Текст книги "Perfectly Damaged"
Автор книги: E. L. Montes
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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 20 страниц)
chapter 21
Jenna
“Earth to Jenna,” Charlie shouts with a snap of her fingers.
“Yes?” I ask, but continue to stare out my bedroom window.
“Here I am trying to tell you how my vacation went and you’re ignoring me.” She huffs.
It’s Monday morning and I’m waiting for Logan to arrive for his work shift. He hasn’t responded to any of my text messages or phone calls this entire weekend. It’s as if he’s dropped off the face of the earth. Thursday night he seemed off. The way he walked away from me, and then when he returned, he said things came up and he needed to go.
After I questioned his behavior, he assured me things were fine. But I knew they weren’t. He didn’t look at me at all, and he kept his distance in the car when he drove me all the way home. When I asked him questions or tried to lighten the mood, his responses were short and curt even.
I don’t understand what I did wrong.
I thought maybe something bad had happened until Charlie stopped by and slept over last night, telling me all about her weekend at the lake house. She went straight there when she got back from vacation with her family, expecting to find me there. She mentioned how much fun the party this weekend was and how everyone—except me, of course—was there.
I questioned her about Logan, making sure to be discreet, to not sound like a pathetic stalker. She informed me he was, in fact, at the lake house this entire weekend. And not only was he present, but he was having the time of his life! She didn’t use those exact words, but that’s how I took it.
I’m furious. Here I am, worried sick that something might’ve happened to him, while he’s busy having the time of his life.
Charlie keeps going on and on, but I can’t hear a single word she says. My ears are blowing steam with the tick of each second that goes by as I wait for Logan to arrive.
And then, there he is.
He’s laughing and smiling with Santino as they walk across the lawn toward the site of the guesthouse. More laughter. What’s so damn funny anyway? Logan tosses his head back and howls in amusement again. This time whatever the joke is makes his body shake as he clenches his stomach. Are they laughing about me? How I spent the entire weekend stuck in my room, worrying about him? It’s all just one big joke.
That’s it. I can’t take it anymore. My stomach knots as anger settles in. I turn and storm out of the room. Charlie’s voice yells after me, but it’s coming from a distance. The only thing I can think of is Logan and the way he acted with me on Thursday and how perfectly fine he seems now. He’s a dick. How dare he treat me this way? I thought we were friends.
Finally through the sliding glass door—and with Logan’s back to me—I yell out, “Hey!” He turns around. The large smile on his face instantly wipes clean, but that doesn’t stop me. I continue forward, my fists clenched to my sides. He turns to Santino, mumbles something, and then Santino walks off. I reach him, but he won’t look at me. He just keeps his eyes averted. His presence hits me strong.
I missed him.
I hate him.
I lift a hand and point my finger into his chest, poking against the thin fabric of his T. “What. Is. Your. Problem?” With each word I say, I dig my nail into his chest.
He brushes his hand over his pecs where I touched, as if it didn’t faze him at all. This only adds fuel to my fire and makes me more pissed off. “Nothing. What’s yours?” he retorts without a single look my way.
“What have I done for you to be such a dick right now?”
“Jenna, I have work to do. I don’t have time for this.” He adjusts the tool belt hanging over his shoulder and turns to walk away.
I grip his exceptionally large bicep, my thin fingers tightly fighting to hold on. He turns back around; still he doesn’t look at me. “Logan why are you doing this? The past two months we were fine and now…now you’re a complete asshole. Is it something I said? Or did you find someone else?”
Did I say that out loud?
Blue flaming eyes finally meet mine. “Find someone else?” Yes, I did ask it out loud. “We were only friends, remember?”
“Were?” How can a simple four-letter word hurt so damn much? That word cuts through me like a knife, splitting me in half.
“What do you want from me, Jenna? You’re very confusing.”
“I’m confusing?”
Logan looks down, huffs out a large sharp breath, and then grabs the back of his neck, rubbing it furiously. I wait for him to say something, anything, but instead he looks up and around to see who’s nearby. Finally, he grabs my arm and drags me past the pool, past the guesthouse, and toward the far right of the yard, behind a large tree.
We’re hidden.
He presses my back against the trunk of the tree, drops his tool belt, and leans his body against mine. I look up at him, confused. My mouth opens so I can say something, anything to figure out what the hell is going on, but he quickly places a finger along my lips to shut me up. “Before you say anything at all, just let me think for a second.” Think? What does he need to think about? “Just let me say what I have to say first. Let me get it off my chest. Then you can say whatever you want. Okay?”
