Текст книги "Perfectly Damaged"
Автор книги: E. L. Montes
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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 20 страниц)
“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.
* * *
Jenna
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.
* * *
Logan
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.
Jenna stands by the end of the couch, her head hung low, but her eyes watching my every move. Very slowly, I remove my hands. I don’t know why, but I don’t want her to think I’m going to attack her or something because that’s how she’s acting right now, as if I’m going to attack her at any second. I lean forward, grab the remote from the oak coffee table, and lean back just as quickly.
Crossing her arms, she looks around my living space, taking in every detail of my spot. I sit there and just watch her, remembering what she said about the perfect house and what lies within. As her eyes roam past the large flat screen mounted on the wall, I wonder if any of that is on her mind now. Her vision brushes down to the entertainment stand, which holds both of my game consoles and three piles of video games. A soft smile pulls at the corner of her lips. I grin too. Just watching her as she examines my place feels awkward. A good awkward, though. It’s like she’s collecting all the artifacts of my world and filing them away in that mind of hers to examine later.
Those perfect lips, which I always seem to come back to, press into a straight line as Jenna’s stare circles the room, drifting over the plain, artless white walls. She twirls a bit, facing the galley kitchen. Then she turns back around to face me. “Your place is so normal.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Were you expecting whips and chains?”
“No. It’s just…I don’t know what I was expecting. It’s just simple, like you. You know?”
I shake my head. “No, I don’t know. Won’t you tell me?” I pat down on the cushion next to me, gesturing for her to sit down.
She does, right beside me. “You were definitely right about it being a bachelor pad. No art on the walls, not even a picture frame.” She chuckles. “But I like it. It’s definitely you. A place can tell you a lot about the person who lives in it.”
“Very interesting—and what does my place say about me?”
“Ha. You’d love to know, wouldn’t you? I’ll keep that to myself,” she teases as she lifts her leg up onto the couch and twists her body to face me. Her arm hangs over the back of the sofa. She’s acting playful again. All of her body language says she’s beginning to feel comfortable, thank God.
“Wanna laugh at Kevin Hart’s pain?” I ask.
She nods with a small smile.
We watched two stand-up comedies back-to-back. I stayed on my end of the sofa, and Jenna stayed on hers. We poked fun at the comedians, laughed at a few jokes, and laughed even harder at the funnier ones. All in all, it was a good night.
Afterward, I took Jenna home. She kissed me good night on the cheek, and I drove away.
My mind is reeling over Jenna. She’s smokin’ hot and very mysterious and secretive, which, to a certain extent, I actually like. I’m beyond curious about the things she seems to avoid talking about. I push those thoughts away, deciding that if she’s ready to tell me more—if there is more—I’ll be waiting, but I will not push it out of her.
chapter 18
Jenna
If I could meet anyone from a past time, it would probably be Vincent Van Gogh, and it’s not only because he was a brilliant artist. It’s more because, in a way, I’m able to relate to his mental illness—he was known to have suffered “hallucinations of sight and hearing.” If he were living in this era, his symptoms would be diagnosed as schizophrenia. He also suffered from depression. He used painting as a way to cope, or I guess as a way to escape.
As I lie here on the dock by the lake house, with my elbows bent and hands beneath my head, I admire the night’s canvas. The sky reminds me of one of Van Gogh’s most famous paintings, The Starry Night. I’m reminded of this painting because everything about tonight is perfect: the cool breeze, the breathable air, the way the moon casts over the trees and gleams down on the lake. If Van Gogh were here, would he have attempted perfecting The Starry Night?
When I was in college, I minored in art. One of the things I learned about Van Gogh is that he admitted himself into an asylum, but not for fear of others, more for fear of himself. I became obsessed with researching and learning about him, about his life, and his art. I read hundreds of articles about him, and still it wasn’t enough. I wished I were able to have been in his head, to have spoken to him in person. He was brilliant: a talented artist, yet he suffered from a disease that slowly crippled his mind.
Van Gogh died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to his chest. When his brother Theo came to his side after hearing of the incident, Van Gogh’s last words to him before his death were “the sadness will last forever.”
