this of him, but his closeness, his touch compels me to ask anyway. “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  Before I can utter another word, Logan’s lips are on mine, binding our tiny pact. My breath, my lips, my tongue, my teeth, everything I have becomes a part of this kiss, inhaling and tasting and feeling and reveling in what I’ve been longing for since the very first time our lips disconnected so long ago. The first one was purely chemical, lust and desire. But this one? This one is passion and longing and promises and fireworks, fucking fireworks. As his tongue gently dives into my mouth, dancing with mine, my body falls into his. With one hand still on my face, he snakes his free arm around my waist to keep me in place, still gripping onto the item in his hand.

  I try to keep my composure but fail as I moan against his mouth and lift onto my toes. My arms find their way around his neck. My towel—which hasn’t fully dropped because it’s pinched between us—has slipped, exposing the swell of my breast. We’re hungry for more, starved by the time we’ve spent denying and repressing our feelings for one another. Logan drops whatever item was in his hand, his fingers gripping into the small of my back, tugging me ever closer to him.

  The hand that was framed around my face is now gently fisting into my hair. Small gulps of air between kisses, our tongues twirl, entwine, and lash, growing thirstier for one another. He groans he wants me, and I moan I want him too. Our sounds turn this slow burn into an inferno. In one swoop he lifts me and carries me to the bed, our lips still molded to one another.

  My back flush against the mattress, the towel loosens—exposing my breast and peaking nipples. A small groan rumbles deep within his throat. Logan drops his head; his tongue skims over my nipple before fully sucking in my small breast. I tilt my head back, raking my teeth over the flesh of my bottom lip to savor the aching pleasure. My fingers dig into his scalp as his hand finds its way down between my thighs; teasing, he circles his palm over my nub.

  We ignore the knock on the door. It’s probably Charlie, checking in on us. I lift Logan’s head with my hand and bring his lips back to mine. Another knock. I groan out, “Leave us alone, Charlie.”

  “It’s not Charlie.”

  I freeze. My eyelids fly open. “Who’s that?” Logan asks, whispering.

  “My father,” I say, scrambling out from beneath Logan. “Just a second, Daddy,” I shout out, running over to the dresser and rummaging through a drawer. I grab the first ankle-length nightgown I can find and toss it on. I look over at Logan. He’s up on his feet, his hand shoved in his jeans, trying to adjust himself. There’s no helping him right now, and he curses under his breath when he realizes there’s no hiding his erection. Then he lightly jogs over to the object he dropped earlier—it’s a large, square-shaped item covered in newspaper. I smile at that little thought, and he holds onto it, using it to guard the bulge currently struggling against his jeans.

  I calm my breathing, and then call for my father to come in. When he enters, his eyes widen. I’m not sure what’s more shocking to him—the fact that I have a man in my room or the fact that there is actually a man in my room.

  Dad straightens his shoulders before clearing his throat. “Jenna,” he says in a fatherly tone.

  “Daddy,” I say, mocking his serious address. Logan snorts, which makes me giggle.

  My father doesn’t find this as amusing as we do; I can tell by the very high, arched brow.

  “Dad, this is Logan. He’s my…” I falter, looking over at Logan to see what we are exactly.

  Logan smiles. “Boyfriend,” he finishes for me. Logan then stands and walks over to Dad, extending his hand. “It’s a pleasure meeting you, Mr. McDaniel.”

  My father shakes Logan’s hand firmly. “Pleasure is all mine, son.”

  And then the awkward silence descends. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed. Logan is standing beside my father, still trying desperately to cover his boner. Dad is staring at me. “You needed something?” I finally ask him.

  “Yes. I wanted to invite you to dinner Saturday night with your mother and me.”

  “Oh,” I say. The thought of having dinner with my mother is not very appealing.

  “You can bring Logan if you’d like,” Dad adds.

  Logan looks up at me for confirmation. I gently smile, indicating I’d like it if he joined me. He nods. Then he faces my father, straightening his stance. “I’ll be there, sir. Thank you.”

  “Very well. Saturday at six. I’ll have my assistant make the reservations and send you the information, Jenna.”

  I smile at him. “Thank you.”

  He gently grins at me, nods at Logan, and then pivots to leave my room. Then, as if he’s forgotten something, he looks over his shoulder and grips the doorknob. “I’ll just leave this open,” he mumbles, then walks off.

  Logan and I wait until we hear him halfway down the staircase before we finally look at one another and burst out laughing. “Oh my God, that was completely awkward,” I force out, gasping for air.

  “Tell me about it,” Logan blows out, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. Then his shoulders relax as he lets out a sigh. “I should really get back to work anyway. I’m sure someone is looking for me.”

  As much as I don’t want him to go—I just got him back—I know he has to. “You’re probably right.”

  “This is for you.” He walks over. “It came in yesterday.” I grab the package he’s been holding. It’s pretty light, but large in size. Definitely not a CD. It’s wrapped in an old newspaper article. “You really need to invest in some wrapping paper,” I say.

  He shrugs. “I figured I’d keep the tradition going.”

  Shaking my head, I focus back on the item in my hand. I shift on the bed, leaning back against the headboard, and then tear it open.

  It’s an eight-by-ten personalized photo album. The black gloss cover has a metallic silver inscription: Jenna’s Art. I squint my eyes in confusion, wondering what that means as I open it. The first page is a personalized note in black ink from Logan.

  You see what you did here?

  You, my Jersey Girl, created art.

  I told you. You’re stronger than you think.

 
Love,

  Logan

  I flip to the next page. The first image is one I took when Logan and I were lying down on the trail looking up. The sun is casting down through the branches and leaves of the trees. It looks just as beautiful in the photo as it did in person. The next photo is a close-up of a baby deer, drinking by the creek. The fur of the deer is more vibrant than I remember; its reddish tone bursts out of the page. It is the focal point of the entire image.

  Not able to contain myself, I flip to the next photo. I smile remembering this one. We were walking alone, side-by-side, and I had the urge to take a photo of the long, empty trail ahead of us. Trees, plants, branches, and leaves surround the pathway. You can’t see the end, but even though it’s leading to the unknown, it’s still very welcoming, inviting. Like there’s a captivating journey just waiting for you to follow it. I remember how when we pulled into that parking lot, I wanted nothing more than to run away from that place. Looking at these pictures now, I can’t believe I ever felt that way.

  I continue to flip through the pages, amazed by it all.

  He managed to take the photos I took and brighten them, transform them into something more. He made them come alive. I feel like I could literally reach in and pluck a blueberry off of a bush. My heart expands in awe and gratitude as I take my time with each photo.

  When I reach the very last picture, my breath catches in my chest. It’s an image of the mother and daughter we ran into. They’re walking away, and the focal point is their hands holding one another. A tiny dimpled hand nestles with its protective keeper. Everything around them blurs except for the hold the mother has on her daughter. This image speaks so much more to me than anyone will ever understand. It’s something I’ve wished for, for so long—the relationship a mother and daughter should have. The one I will never have.

  My eyes water. Sniffing back the tears, I close the album and look up at him. “You did this for me?”

  “I didn’t do a thing. You did.”

  “Logan, I’m—I don’t know what to say. This is a beautiful gift. It’s…” I wrap my arms around the album, bringing it to my chest and hugging it tightly. “It’s something I will always cherish.”