I nod.
His gaze falls to my mouth where his finger still rests. He traces the bow and curve of my lips, slowly, as if memorizing the shape of them. His touch feels warm, nice. The contact is… My breathing grows a bit ragged. Logan takes his other hand and runs his fingers through my hair, down my spine until his hand lands firmly at my lower back. “I’ve missed you all weekend,” he confesses.
“If you missed me, then why—”
His finger silences me again. “I had to see if what I’m feeling is because we’re spending so much time together or if it’s real. But what does it matter if it’s real or not? You won’t accept it,” he murmurs.
“Logan, I have no clue what you’re talking about. Just tell me what’s going on with you,” I beg.
“I’m falling for you. Hard. And it’s not some bullshit girl-next-door crush.” He stumbles back two steps. “I mean a real fucking hardcore, madly-sinking-for-you kind of fall. I don’t know.” He shakes his head, bewildered. No. He can’t be. I shake my head to tell him he’s not, but he nods. “Yes.”
“No. It’s just because we spend a lot of time together, Logan. You’re confused. Trust me, what you’re feeling—”
“Don’t tell me what I’m feeling!” His features distort into anger. He’s struggling with this and I’m just making it worse. I let him go on. “I know what I’m feeling. I’ve been dealing with it for a long time now. I just kept ignoring it. Do you think this is easy for me? To stand in front of you and pour out my feelings like some chick? I feel pathetic right now.” Logan bends his head, bringing a hand up to rub his forehead. “You’re the worst distraction I’ve ever had. You’re in all my thoughts, every single one. You have no idea how difficult it is to have something take over your mind like that. It’s confusing and suffocating at the same time.”
“You have no idea how much I know exactly what that’s like,” I say, my tone impassive.
Logan looks up. “Can you just do me a favor?” he asks.
I swallow back, staring at him, and then nod.
“Right now, right here—can you just be honest for once? I know I’m not the only one feeling this.” He waves a hand at the empty space between us. “If I’m wrong, then fine, but I know I’m not. I know this is mutual. I know you feel it too.”
I do feel it. I’ve felt it for a very long time now. For so long I just kept pushing it away, but I greedily kept Logan close. I want him for me, but I can’t give him all of me. I step forward, meeting him. He leans in closer too, our breath intermingling. I reach up, resting my hand along his jawline. I’m battling with this internal feeling, and as usual my mind wins over my heart. I shake my head and force sincerity into my tone. “I’m sorry, Logan. I do care for you but not in the same way.”
He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Bullshit.”
My brows knit together. “Excuse me?”
He chuckles, his lips twitching into a firm, thin line. I pull my hand away. He shakes his head. “Fucking bullshit. You know what your problem is, Jenna? You’ve worked so hard building this wall to keep everyone out. But when there’s someone willing to tear down every brick because they want to be a part of your life, you freeze.
“You’re scared to let anyone in. Don’t push away the ones who care because in the end, there might be no one left, and you’ll have exactly what you always wanted—to be alone. Sometimes the best thing to do is to just let go. If you don’t, you’ll never experience what you could’ve had. Instead, you’ll wonder what if. And trust me, Jenna, when you’re stuck wondering what if, it’ll be too late for us.”
His words tackle me full force. They ignite a fury inside because they’re true. They’re all true and I hate him for it. “You don’t understand! There are things you don’t know about me.”
His arms swing in the air, frustration crashing between us. “Then tell me! Make me understand.”
“No! You’ll turn around and walk away. You’ll see me differently. You’ll—”
“Will you stop telling me how you think I’ll react and give me the benefit of the doubt? Fuck! If I haven’t proven myself to you in the last two months, then what have you learned about me at all?”
I swallow, not saying a word. How can I? What can I possibly say to change all of this?
“Do you realize what you’re doing right now?”
I shake my head.
“You’re treating me like one of your paintings. I’m human and I have feelings, Jenna. You can’t just stuff me into a fucking cardboard box in hopes that everything will be fine. I’m here, standing in front of you, asking you to give us a shot, asking you to tell me everything and trust in me. But you just keep pulling away and shoving me aside.”
Silence. Every word he speaks swims around in my head. Deeper. Further. Faster. Each word loud and clear. I’m speechless. My anxiety kicks up as fear creeps in. He’s going to walk away once I tell him.