“The sadness will last forever.”
When I read his dying words, I cried, not out of sympathy, but because I understood what those words meant. It’s something that cannot be controlled or escaped from. Depression is evil. Before you know it, it takes over and there’s no escaping it. Van Gogh died a sad and broken man, yet he left a legacy with his paintings that will last forever. Still, I want to know—when he painted, when he admired the sky at night to paint it from memory during the day, was he troubled in those moments? Because right now, this beautiful scenery is doing wonders for my state of mind. Right now, I am peaceful, content; there’s no possible way I could be sad. How will I feel when I remember this moment tomorrow in the daylight?
Footsteps make me alert, but I don’t move. I already know who’s coming toward me. I texted Logan about an hour ago, letting him know I’d be on the dock, waiting for him. He was working overtime on the guesthouse when Charlie and I drove up to the lake earlier today.
The past couple of weeks, things have been really good between Logan and me. We’re slowly developing into something more, which scares the hell out of me. Ever since the ice cream get-together and watching comedy at his place the next day, we’ve been inseparable. After his shift, we usually go out somewhere, whether it’s driving around, walking through the park, or just to his apartment. We’ve been spending all our free time with one another.
“Always by yourself, Jersey. I think you like being all alone,” Logan says, almost whispering. It’s so quiet it seems like more of a statement for himself than for me to hear.
“Have you not learned anything in the past couple of weeks?” Still in the same position, I tear my stare away from what could be a Van Gogh masterpiece to a uniquely Logan work of art. A smirk spreads across his gorgeously chiseled features. He lifts his hand to frame his chin, his thumb rubbing along the stubble. I’ve come to recognize this pose as his version of The Thinker.
“Well, we have been spending a lot of time together, so I guess you’re not too much of a loner.” He settles to lie down beside me, and puts his hands behind his head as well. “What are we looking at?” he asks, looking up.
I tilt my head to look up as well. “I’m admiring a Van Gogh. The Starry Night.”
He chuckles. “Oh, wait. You’re talking about that painter dude who went crazy, right?”
“Not crazy. He suffered from a mental illness, Logan.”
“Um, if memory serves me correctly, he cut off his own ear. I’m pretty sure that’s some form of crazy.”
“Yes. Yes, he did cut off his own ear,” I admit, but I don’t give in on the crazy.
“And didn’t he, like, shoot himself? That’s another form of crazy.”
“All right. Enough about Van Gogh. How was your day?” I ask, changing the topic. Obviously, this “crazy” talk and how he perceives a mental illness will only add fuel to a very small fire building within me, and I don’t want this night to go wrong. Not tonight, not with a view like this.
“Oh, you know. Same shit, different day,” he says nonchalantly.
“Ah.”
“Well, I was mostly thinking about you,” he confesses quietly.
“Me?” Tilting my head, I meet his gaze.
“Yeah.” He smirks, charmingly so. “I just thought about how you’ll be surrounded by so many people here today. It’s a pretty big crowd tonight.”
Right. The party, which is happening behind me and which I’ve managed to tune out for the past few hours. “It’s okay. That’s why I’m out here on the dock, away from everyone.”
“I know. But still, it’d be nice if you could interact with the crowd, maybe try to work on that shyness of yours.”
I look away. “It’s not shyness.”
“Then what is it?” I don’t answer, so he goes on, “Yet another thing you don’t want to talk about. I get it, Jersey.” His nickname for me is quite annoying, but I’m beginning to get used to it. “Fine. If you won’t talk, then we’re going to play.” He stands up, gripping my arm and lifting me in the process.
“Play? W-what are you talking about?” I stand up straight, looking up at him.
“We’re going to play beer pong.”
I widen my eyes reflexively. “I don’t drink, remember?”
“Yes, that’s why I’ll be doing the drinking.” He thumbs his chest, smiling widely at me.
I cross my arms, drop my hip, and smack my lips. “Sorry. I’ve never played before. Guess you’re out of luck.”
