Текст книги "Perfectly Damaged"

Автор книги: E. L. Montes

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

“All right, all right. Lucky first shot. It’s your throw,” Bryson calls out.

“Jenna, you’re going to throw the ball, okay?” Logan says to me.

Wide-eyed, I respond, “Uh, no. Have Santino or Charlie. I’ve never played before.”

“I’ll show you. Santino and Charlie are going to spread out as far as possible, and you’re going to throw the ball to them.”

Charlie nods. “You can do it, girl.” Then she swims farther down.

I look around; everyone is waiting for me. “What if I screw it up? I’ve never thrown a football before, Logan.” I turn, facing him.

His mouth forms a full smile—an adorable, infectious, completely beautiful smile. “No worries. I’ll show you.” He turns me to face everyone, then presses his front to my back. My chest expands. He leans his head down and presses his cheek to mine. “Left or right?” he murmurs against my skin.

I sink into him. “Huh?”

He chuckles. “Are you left– or right-handed?”

I swallow. “Oh, I’m…” What am I again? “Right. Yeah, definitely right-handed.”

“Are you sure?” I can hear the humor in his tone. I nod, distracted by my cheek brushing against his freshly grown facial hair.

“All right.” He reaches for my hand, lifts it, and places the football on my palm. “How does that feel?” His breath cools my skin.

“Good,” I mumble.

“You have to grip it a bit tighter,” he says. My left hand grips his firmly. “The ball, Jenna. You need a firm grip on the football so it doesn’t slip out of your hand.”

“Oh.” I press my fingers into leather skin of the ball. “Like that?”

“Yeah, good.” His fingers press over mine, and then he slightly lifts my arm, with his right behind it, over our heads. I have to reach up on my tiptoes because he’s much taller than me. Logan brings his left hand to my stomach, pressing me firmly against his chest. “Who do you want to toss the ball to?”

I flash my eyes open. Dammit, I didn’t realize they were closed. I look around. All eyes are on us, waiting patiently.

“Charlie,” I say. She’s more open than Santino.

“Sure?” he asks. I nod.

“All right, I’m going to bring our arms back just a bit more. When I say let go, just let go of the ball and let it fly over to her. Okay?” I nod. “Ready?”

“Yes.”

Logan does as he said he would, bringing back our arms then swinging them forward. He lifts me a bit higher with his left arm and yells out, “Let go!”

I did. The football darts toward Charlie. Her face is surprised but happy when she lunges for it. The guys from the other team immediately try to run for it, and as the play continues, all I can think about is Logan, his hold on me, the way his right hand drags down my arm, and how as he slowly brings me down to my feet, my body slides along his.

Then he pulls away. I hate that he did. I like the way I felt against him. I like the way his stubble felt against my skin. I like the way his arm felt around my stomach. I just like being near him.

Before I can reel in my thoughts, Logan’s hand slaps my ass. I jump. “Good job.” He winks; then he swims toward the rest of the group surrounding Charlie.

* * *

We lost the game. Win or lose, I had a really good time. It was getting kind of late and more partiers were arriving, so I took a shower, changed, and headed back down.

Charlie is sitting by the fire pit with Santino when I get out back. Logan is there as well. His eyes catch mine and I smile at him. He smiles back and waves for me to come over. I’m about fifteen feet away when Blair Bitch calls my name. I turn around.

“I wanted to talk to you.” She looks over my shoulder.

“Okay. What’s up?” I ask.

“Are you and, you know, Logan, like, a thing?”

“No.”

She nods. “Oh. Because it seems like you are.”

“I can assure you we’re not. Aren’t you with Bryson? Do you have a thing for Logan?”

She grimaces. “Um, no. I would never date Logan even if I was single.”

She’s got my full attention now. “Why not?” I ask.

She takes in a deep, dramatic breath. “Well, he’s not exactly the commitment type. And he’s slept with a few of my friends—who all had bad experiences with him. Not in bed! Just, you know, the way he treated them afterward. I haven’t seen you in a long time, and I really want to make amends with you, so I guess this is my way of apologizing. I’d really love to be friends.” She smiles.

“Yeah. Thanks. I appreciate that.”

I decide to stay away from the fire pit and go for a walk instead.

chapter 13

Logan

Mega Bitch waves at me and smiles wickedly. What the hell? Because I know she has a tendency of making my life a living hell every time she’s around, I can only imagine what she just said to Jenna. I know for a fact she’s putting her devilish claws away right now because before she got to her, Jenna was coming my way. Now she’s walking in the opposite direction, heading toward the bench swing. Great. I stand, ignore the questions about where I’m going, and head over to Jenna.

