Текст книги "Perfectly Damaged"

Автор книги: E. L. Montes

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

“Santino drove with Bryson. I have my truck.”

“Are you guys all right to drive?” I grip the beer bottle, trying to mask my irritation.

I was in a good mood until he asked that question. I know this is what Tony does. He makes sure we’re okay. He’s been here for most of our lives and cares for my family—especially Bryson and me—as if we’re his own. But with the two-year anniversary of my brother’s death right around the corner, I feel offended. Maybe it’s the three beers kicking in or the fact that I’m still fucking annoyed due to the mega-bitch convo with Bryson. I’m not exactly sure what it is, but my emotions are quickly stirring. “I’m not Sean,” I finally blurt out, staring straight ahead and clenching my fist on the bar.

Tony’s features transform into shock. “I didn’t mean it that way, son. You know I wouldn’t. I’m just looking out for you guys. I would never cross that line, Logan. I hope you know that, right?”

Fuck me. I feel like an even bigger douche bag. I guess I don’t deserve the honorary certificate after all. I wave my hand. “Yeah, I know. Don’t worry about it. That was out of line for me to say. I’m sorry, Tony.”

I thank him for the beer again, return to the booth with the other guys, and sip on the rest of my last beer until Tammy’s shift is over.

* * *

What the hell! This time I royally screwed up. My uncle is going to kill me. Even after the long speech he gave me a few days ago, I just can’t listen, can I? “You have to be more responsible,” he said. “You can’t have your cake and eat it too,” he said. “Simply put, you need to grow the hell up, Logan.” I’m sure drinking the entire weekend and picking up a girl from the bar—who I fucked until she’d forgotten her own name and is currently sleeping in my bed at this very moment—was not part of his let’s-save-Logan speech.

Grunting, I run a hand over my face, hop out of bed, and toss on jeans and the first T-shirt that doesn’t smell. Tammy, from the bar, is still here. I’m already late, so I quickly prod at her shoulder. “Get up.”

She stretches with a yawn. “What time is it?”

I walk back into the room with her clothes. “It’s time for you to leave,” I say, tossing her things on top of the bed.

She flashes her eyes open and groans, quickly shutting them again. “Ah, shut off the light!”

“No lights are on. That’s daylight coming in. I need you to get up and leave. I’m running late for work. Hurry up.”

Tammy sluggishly sits up, places her arms through the sleeve of her shirt, and narrows her stare at me. “Could you be any ruder?”

“Please,” I say. There. Is that polite enough for her? If it were any other day, I would’ve let her stay awhile. I would’ve even bought her breakfast, but if I’m any later, my uncle will fire me for sure this time.

Ten minutes later, I hop into my truck, start the engine, and head for Haddonfield, New Jersey. As I enter I-95 from the Woodhaven ramp, my phone goes off. Shit. It’s Bryson. “What’s up?” I answer, merging into the left lane.

“Where the hell are you?”

“I know.” I glance in my rearview mirror and then back to the road ahead. “I’m running late.” My foot presses down on the gas pedal. It’s over a forty-five minute drive to Haddonfield from Philly, depending on traffic. I need to speed the hell up.

“You’re fucking lucky Dad’s not here. He had a consultation for another job in Royersford this morning. He just texted me that he’s finishing up now and will be on his way. I suggest you get here—fast—before he does.”

There is a God. I gun it, pushing the speedometer to almost ninety. “Thanks, Bry. I owe you one.”

A snort erupts through the speaker. “Yeah, one of many. And you better not be speeding. If you lose your license again, I won’t be your personal chauffeur this time.”

I let him slide on that one and we end our call. Over the past couple years Bryson has done more for me than anyone else. He’s more than just my cousin; he’s my brother and best friend. We grew up living next door to each other, learning the importance of family from an early age. After Sean died, our relationship could have gone either way, but thanks to Bryson’s support and loyalty, we’re closer than ever.

Finally, I reach the McDaniels’ home and pull into their massive driveway. I cut the engine off, hop out of the truck, and hustle toward the back of the house. I’m walking along a pathway that leads past the scandalous front porch—just the sight of which brings a smug grin to my face—around a small pond, and through a landscaped grove of trees when I nearly trip over my own two feet and face-plant onto the perfectly manicured lawn.