“I have another side of me, a darker side. You wouldn’t understand,” I whisper, bowing my head in shame. Tears prickle the rims of my eyes.
He huffs out, arms slamming to his side. “Everyone has a dark side. Everyone has secrets. Everyone suffers from something. You think in the past couple of months I didn’t know you were keeping something from me? I know there’s something you struggle with, but I waited and I was patient for a long time. I’m not going to judge you. I’m not going to walk away. The moment you realize that I’m not going anywhere, no matter what happened in your past, the better it’ll be for us to just get over this hump.”
I laugh, sniffing back the tears, and look up. “That’s just the thing, Logan. It’s not a past issue.” I walk up to him, and our bodies almost touch. My head bends back so I can look him square in the eye. “My issue, my dark side, my problems…they’re present. They’re now. They are front and center.”
“I’m not going to give up on what we have over whatever you’re dealing with. We can take care of it together,” he says, his voice adamant.
“I know you’ll give up,” I disclose.
He shakes his head, frustrated and angry and completely fed up. “I’m tired of this. None of this makes sense to me. Stop this bouncing back and forth and just tell me. If you don’t tell me everything, and I mean everything that’s going on with you, the feelings you have for me—everything—I’ll walk. Right now. And as fucked-up as I’ll be over it, I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep playing these guessing games with you.”
“I won’t tell you…”
Logan laughs, his shoulders deflating. He looks me straight in the eyes, long and hard, and then turns on his boots, treading away.
“I’ll show you,” I yell out, my heart racing.
He stops, his back still facing me. I quickly go after him and walk around to stand before him, meeting his gaze. “Fine, Logan. I’ll give you everything you want to know. All of it. The way I feel for you. My issues. But I can’t just say it. It’s better if I show you.”
His features are stern, not giving in. I’m sure he doesn’t believe it. “Meet me here tomorrow at eight in the morning.”
“I have to work.”
“Do you want to know?”
He nods after a few seconds in thought.
“Then call out sick or something. Meet me here at eight in the morning, and I’ll take you where we need to go. By the end of tomorrow, you’ll have all of your answers. And if you want me afterward,” I choke back on the words, knowing he won’t, “then at least you’ll know the truth.”
He nods. “All right. Okay. I’ll be here at eight tomorrow morning.” Logan presses his lips together to say one more thing, but I don’t let him.
Instead, I turn around, walking past the lawn and the pool, through the sliding doors, and back up the stairs. Charlie’s still in my room, cozy on my bed. She looks up from a magazine she’s reading and raises a questioning brow.
“I’m going to tell Logan everything tomorrow.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” she asks.
“He deserves to know, Charlie. I just hope after he finally knows it all, he’ll be okay.”
“I’m not worried about Logan,” she says, placing the magazine aside. “I’m worried about you.”
* * *
Logan
At 7:50 a.m. I pull up in front of Jenna’s house. I cut the engine, lean my head back, and look out the passenger window, facing the double-door entrance where Jenna will soon exit from. My eyes are heavy and my head aches from lack of sleep. The entire night my head was spinning with what to expect today. Jenna says by tonight I’ll have all of my questions answered, and if in the end I don’t want her anymore, then at least I’ll know the truth. What pisses me off is that I had to wait this long. The curiosity is ripping at me, and I hate that I have to wait another minute to know it all.
I had a talk with Bryson yesterday about not coming in today. I haven’t been myself the past few days, so when I told him I had a personal issue that I needed to take care of, he didn’t question me on it. Instead he said he’d talk to his dad if my whereabouts came up. Uncle George hasn’t been at the site as much, only once a week to check on things. The guesthouse framing and bordering are all up and the exterior is already designed. We’re now working on the interior, so me skipping a day isn’t going to set us back.
Exactly at 7:58 a.m. Jenna steps out of her house. I’d be lying if I said I’m not nervous—I am. I have no idea where she’s taking me, what she plans to tell me, or how I’ll react to it all. Her biggest fear is how I’ll perceive the information she’s been holding back. Now my fear is exactly the same. How will I accept it? As much as I want to believe that nothing can keep us apart, not knowing how severe the issue is that she’s keeping from me makes it hard to be sure.
Stepping out of my truck, I walk around and stand by the passenger side. I open the door, shove my hands into the front pockets of my jeans, and wait as Jenna makes her way down the path. With my head low, I try to focus on my breathing. Knowing this may be the last day we’ll ever have together stings. It’s the last thing I want to think about right now, but it’s unavoidable.