She’s swinging alone. I plop my ass down beside her without asking, but she doesn’t look at me. She keeps her eyes focused straight ahead. “Can I help you?” she asks.

Yep. Mega Bitch said something to tick her off. But I’m not one to beat around the bush. “I saw you talking to Blair.”

“Yeah. And?”

“And she said something to you about me, didn’t she?”

“No.”

“You’re lying.”

She turns to look at me. “Why do you think she’d talk about you? To me, no less?”

“Because Mega Bitch and I despise one another. We don’t speak at all. We can’t stand to be in the same room together. And when we are, she manages to do anything and everything to grate on every nerve of mine. So after she stopped you just now, then waved at me as if she won some type of stupid fucking game, I knew she said something to turn you off. So spill it.”

Jenna huffs out a long, draining breath. “She said you’re not the commitment type.”

“Half true,” I confess.

“You slept with almost all of her friends.”

“I slept with one friend of hers. After I realized the two of them were friends, I ended that shit real quick. Go on.”

Jenna narrows her eyes. “You treat women like crap.”

“In the short amount of time we’ve spent together, have I treated you like crap?”

“No. But you could be trying to get into my pants.”

I smile. “What makes you think you’re my type?” She quickly closes her mouth. “I’m kidding, Jenna. You’re definitely my type. Trust me.”

“Well, you’re not mine.” For some reason that tiny insult makes me chuckle. “I’m serious,” she adds. I nod, still smiling. She squares her shoulders and continues, “Logan, I’m just not that into you. At all.”

“Okay, I get the hint. And because you’re just not that into me, I’m guessing no date?”

She shakes her head and shrugs once. “No. Sorry.”

“Well damn. There’s no way I can change your mind? Not even this.” I wave my hand over my face and smile charmingly.

She laughs and taps a fist to my shoulder. “You’re a dork.”

I chuckle. “That’s a first.”

Jenna’s smile softens. “Seriously, though, can we be friends? Is that okay?”

Friends. I allow the word to simmer in my thoughts. “I’m not certain two people of the opposite sex—who are clearly attracted to each other—can remain friends.”

“I have a feeling you’re attracted to most any woman.”

I raise a finger. “Nuh-uh, not Mega Bitch. I’m definitely not attracted to her.”

Jenna laughs again, a bit harder this time. “Okay, you have a point. But you can do it. We can be friends. I have hope for you.”

“All right, McDaniel. I can’t promise I won’t try to cop a feel here and there or try to kiss you or even try to make you fall for me. But I can most definitely try not to.”

“You’re funny,” she says, her lips pursing to the side.

“It’s part of my charm.” Jenna shakes her head and leans back in the swing. I wrap my arm around her shoulder and pull her into my side. She freezes. “I’m a touchy-feely kind of guy, but I promise not to cop a feel on the first night of our friendship.”

She nudges my rib with an elbow. “Jerk.” Then she nestles closer to me. “Want to hear something funny?”

“Always,” I respond, giving us another push with my foot. The swing takes off again.

“It’s about Blair Bitch.”

“You mean Mega Bitch?” I correct her.

“How about we combine the two and from now on refer to her as Blair Mega Bitch.”

“Hmm…” I repeat the name in my head. “I like. Go on.”

“All right. Well, Blair Mega Bitch and I weren’t exactly BFFs.”

“Thank God because you’d be swinging alone,” I joke.

Jenna chuckles, then goes on, “We were actually the opposite. I hated her as much as she hated me. But it was high school. I think every teenage girl has at least one enemy in high school.”

“Which I never understood. I thought all you girls stuck together. You know, girl power and all.”

“Are you going to let me tell the story?” I don’t respond, giving her clearance to go on. “Well, one day I was walking down the hall on my way to class and spotted Blair Mega Bitch with her clique. I ignored their usual stares and kept going. I didn’t expect her to put her foot out and trip me as I passed by her.”

“Wow. How original.”

“Right? Anyway, I wasn’t one of those antisocial kids that ran to the bathroom crying after being picked on. Instead, I was the antisocial kid that fought back. So I gathered my things, put them aside, straightened my shoulders, turned around to face her as she laughed her head off, and punched her straight in the face.”

Right here, right now, I feel pride. So much pride. I can’t contain myself. I pull Jenna up, face her, and place my hands on her shoulders, looking excitedly into her eyes. She narrows her stare, not exactly sure what I’m about to say or do. I breathe in and, in my best Will Ferrell impersonation, blurt out, “Did we just become best friends?”

Jenna smiles, nods once, and says in a deep tone, “Yep!” It’s the worst John Reilly impersonation I’ve ever heard. I burst out laughing. She’s seen Step Brothers.