The source of my smug grin only moments before is right ahead of me, and she hasn’t seen me yet. Jenna. Her back is to me as she makes her way down the path, so I do what any guy would do and take a moment to appreciate what’s in front of me. Her cinnamon hair is tossed in a high bun on top of her head and a loose blue shirt falls off her left shoulder. Very tight jean shorts reveal the curves of her very fine, perfectly shaped ass. An ass I had the pleasure of groping just a few days ago. She seems to struggle with carrying a large box. I, being the gentleman I choose to be at times, jog to catch up with her, but before I can reach her, the box slips from her hands, spilling all the contents to the ground.

“Fuck!” she shouts. Her head swivels as she surveys the mess, and she huffs once before bending over to pick up what appear to be painting supplies.

I smile. She’s in the perfect position for me to fully check her out. So I do. Again. After my peep show, I kneel down and grab a few paintbrushes from the ground. “I wouldn’t have expected the first word popping out of your mouth to be fuck. You just don’t seem like that kind of girl.”

Brown eyes pin mine. “Yeah? And what kind of girl do I seem to be?” Her eyes tell me she’s amused, but her tone tells me otherwise. Does she ever smile? This is the second time I’ve seen her, and both times she’s given me dirty looks– attractive dirty looks, but dirty looks all the same.

My lips form a lopsided grin. “Hmm…dammit. Yeah.” I nod, sure of my assessment. “You seem more like a dammit kind of girl.”

Jenna rolls her eyes. She quickly gathers the rest of her art supplies and tosses them into the box before standing and resting the package on her left hip. “Too bad you don’t know two fucks about me.”

I laugh. I have a major smartass on my hands. That’s okay; it’s just going to take a little longer to lighten this one up a bit.

I’ve been around a lot of women, so I’m able to tell one type apart from another. Jenna’s type is daring. They’re smart, snarky wiseasses. They live for a challenge and love being right. But they’re also—no matter what—women. And women can be sweet-talked at any moment.

I lean into her. She steps back. I smile.

There’s just enough sun to fully take her in. Jenna’s eyes, man, they’re something. It’s not the cute button nose, the soft, plump lips that I had the pleasure of tasting, or the even, golden skin tone that compels me. All of these features are striking, sure, but her eyes… Jenna’s eyes are exotic, stunning. There seems to be an untold story hidden behind those large, almond-shaped beauties. The mystery of those eyes…

I lean my head in close to her. Really close. Jenna’s lashes flutter, with wide eyes stunned. An extensive grin spreads across my face. “Ah, but if my memory serves me correctly, I know exactly how you taste.” Her breath catches; she seems to be at a loss for words. Score. I lift my hand and twirl one of the paintbrushes I’m still holding. “And it seems to me that I just learned you like to paint.” Her eyes narrow and her nostrils lightly flare as she snatches the brush out of my hand. She opens her mouth to say something but shuts it when we hear someone else call my name.

“Logan?” Bryson walks up beside us. Eyes still on Jenna, I straighten my shoulders, flash her a knowing grin, and then turn to face my cousin.

“What’s up?”

He raises a questioning brow and glances over at Jenna. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Let’s get to work.” I clasp his shoulder and start walking, guiding him toward the site.

“What was that about?” he asks quietly.

I turn my head and look at Jenna who’s still standing there breathing heavily with the box glued to her hip. I wink at her and turn right back around. “Nothing. I was just helping her with a few things she accidently dropped.”

He grips my shoulder and leans in. “Logan, not here. This is work. Keep it like that. You understand?”

I shrug off his hold. I know what he means. I don’t like it, but I understand. “Yeah, I understand.”

It’s not like we’d have more than just that one kiss on her front porch anyway.

chapter 4

Jenna

Logan looks back at me as he walks away with the other contractor. He shoots me a wink before turning his attention back to the path. “Nothing. I was just helping her with a few things she accidently dropped,” I hear him say.

Exactly. Nothing is going on between us, and Logan better keep that in mind the next time he invades my personal space. A few days ago, I asked for it; I knew what I was getting myself into. Well, I wasn’t expecting for his kiss to be so powerful and scorching hot. Still, that was on my terms. I was in control. Sort of. I couldn’t foresee that I would enjoy the taste of him, the smell of him, the way he held me firmly against his chest, how strong his arms felt wrapped securely around me, or how, for a short moment within that one kiss, I forgot who I was. The world around us was completely still. I was lost in the arms of a complete stranger. That’s what bothers me most: him. He bothers me. I know nothing about him, so how the hell could he make me feel so alive, so at peace, so…safe?