Logan reaches down, places both his hands on my shoulders, and smiles. “You’re gonna learn today.” He impersonates Kevin Hart. Logan takes my laugh as an okay, twists my body to face the lake house, and leads me toward the party.
* * *
The rules to beer pong—well, I think they may be made-up by the guys—are that there are two teams of two people each with six Solo cups on each end of a rectangular table. Each cup is filled halfway with beer. Each player gets one Ping-Pong ball and one throw per round. The object is to get your ball into one of the opposing team’s cups. If the other team shoots the ball into one of your cups, you have to chug that drink and vice versa. The first team to sink their ball into all the opposing team’s cups wins. The team that loses has to drink the winning team’s remaining filled cups. But there’s a catch. The losing team has to take three shots of vodka as well.
This is what I call alcohol poisoning just waiting to happen.
“All right,” Bryson announces from the other end of the table. “Since Jenna doesn’t drink, we'll shift the rules slightly. Jenna and Logan are on the same team, but Logan does all the drinking. Jenna tosses the ball. Same with Blair and me.”
Logan and I are against Blair Mega Bitch and Bryson. I’m hoping to do an amazing job because I want to beat Blair point-blank. Also, I really don’t want Logan drinking all that alcohol by himself.
“Does everyone get the rules?” Bryson yells over the loud music. Logan and I nod. So does Blair. “All right, Blair, you’re first. Do me proud, babe.”
My teeth find my inner cheek and chew as I take in every movement Blair makes. She positions her body as if she’s about to perform a squat. She puts her game face on—serious. You would think she’s in a real championship match. She lifts her hand, fingers gripping the tiny orange ball, and flexes her wrist back and forth to loosen it up.
Logan’s hand finds its way to my waist, his lips lightly brushing the curve of my ear. “Don’t be nervous. You’ll do great,” he whispers encouragingly.
By this point, our table on the deck is surrounded by partiers. And if Logan’s hand didn’t feel so damn right against my waist, I would’ve brushed it off. Instead I leave it there. Blair Mega Bitch finally tosses the ball, and I flinch as it taps the edge of one of our cups then bounces off. I smile in relief.
“It’s okay, babe. That was just a warm-up,” Bryson encourages her.
I go next and miss too. Blair and I go back and forth two more rounds, missing, until she finally makes the first shot. Logan grabs the cup and, with the ball still in it, chugs the beer down. He smiles at me, flashes a wink, and nods his head before saying, “It’s all right. I’ve played this dozens of times. It doesn’t faze me.” But it fazes me.
I take extra measures to focus and it works. I make the next shot. I turn to face Logan, jumping up and down as I do. His wide grin and gleaming eyes show his affection for me.
I bite my lip, face Blair’s scowl, and put on my poker face.
Game on.
* * *
“All right…this is good, we still have a shot. You got this, Jersey,” Logan slurs. I raise my brow, completely and utterly sure that we’re going to lose. We lost the first round, which made the boys competitive, so they decided on best out of three. That’s a lot of drinking on their part. We won one round and Bryson and Blair won the other. This is now the third round and both Logan and Bryson are completely trashed. The opposing team definitely has better odds. They only have one cup left to win and I have three.
I toss the ball and make it in a cup. Bryson drinks. Blair takes her turn, tossing and missing. I go again and make the second in. The crowd around us—all highly intoxicated as well—whistles and cheers loudly. Bryson chugs. This is our last chance. One cup left for each of us. I want to win because there’s no way Logan can have another drink. I’m afraid he’ll pass out. Several cups of beers and three shots is no good, even for a heavy drinker.
Nervously, and with complete focus, I aim and shoot. Dammit. I miss. Blair takes her turn, shooting and landing it. While everyone, including Blair and Bryson, shouts and screams—a bit overly dramatic if you ask me—all I can do is look at Logan, who has the largest grin smacked across his handsome face. He sloppily lifts his right hand up to give me a high five. “We didn’t win,” I say.
“So?” He shrugs. “You played and that, my Jersey Girl, is a celebration in and of itself.”