I catch a whiff of her scent before I look up. “Hey,” she says.
My gaze shifts from the pavement to her face. “Hey,” I respond. The dark circles under her eyes prove that she had just as little sleep as me. The impulse to reach out and touch her face hits me, but I resist, and we both just stand there staring at each other. It’s kind of awkward, and I sense that both of us have a lot running through our heads right now. I gesture for her to jump in the truck. She nods and I pull one hand out of my pocket, helping her to settle in.
After I hop back into the driver seat, I turn on the ignition. The truck roars to life as I crook my neck to face her. “Where to?”
She hands me her phone, the screen showing the navigation to an unknown location.
“Where is this?” I ask.
“You’ll see.”
I grab the phone and place it on a holder on top of the dashboard. “It’s a two-hour drive.”
“Yep,” she responds.
All right, then.
* * *
The music made up for the silence between us for the past two hours. There’s no getting around it. We’re both nervous about today, so I guess no conversation is necessary at this point.
Jenna shifts in her seat the moment her phone announces we’ve reached our destination. Making a left, I pull onto a long dirt driveway, driving until we approach a metal fence. I press on my breaks and roll down my window for the security guard.
Jenna leans over my lap, placing her hand against my thigh to keep herself balanced. “Good morning,” she tells the guard. “Jenna McDaniel visiting Carol Peterson.”
The guard looks over a list. He then presses a button and nods. The fence unlocks and slowly opens. I drive through, my eyes catching the large sign: Welcome to Brandy Mental Health Facility.
“Who’s Carol Peterson?” I ask as I continue down the path, following the signs to the main building.
“My grandmother,” she says softly.
I don’t respond. I just keep going until I reach a large brick building. It looks like a small replica of a castle from London or someplace like that, something out of a brochure. After appreciating the exterior—after all, buildings and architectural structure is my thing—I pull into the first available parking spot. I shut off the ignition, unbuckle the seatbelt, and twist my body to face Jenna. She has her head low, her hair covering most of her face, and both of her hands fidget on her lap.
I reach over and toss dark brown waves of her hair over her shoulder. My fingers tug the remaining strands over her ear to view her profile. Then I trace down her jawline and tilt her face until she’s looking at me.
“Jersey Girl,” I say quietly. She shuts her eyes, huffing out a ragged breath.
“It feels like forever since you’ve called me that,” she whispers. “Every time you say it, it feels right. Like everything is going to be okay. No matter how messed-up the world around me is, every time you call me Jersey Girl I feel safe somehow.” Her tear-filled eyes pop open.
I smile. “Everything is going to be okay.”
She sniffs back her tears, nods softly, and then hops out of the truck. Together, side-by-side, we step into the building.
It’s not what you would expect a mental health facility to look like. This place is definitely for the upper class and privileged. It feels like I just walked into a hotel lobby. I shouldn’t have expected anything less since Jenna comes from a wealthy family. Not that I’ve ever visited a mental facility, but I’ve seen my share of movies involving the mentally ill. Other than the distant moans and screams, I can’t find any similarities, though. Jenna approaches the front desk and signs us in.
We’re instructed to have a seat until they’re ready to bring us into the visiting room. I sit next to Jenna and look around before bringing my gaze to her. “How long has your grandmother lived here?” I ask.
“I’m not exactly sure, but I believe over twenty years. It was definitely after my mother and father got married. She’s my maternal grandmother. My mother’s side of the family isn’t wealthy. I think my father put my grandmother in here so she could have the best care possible.”
“Why do you say it like that? Like it’s not the best care?”
She sucks in a lungful of air before slowly letting it out. “Because there was no saving her. She was already in a mental institute for at least ten years before my father had her moved here. When she was in the other one, they pumped her full of experimental drugs and other crap. She’s older now and suffers from Alzheimer’s as well.”
“What is her diagnosis?”
Jenna’s mouth twitches and moves around, like it always does when she’s chewing the inside of her cheek. “Schizophrenia,” she mutters.
“Is she one of the reasons why you want to teach art to teens with a mental health issue?”
“No, she’s not the reason.”
Before I can open my mouth to ask what the actual reason is, a nurse strolls out and waves us over. Jenna stands and I follow close behind. We step into an elevator, go to the second floor, and exit into an enclosed entryway. The nurse thumbs in a code, swipes a card, and the door unlocks. The three of us walk into a visiting room.