It’s infuriating, not to mention unrealistic. The whole thing must have been a fluke brought on by the anxiety of everything that occurred prior to seeing him: the scene in Dr. Rosario’s office the day before, losing the bracelet, him diving into the pool, Matthew walking up when he was the last person in the world I wanted to see. Logan was there, and I took advantage of that by kissing him. But I kissed him to get rid of Matthew; I didn’t realize kissing him would rid me of all my thoughts as well.

The stubble of his growing beard was rough, yet the kiss felt soft.

His arms were confident, yet I felt vulnerable in his hold.

His touch was unfamiliar, yet it felt right within the split seconds of that kiss.

The memory shivers through me. I shake it off, adjust the box in my hands, and continue on my route toward the shed.

Thirty minutes later, I’m standing before three easels, all holding a different canvas painting. Old ones, of course, since I still can’t find the desire to actually create anything. Maybe by taking time to admire my previous work, I’ll find a sense of inspiration again. All three of the pieces in front of me have a sacred place in my heart. Each has its own story, its own venture and journey, which represents a specific time and place in my life.

My eyes settle on the first one and I chuckle softly. It’s one of my very first pieces. For my tenth birthday, my father purchased my first art set, complete with several sized canvases, paintbrushes, and colors.

As any little girl would, I hugged my father tightly, shouted my thanks, and ran to my room to begin my artistic adventure. I was never a pink hearts and flowers kind of girl, so hours later, I presented him with what I thought at the time was a masterpiece. Splashes of red and orange with swirls of grey and blue colored the canvas. My father ogled the small painting with seriousness reserved for courtrooms and boardrooms. I stood before him with my hands clenched behind me, rocking in place. The waiting was excruciating for a ten-year-old. I remember thinking: Will he like it? Does he think it’s hideous? Am I good enough? Those feelings instantly faded the moment my father looked at me with wide brown eyes and a genuine smile. “It’s the best painting I’ve ever seen.”

I doubt it was the best, but it made my heart warm at the thought. A month before that same birthday, he took me to an art show where I witnessed the artist create her work from the start. Brooke was sick with a cold and unfortunately stayed home. My father held my hand as I watched closely with wide eyes from behind a rope. My mother stood beside my father with her hands folded neatly before her. The artist, in her safe, small circle, stared at the canvas intensely for what seemed like hours. Then she began to scream and shout, dipping the brushes into different colored containers and splashing them against her large canvas.

The entire drive home, my mother nagged that the show was a waste, that the performance was awkward and bizarre. I didn’t know it then, but looking back now, I guess I’m just as awkward and bizarre as that artist was. When her face grew angry as she tossed the red tint, I felt her pain. When her tear-filled eyes grew narrow as she splashed black, I felt her emptiness. When she stood before her finished work, breathing rapidly with eyes shut, blue paint still dripping off the edge of the canvas, I felt her loneliness.

I guess my first piece was an attempt to mimic hers because I felt every little bit of her emotions. As a child, I really didn’t know what those emotions meant, but I know I felt each one acutely.

As I remember every detail of the second painting, goose bumps rise on my arms and I cross them in an attempt to hug myself. This image was inspired by the first and only love of my life. Grey covers the entire sixteen by twenty inch canvas. Red with the hint of a few white strokes creates two faces—a masculine profile staring down at a feminine face. She’s afraid and slipping away from everything and everyone, but the moment her eyes lock with his, she instantly feels safe, no longer in the dark world she’s lived in all her young life.

At the age of seventeen, I was more than just the problem child that my mother couldn’t handle. Suspension after suspension from my fair share of girl fights—at the elite private school my parents sent me to—didn’t place me anywhere near the Daughter of the Year category. After a fight with Blair Bitch, my archenemy, I was sent on one of many visits to the principal’s office. My hair disheveled and face steamed in anger, I sat and waited for my turn to receive my punishment.

As I tried to calm myself, legs shaking and fingers tapping, the hall doors opened. Dark nearly black eyes pinned mine. They met me at eye level as the owner of those eyes sat beside me. He nodded, and his unkempt hair fell over his right brow. “So what’re you in for?” he asked. I answered, giving him every detail of my encounter with Blair. He burst into laughter and I joined in. The best part? He blurted, “The bitch deserved it.” The rest is history.

But history is exactly that.

I fell hard for Eric. He gave me what every girl desired—a sense of feeling loved. I had no doubt in my mind that Eric loved me. I felt it with every thread of my being. We were young and naive. I surrendered myself to him one hundred percent—mind, body, and soul. I gave him all of me. My first experiences in many aspects of my life were with Eric. His love, his touches and caresses… It was more than just the passion he poured out to me, though, that made me love him. Eric understood me, just like Brooke. He didn’t judge me or look at me how others did.