Motherfucking score!

Then the most perfect plot of all fucking plots stirs in my head. I can be friends with her and slowly make her fall for me. “Do you like ice cream?” I ask.

She raises a brow. “Uh, yeah?”

“We’re gonna go out for ice cream this week.” I say.

“Logan. That’s a date.”

“Since when has going out for ice cream been a date? Kids go out for ice cream. It’s friendly. Very, very friendly. In fact, to prove it’s not a date, I’ll even put my ego aside and allow you to pay.”

Jenna laughs. It’s the sweetest laugh I’ve ever heard. “You’re trying to sneak in a date with me.”

I raise my hand to my chest. “Promise. Not a date, just a friendly outing. Two friends, chatting over gelatos, sharing the same hate interest for a Blair Mega Bitch.”

“All right,” she says.

I smile.

chapter 14

Jenna

This weekend at the lake house was—well, I can’t explain it. I just needed it. It was the perfect end to a screwed-up beginning. I won’t admit this out loud, but I’m actually happy Charlie talked me into going. At first it was difficult for me to be social and open up, but Logan made it easy. No, I didn’t open up one hundred percent about myself. But there were times this weekend when he brought out a side of me I hadn’t seen for a long time. I miss that part of me. And even though I get this tingly feeling in the pit of my stomach when I’m around him—which is more than what a friend should feel for another friend—I like that we agreed to be just friends.

Because deep down I know he’ll never want to be with someone like me. The real me. The me he has yet to see. The question is if I keep spending time with him, will I be able to keep that part hidden?

We’re on our drive back to Jersey now. Charlie’s chatting away as I lean back in the passenger seat. My eyes catch the reflection of my smile in the passenger window. Smiling. It’s such an odd expression for me. And it’s because of Logan. The way he treated me this weekend. The way I felt around him. He made me laugh, made me feel comfortable with being a goof, playful even. And for the first time in as long as I can remember, it was okay to feel those things.

I must admit, when I first laid eyes on him in my backyard by the swimming pool, I would’ve never pegged him for the friendly, gentle goofball—probably one of the biggest I’ll ever meet—that he is. So what if I only spent a few days with him? I still can’t imagine Logan being the person Blair Mega Bitch claimed him to be. If she’s anything like she was back in high school, I’m certain it was just a ploy to get back at Logan—or me, for that matter—for one thing or another.

“You and Logan seemed a bit friendly this morning,” Charlie prods.

I turn my head, facing her, “What do you mean?”

Charlie looks straight ahead, focusing on the long tree-lined road. “Well, for starters, he was practically all over you this morning…and it was kind of awkward.”

I’m caught off guard. “He was not all over me this morning. And what was awkward?”

“Yeah, okay. He was sitting beside you with his arm over your shoulder, and you were leaning into him. The both of you kept whispering in each other’s ears and laughing.”

She’s talking about when Logan and I were cracking jokes about Blair Mega Bitch during breakfast. “And what’s so awkward about that?” I ask.

“It’s not a bad awkward. It’s just like, I don’t know—it felt weird watching you like that. You seemed happy.”

“It’s weird to see me happy?” I retort. Charlie’s little statement causes a flash of heat between my ears, and I’m sure my face is flushing right now. Have I been that out of touch with myself that I haven’t even realized how miserable I’ve been? So miserable, in fact, that seeing me happy is out of place? Now I’m kind of angry with myself.

“No. No, Jenna. I’m just curious. The two of you were, well, out on that swing the entire night in your own la-la land. Did something happen? Are you guys, like, well…hooking up?”

I laugh self-consciously. “Hooking up? No. We realized we have a lot in common, that’s all. And I told him I’d prefer to just be friends. He was fine with that. I don’t know Logan entirely, but it’s nice to have someone to talk to.”

“You can always talk to me.” Her voice is soft, perhaps with a bit of jealousy.

I reach out, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Charlie, I will always have you, and you’ll always have me. You’re an amazing friend. But you’re the one who said I should stop being the antisocial kid. This is me stopping that.”

She sighs, nodding. “You’re right. I just want you to be careful, ya know? I want to make sure you’re careful. That’s all.”

“I already told you I don’t feel like he’d hurt me.”

“I know he won’t harm you physically, Jenna. I’m talking about emotionally. I don’t want to see you get hurt, emotionally.” I stare at her, taking in what she just said. I know exactly what she means. Slowly, I push my feelings for Logan aside. I tuck them away in the back of my chest, hiding them behind a large brick wall. Charlie peeks over at me. “Did you tell him? About…you know,” she asks. She’s referring to my illness.

I look straight ahead, and only the memory of a smile remains on my face. “No. And I’d like to keep it that way,” I respond.