Now this looks more like the mental institutions I’ve seen on TV. There aren’t a lot of people in here, probably around twenty. Half seem to be patients of different ages, races, and genders. The rest are visitors or nurses. I’m still following Jenna; she strolls straight to an elderly woman who’s sitting in a wheelchair. Jenna takes a seat across from her. The nurse that led us up leaves to attend to another patient.
Not sure what else to do, I settle into a seat beside Jenna. Her grandmother is incoherent; she’s just sitting there, zoned-out, blankly staring straight ahead. Her grey hair is brushed back into a ponytail except for a few white, frizzy strands that stand out. I can’t find any resemblance between Jersey Girl and her grandmother. Sure, Mrs. Peterson is older—streaks of wrinkles crease the corners of her slightly slanted eyes, thin lines are etched around her mouth, and dark spots dot the top of her stiff hands—but Jenna doesn’t have the same light green eyes or pale, lifeless complexion as her grandmother.
“Good morning, Grandma. This is Logan,” Jenna introduces. My eyes narrow, cautiously taking in every detail and potential movement from her grandmother. But…nothing. She doesn’t move or say a word or even blink.
“Hi,” I say awkwardly, low. This is weird. What does any of this have to do with Jenna’s and my relationship? She said she wanted to show me something. I wonder if she comes here often, but in the past few months I’ve taken up most of her free time. “Do you volunteer here?” I ask.
Jersey Girl shakes her head with a smile. “No.”
“Oh.” I look around, spotting a young teen by the corner. She’s standing there, facing the wall like she’s a toddler on time-out as she mumbles to herself. “You visit her often?”
“Once a month. I usually take a cab up here.”
“That’s nice,” I say, my gaze shifting over to a man seated on one of the couches. His legs are up against his chest as he bangs his head into his knee and slams a fist to his temple. He keeps going and going until he’s yelling, “Get out! Get out! Get out!” A woman seated across from him—I assume she’s visiting since she’s not wearing scrubs—tries to soothe him by making hushing sounds, but that just makes it worse. He gets louder and punches harder. A nurse runs over and stabs his arm with a needle; he instantly calms. Then he’s taken away.
“Are you okay, Logan?” Jenna prods, her hand at my arm.
“Yeah. I’m fine. How long is your visit for?”
“Only forty minutes.”
I nod. I can handle forty minutes.
* * *
During our visit, there was no time for Jenna and me to talk. It was too noisy or something happened with a patient within those forty minutes. In a way I’m happy it’s over. Jenna and I step out of the building in silence. I’m still just as confused as I was when I first walked in there. Nothing has been answered; nothing makes sense.
We both jump in my truck and sit there. No words are spoken. We just sit there, staring blankly ahead at the brick wall of the building, both of us a mirror image of her grandmother. I shake my head, releasing the thought, then turn to look at Jersey Girl. “Jenna, I’m glad you shared this part of your life, your grandmother, with me.” I pause, pressing my lips together, and then continue. “But I don’t understand what this has to do with us, with you. Is this the part where I get my answers to everything?”
She brings her head back, her gaze lingering on the ceiling of my truck. “Yes. Just bear with me, okay?” Her lips trembling, she tries to breathe smoothly. “This is hard for me to say.”
I adjust in the driver seat so I’m fully facing her profile. I sit and I wait. I don’t rush or push her. It’s the longest six minutes of my life until she finally says, “Four years ago, I was diagnosed with a mental illness.”
On the words diagnosed and mental illness my stomach drops. “What were you diagnosed with?”
“Schizoaffective disorder,” she says, deadpan.
I rack my brain, trying to figure it out. “What is that? I’ve never heard of it. What is it?” I rush out.
Jersey Girl’s eyes are still glued to the rooftop. “There are two types of schizoaffective disorder. The schizo side is when a person experiences schizophrenia-like symptoms like delusions or hallucinations, sometimes both. The affective side is where there are two types: there is a manic type, like bipolar symptoms, or the depressive type where a person struggles with depression.” She says all of this like it’s rehearsed. Then shaking her head, she goes on, “I’ve been diagnosed with schizoaffective depressive type by many psychiatrists.”
“No,” I shake my head.
She crooks her neck and finally lands her eyes on mine. “Yes, Logan.”
I ignore her response. “No.”
“Yeeesss.” She nods, stressing the word as if it will make me fully understand it.
“You are nothing like those people in there.” I point toward the building.
She cocks her head to the side, studying me. “And how is that?”