Not until he witnessed one of my episodes. It was in the beginning stage, before I even knew what was wrong with me. I was afraid, and my mind was going crazy with racing thoughts and voices. I questioned everyone that approached and everything that surrounded me. Eric couldn’t handle it. It scared the hell out of him. Instead of helping me through it, instead of showing that his love for me was true, he left me. Alone. When I was at my worst.

That was when I vowed to never let others, especially those who don’t truly know me, see me in a weak state.

I blink the blurriness out of my eyes and allow my tears to roam free. I’m alone in this shed. There’s no one watching, I remind myself. My lip begins to quiver as I edge closer to the third painting. I swallow and stare blankly at the unfinished piece. This was the last time I connected a brush to canvas. It was a month after Brooke’s death and I needed to pour out my anger the only way I knew how. But that was the day of my first hallucination.

* * *

When you lose the only person who made sense in your life, the only person who helped you fight your battles, the one who helped you with your struggles, the only person you felt sane around, your entire world comes crashing down. And that’s not even the best description. You become vacant, hollow. You can’t breathe. The world around you is a complete haze; nothing is clear anymore. You’re constantly fighting to live because you were only truly living when they were around.

How can she be gone? One day Brooke was here, in this very room, laughing and teasing me about my eye shadow being too dark. Then the next day, she’s gone, never able to share that smile on her face with the world ever again. She didn’t deserve it. I hate what they did to her. Hate it.

The fresh memory stabs my thoughts, the way she was found, left for dead. I feel nauseated. Quickly, I grab the trash can by the desk, bend over, and dry heave into it. There isn’t much coming out of me since I’ve barely eaten anything in weeks. Once I think I’m done, I place the can aside, sniff back my tears, and stand. The easel by my bedroom window is calling me, the blank canvas begging me to pour out my heart. With shaky legs and an unsettled stomach, I manage the short walk across the room. My fingers tremble as I reach for a brush, mix the white and black pigment, and slowly raise it to the canvas.

Before I know it, the brush is gliding along, creating. A dark grey sky represents my new life, how it’ll never be sunny again. Reddish tones develop into an ocean, a storm. The red represents my pain and suffering. The storm represents my anger. Anger because she’ll never live to see graduation, to walk down the aisle and have the wedding she always dreamed of. She’ll never find love or bear children of her own. These things were taken from her.

Full-blown tears stream down my face, but even through my blurry vision I continue the strokes of the brush. In midstride, a low, familiar voice stops me in my tracks. “Jenna.” Hair on the back of my neck stands on end. A chill roars through me, and I shake my head. No. This can’t be happening. I’ve heard voices before, unknown voices. But this one is far too familiar. Slowly I turn to face it. My body shudders as all of the air from my lungs disappears. Brooke. Brooke is sitting on the edge of my bed. She looks sad, helpless.

I try to find a way to breathe as she stands. “It’s okay, Jenna. I’m here.” Brooke reaches out a hand. I stare at it in disbelief.

How can… How is this even… I can’t even blurt out a simple thought.

“Brooke?” I swipe away the tears so I can have a better look. Even if she isn’t real, I get to have this, but I have no idea for how long. “How are—” I wet my lips, soaking in this moment. “You’re alive?”

She nods gently. “I can be, if you let me.”

“What does that mean? Of course I’ll let you. I want you alive, Brooke. I’ve missed you so much. I love you. Let’s tell Mom and Dad.” I reach out to her, but she pulls back and shakes her head. “What’s wrong, Brooke? They’ll be happy you’re here and safe. We thought we lost you.”

“No. They can’t know. This has to be our little secret.”

My brows furrow in confusion. “Brooke, they’re devastated. They argue all the time. Mom won’t stop crying, and Dad is barely home anymore. We need you. You’re the one that kept this family together. Please.”

“I’m sorry, Jenna. I can’t do that.”

“Why?”

“Because then they’ll lose both daughters.”

“What?” I blink, trying to make sense of what she said, and she’s gone. Just like that. Where did she go? I look around anxiously, searching for her in the closet, behind the curtain, under the bed. I had a small taste of having her back and now she’s gone. Again. Maybe she changed her mind? Maybe she ran off to tell Mom and Dad. Excitement rushes through me. I open the door and run down the hall, entering every open door and leaving just as quickly when I don’t see her. I jog down the staircase, rushing to my father’s office. My parents are in here, but there’s no Brooke.