He just called me his Jersey Girl, emphasizing the “my.” I can’t help but smile. Bryson, now beside us, places their last cup next to our last cup along with three shot glasses filled with vodka. Logan’s hooded eyes graze over the shot glasses and he cringes. I’m not sure why, but something in me just can’t do it. I just can’t let him. I quickly grab both red Solo cups and chug down one of the beers.
More whistles and cheering.
Beer is disgusting. I can’t fathom why people actually drink this for enjoyment.
I chug the second without another thought, gagging a bit at the end.
“W-what are you doing, Jersey?” Logan stumbles forward.
A hand tugs at my arm. “Yeah. What the hell are you doing, Jenna?” Charlie’s beside me now, looking at me like I have five heads.
I shrug her off, smirk, and grip two of the three shot glasses. Saluting Logan, I tell myself this is for him. I bring the glass to my lips, tilt my head and gulp down the burning liquid. Logan laughs at my face, which I’m sure is twisted in disgust. “Jenna…you don’t have to drink it,” Charlie says.
“I’m blending in, just like everyone else,” I say, taking the second shot, which I almost spit back out. I feel a burning in the pit of my stomach and wonder again why people drink this for fun.
Wetting my lips and already feeling sick to my stomach, I reach for the third shot glass, but a hand stops me. I look up at Logan, who slowly shakes his head. He grabs it for himself instead and gulps it down. I hear Charlie mumble something under her breath as she stomps off. I’ll deal with her in the morning. Right now, I can’t keep my eyes off of Logan and the look he’s giving me.
There’s no humor. Just Logan and his stormy blue eyes, scorching deep within me, trying to figure something out. He slowly steps forward. I tilt my head back to look up at him as his eyes scroll down over my face. What is this look, Logan? He rests his hands on my waist and gently pulls me in, my body against his. “Why did you do that?” he murmurs, low enough so only I can hear.
“Because believe it or not, I care enough that I don’t want you to have alcohol poisoning,” I try to joke. But I fail miserably, too consumed with how close Logan is and how his hands curve comfortably along my hips.
“You care about me?” He’s still giving me that unknown look.
Something is stuck in my throat and I try to swallow it back. “Um, I care enough about the alcohol poisoning thingy.” Thingy?
He leans down, his face centimeters from mine. “I care about you too,” he tells me. And I don’t know if it’s the way he’s looking at me or the words he’s saying to me or the fact that everyone else seems to have disappeared or a combination of all of those things, but I can’t help the way my heart soars at his declaration.
“Y-you do?” I stumble over the two words.
“I do.”
Don’t kiss me. Please do not kiss me. He leans in closer. My chest burns, and I’m not sure if it’s the aftershock of the vodka or my nerves causing it.
He smells like liquor and beer and Logan.
Please kiss me.
And he does. Three small pecks, but not where I expected. The first one lands on the tip of my nose—a small, simple peck. I shut my eyes at the contact. The second one presses along my forehead. It leaves a warm and tingly feeling and my chest expands. The third tickles my chin, lingering a little longer than the rest.
It wasn’t what I expected—and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping for a kiss similar to the first one on my front porch—but these three small kisses mean so much more.
They’re beautiful and gentle and simply Logan. They outshine the first kiss on any given day.
* * *
“Jenna?”
“Yes?” I yawn, my head dizzy from the liquor. I’m snuggled against Logan’s chest. It’s a little past three in the morning. Every one of the partiers has left except for the ones who crashed because they were too drunk. We’re lying beside one another on the large, comfy couch. His fingers are gently running through my hair, and it feels so good.
I like this.
I like cuddling with Logan. I like lying on Logan’s chest. I like the fact that our legs are tangled with one another’s and it feels completely comfortable.
He breathes out a heavy sigh. The smell of beer and vodka invades the thin space between us, but I don’t mind it. “I want us to be more,” he whispers.
More?
Oh no, Logan. Just…no. I knew it. I was afraid of this. As much as I’d love to be able to give him what he wants, I can’t. My thoughts roil with the idea. I’m too much more. He has no idea how much more I am—and not in a good way. He won’t be able to handle me, my issues, my illness, and especially how damaged I am. I’m just too much.
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.