“They—they’re…shit. They were—”
“Crazy.” She fills in the blank.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. I know that’s exactly what you’re thinking. It’s okay if you are. That’s what most people would say. I’m used to it. It’s normal to hear what others perceive as crazy. But you have to understand that in my head, that’s normal. I think everyone else around me are the crazy ones.”
This can’t be happening. It doesn’t make any sense. “Jenna, you are not crazy. I spent two entire months with you—”
She cuts me off. “And within those two months, you didn’t notice that I’m a bit off?”
I try to catch my breath as I look everywhere in the car frantically. This is bullshit. “You’re shy.”
“I’m paranoid.”
I shake my head. “You sometimes make me repeat myself, but I always thought you had a lot going on.”
“Yeah. In my head. Voices. I hear voices sometimes and it’s distracting. It distracts me from my own thoughts.”
What the fuck? What is happening right now? This is a lot to take in at once. I rub a hand over my head, my brain reeling with images of every moment we spent together. Everything I ever questioned about the way she acted toward certain things is now answered, and I still feel lost. I still don’t fucking understand any of it. I’ve never heard of schizoaffective disorder. I’ve never met anyone with any mental illness other than depression—and it seems to me that everyone, at some point in their lives, has been depressed; it’s normal. “So what does this mean for us? I don’t understand.”
Jenna lightly shrugs, her eyes filled with tears, her lips quivering. “I don’t know,” she chokes over her words. “I can’t ask you to take this on. You say you want me, Logan, but my disorder is a part of me. I wish I could split myself in two, toss my damaged side away, and hand you over my perfect side. But I can’t. It’s either all of me or nothing.”
“Jenna.” I breathe out, lowering my head. I can’t even fucking think straight right now. “I need to think. I mean, my feelings toward you haven’t changed. I just need a day or two to process all of this. You know?” I look up. It kills me seeing her like this.
With tears running down her cheeks, she nods. “Yeah, I know. I understand.”
I adjust in my seat, start the truck, and back out of the parking spot.
* * *
Jenna
The silence in the car is suffocating, like a dark fog seeping through the windows, wrapping its deadly cloud around me. I want to throw up. I knew it. I knew he’d react this way. I shouldn’t have said anything at all. At least then we wouldn’t be here right now, stuck in silence, in nothing but the sound of our breathing and the stupid broken love song playing in the background, which only shoves the knife in my chest deeper.
Instead I should’ve just told him about my feelings for him and never mentioned my disorder. I hate this disease, this chemical imbalance, as the medical field calls it. I hate myself even more for it because if I was normal, maybe, just maybe I could’ve been wrapped in Logan’s arms right now. Maybe his lips would be covering mine. Or maybe we’d be laughing, joking over a bad impersonation. We could’ve been happy.
If only I were normal.
What is he thinking right now? My mind is self-destructing with the rejection. He’s giving up on us after declaring that nothing could ever come between what we have. Yet it was me, my cancer of the mind, that finally destroyed what little hope there was for us.
“Are you okay?” he asks in a tender tone. I’m rocking in the seat. I stop and press my head firmly against the headrest, willing my mind to tell my body to stop it. I tell my mind to stop the tears. I tell my mind to look away. I tell my mind to close my eyes and just drift away.
And I do for the rest of the ride. No more words are spoken between the two of us. When he finally reaches my house, I spare us the awkwardness and just exit as quickly as possible.
I run as fast as I can up the pathway, through the door, up the grand spiral staircase and into my room. I lock it, staring at the doorknob as if it’ll turn on its own at any second. When I realize it won’t, that Logan isn’t running after me, I let go. My body shudders as I allow the tears to shriek out.
“Jenna.”
I spin around. Charlie. “What are you doing here?” I ask her.
She’s sitting on top of my bed in the same clothes she was in when I left her here this morning. Her gaze takes me in, and her features distort into sympathy as her eyes water. They’re tears of sadness for me. “I stuck around, just in case.”
Just in case of this. She stuck around because she knew. Sobbing, I walk over to her, climb into the bed and lean into her open arms. “I’m so stupid.” My words muffle against her pink blouse.
Charlie pulls me in closer and runs a hand over my hair. “You are not stupid, do you hear me? You’re intelligent and beautiful and funny. You’re many things, Jenna, but you are not stupid. He’s the dumb fuck. Not you. You hear me?”
Sniffing back the tears, I lift my head to look at her. Charlie frames my face with her soft hands and thumbs over my moist cheeks.