“Sweetheart, are you okay?” My father searches me with his eyes from behind his desk. He looks worried, like he can sense my anxiety.

“Yeah,” I whisper as I glance at my mother. She’s standing beside him with a document in her hand.

“Can we help you?” My mother asks warily.

“Uh…” I step forward and dart my eyes around, but still no Brooke. I focus back on them, on their narrowed, curious eyes. My lips are dry, so I moisten them before asking, “Did you see her?”

My mother places the document down on top of the desk. “See who?”

“Brooke.” At the sound of Brooke’s name my mother’s eyes change and I instantly regret saying anything.

“Jenna.” My father stands, his voice eerily calm. “What are you saying?”

Oh God, oh God, oh God. Can they handle it? What if they don’t believe me? Oh God. My eyes flash from my father to my mother and back to my father in quick succession. “Brooke was here. She’s alive.”

“That’s enough!” Mom screams, startling both my father and me, and before we know it she’s coming after me. Dad grips her arm to stop her. With angry eyes, she turns her head and glares at him. “I’m tired of this, Gregory! Sick and tired.” Her lips tremble as she tries to pull away from him. I stand frozen, tears running down my cheeks. “Don’t you see it? It’s painful enough to go through this grief, but I will not stand by and have her…” She raises her hand in my direction, pointing at me as she locks her furious eyes on mine. “Have her lie for attention. Brooke deserves better than that.”

Attention?

“Laura.” Dad pulls Mom closer, cages her face with both hands, and forces her to stare back at him. “She’s sick, honey.”

Sick?

Mom bursts into tears, shakes off Dads grip, and runs out of the office.

“Daddy,” I cry. Oh God, I feel sick again. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Oh, baby.” In three strides he’s in front of me, holding me in his arms and trying to protect me from all harm. I bury my face in his chest, shut my eyes, and try to picture myself as a five-year-old little girl again—when my father’s arms were the safest place to be. Where in his arms I felt free from harm, like nothing could take me away. As hard as I try, I’m not that little girl anymore, and nothing can save me from me. I break down and allow the pain of the last thirty days to pour out onto my father’s neatly pressed shirt.

“Why is this happening to me?” My voice is muffled against his chest.

He pulls me in tighter, rocks me in his arms, and hushes me to sleep.

* * *

Hours have gone by. I’m lost in the past as I stare at the last incomplete canvas. I remember every detail of that day, though I’ve tried to forget it. That’s the day I stopped painting. It brought back too many memories, too much pain—pain that I don’t want to resurface. How does Dr. Rosario expect me to start again and get better if painting is the very reason it all began? The hallucinations didn’t stop because I stopped painting. They still come and go, leaving confusion and anxiety in their wake. And not all of my hallucinations are of Brooke—I have scarier ones too. I’m just afraid if I paint again, my condition will worsen. Sometimes I can’t figure out why I’m like this. Yeah, yeah, it’s a chemical imbalance, but it’s also hereditary. My grandmother is schizophrenic. It skipped my mother and jumped right to me.

Footsteps and the clearing of a throat alert me that I’m no longer alone. I try to pull myself together by running my hands over my face and wiping away any smudged liner left behind by my tears. With a forced smile, I straighten my shoulders and turn to face…him. “Are you lost?” I ask.

Logan’s smile fades, but I don’t think it’s due to my rudeness. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve been crying.”

“Something was caught in my eye.” I wave it off as if it’s nothing. Crossing my arms, I raise a brow. “Again, can I help you?”

He’s hesitant at first, as if he doesn’t want to let it go, but he shakes his head and moves on. “By any chance do you have a measuring tape?”

“Really? You’re the contractor. Shouldn’t you be a bit more prepared?”

The corner of his lip tugs into a tiny grin, but clearly he seems to be annoyed. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s stupid, actually. We brought all the main equipment needed for today, but Santino forgot to pack the box with our measuring tapes. The one I had just broke. We just figured we’d ask before running off to the nearest—” He pauses and then waves a hand. “You know what, forget I asked. Sorry to waste your time.” Logan turns to walk out.

Well crap. Can I be any bitchier? “Wait,” I blurt out. He turns around to face me. “I think my father may have one in one of these boxes.” I point toward the left side of the room to a shelf filled with equipment and neatly stacked boxes. To make up for being a complete bitch, I walk over and begin searching through some of the boxes. I can hear his footsteps move around behind me.

“These are good. Did you paint them?”

Small talk. I despise small talk. What’s the point? Why can’t he just stand here, wait for me to locate this damn object, and be on his way? “Yeah, they’re mine,” I mumble.

“Pretty cool,” he replies. Finally, I find the measuring tape. I straighten and turn to face him. He’s directly in front of the third painting. With his head tilted, he crosses his arms and examines it. “This one isn’t finished. Are you working on it?”

“Here it is!” I shove my arm out, jabbing at the air impatiently. Logan turns around. His eyes land on my hand, and he smiles before looking back up at me.

He takes a few easy strides in my direction. Now before me, he reaches out and grabs the measuring tape. His hand covers mine, fingers slightly gripping my hold. I look up at him. A hint of worry clouds over his stormy eyes. “Are you sure you’re okay?” I study him, watching him cautiously. Why does it matter to him if I’m okay or not? He doesn’t know me. I shouldn’t be any of his concern. Maybe he genuinely cares for others. Our hands are still clamped together, and he steps in closer. “Jenna, I want to apologize about earlier.”

“About invading my personal space?” I ask a bit harsher than necessary, hoping it covers up my heavy breathing. I can’t help it. Something about his strong, broad build overwhelms me.

He flashes a gorgeous crooked grin. “Well, yeah. I’d also like to talk about that kiss.”

I swallow. My throat is really dry, and my heart rate is spiking. “Um, yeah. I’m sorry about the kiss. It was a mistake.”

His thumb caresses the back of my hand, still locked onto the damn measuring tape. “Are you sure?”

“Sure about what?” I’m suddenly lost in his stormy blue eyes.

“About the kiss being a mist—”

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” Logan and I quickly turn our heads toward the voice. It belongs to Charlie, who’s casually leaning against the door to the shed with her arms crossed. A mischievous grin is plastered to her face. “Please, don’t let me interrupt. I’m kind of enjoying the show.” She winks at Logan. “Hey, hot stuff.”

I shove the measuring tape into his chest, step back, and face Charlie. “There’s nothing to interrupt. Logan was just leaving.” Although I’m staring directly at Charlie, I can feel Logan’s eyes on me. It’s quite distracting. I exhale deeply, cross my arms, square my shoulders, and try to focus on my friend, who seems to be enjoying my discomfort far too much.

“Yeah, thanks for the tape. I’ll get back to work,” Logan says. As he moves by me, I momentarily shut my eyes and allow myself to breathe in his lingering scent. He leaves a trail, a mixture of fresh linen with a hint of spice. It’s not as strong as two days ago—when his arms were wrapped around me and his lips hovered over mine as our tongues twirled in slow circular motions—but it’s still there, slowly lulling me into a trance.

“Oh, you have it bad, girly,” Charlie utters. I flash my eyes open, searching around. I sigh in relief, realizing Logan’s no longer in the shed. My eyes meet Charlie’s as she walks toward me with her blonde curls bouncing around her cherubic face. She’s chuckling at my dumbfounded expression. “I don’t blame you, though. He’s tall, hot as all hell, and did you see those arms?” She nods approvingly. “I bet he can lift you up in two split seconds and fuck the hell out of you in midair. Air humping. No wall to hold you up or anything. Mmmhmm.” She crosses her arms over her chest, steps in front of me, and gives me a stare down. “And why are you dressed in lounge gear?”

“Charlie,” I warn.

“Jenna.” She mimics my tone and expression perfectly. I shake my head and turn away, heading for the open box by the first easel. I start packing up the items on the floor. “What’s up?” I ask.

“We had plans for a girls’ lunch date. Please don’t tell me you forgot again?”

Crap. I did. My mind was too busy focusing on these paintings and the memories that resurfaced. I lost track of time. “I’m sorry, Charlie. It’s been a rough day. We can still go out, have a late lunch?”

I look beside me. She’s nodding, but her main focus is on my paintings, which are still sitting on the easels. “Sure. Late lunch sounds good.” She turns her head to meet my gaze. “Want to talk about this?” Charlie asks, thumbing the paintings. She knows exactly what caused my rough day.

“Not today.” I brush off the topic. I never want to talk about it. Charlie understands me and I appreciate her for that. There are times I do need to get a few things off my chest, things that are too difficult to bear on my own. But as I said to Charlie, not today. I can handle it on my own. “I’m going to shower and dress. Will you be okay hanging around until then?”