* * *

The sound of Charlie’s tires screeching to a stop is much louder in my head than in actuality. My chest feels heavy as I look out the window and see my home. Home. What actually defines a home? Is it simply a place you reside, surrounded by four walls and topped with a roof? Or is home a place someone looks forward to returning to after being away for a long or short period of time? A place where someone can feel safe? A place that, if you were alone on a deserted island, you could dream about in order to keep your hopes for survival alive? Is that what home is?

For me? I dread home. Every bit of it.

I haven’t faced my mother since I ran out of the house during my last episode. Fear of what will be waiting for me pulls at my chest.

Charlie reaches for my hand and brings it down from my face. I didn’t realize, yet again, I’ve been chewing the inside of my cheek. “Do you want to stay at my house? You’re welcome to stay as long as you like,” she says softly.

I shake my head, let out a long shaky breath, and force a smile as I face her. “No, but thank you—for everything.” I reach over, wrap my arms around her, and squeeze her in a hug.

“Of course,” she mumbles into my hair. “Always, Jenna. If you need me to come pick you up, I’m only a phone call away. Okay?” I nod and pull away.

After collecting my luggage from the trunk, I wave good-bye to my friend and walk up the pathway toward the double wooden doors. The entire time, my mind races with various scenarios of what to expect on the other side. I freeze once I reach the first step of the porch. My hand grips the handle of the black luggage. My teeth skillfully maneuver the raw meat of my inner cheek, gnawing away. My heart thump thumps in slow motion, yet every nerve in my body is sensitive, on high alert.

Take a step, a soft voice in my head urges. I’m not sure if it’s mine, but I do what it says. Another step. I do it again. One more. Now at the top, I move forward to the door. Grab your keys. I reach in my purse and dig them out, searching for the right one. I place it into the keyhole.

Click.

It unlocks. Cautiously, I tap a finger against the door. It swings open. I blink a few times and look straight ahead. It’s exactly the same, except the black and white marble tiles in the foyer are shinier. The large round table is still there; the only difference is the color of the fresh-cut roses in the center. These are pink. It’s quiet. Eerily quiet. Swallowing back my anxiety, I step in, close the door behind me, and quickly run up the stairs.

* * *

One Day Later.

“Hello?” I answer the call on the first ring.

“Hello, Jenna. It’s Tiffany.”

“Hi, Tiffany,” I respond to my father’s assistant for the last ten years.

“Your father asked me to call you. He wanted you to know he received your text, and it just so happens an opening for tomorrow is available. Would you like to have lunch with him at noon at the restaurant Moon?”

“Okay.”

“Great! I’ll schedule you in. I’ll have a driver pick you up around an hour and a half prior. How does that sound?”

“Sounds great. Thanks again.”

The call ends.

* * *

Dresses are not my thing; I hate them. I just feel out of place and boyish when I wear them, which is weird, actually, since dresses are the most feminine attire women can wear. Most women feel sexy in them. I just don’t. Yet here I am, standing before a tall mirror in my bedroom, wearing a pale yellow knee-length, strapless sundress. I could change into something a bit more comfortable, but since it’s lunch with my father and I want to look my best and Moon’s such an upscale place, my usual ripped-up jeans, loose T, and flats probably wouldn’t be received too well.

I take in a soothing breath as my eyes scan over my reflection. My hands pat over the loose waves of my hair to smooth down any flyaway strands. There’s nothing else I can do to perfect my appearance. It is what it is. I turn on the heels of my nude open-toe shoes and tread out of the room and down the stairs—very carefully, since heels aren’t my friend either.

For the past two days, I’ve made sure to stay locked in my room to avoid my mother. I’m not ready to face her yet. Even though it’s been four days since our last disastrous encounter, I just can’t bear to see her. I know what will happen anyway. It’s not the first time we’ve had an argument. When it happened before, we’d either ignore each other, as if the other didn’t exist, or she’d ask me a question about something irrelevant, like the newspaper or the weather, when the silence between us became strangely awkward—anything to spark a conversation. Depending on my mood, I’d ignore her or respond with a low one-word answer. And then the next day, she’d act as if nothing had happened.

My mother and I never discuss our feelings or talk out our issues. We leave them behind us and move forward. Some say it’s good for the soul to leave your troubles in the past, but I think that’s bullshit. If you can’t resolve it in that very moment, or even try to, how is it good for the soul? For me, moving on and ignoring the animosity that exists between my mother and me only darkens my soul and reaffirms my mother’s rejection.

Well, screw that. I’m not dealing with her today.

With my clutch in hand, I open the front door and step out into the sweltering mid-June heat. My skin begins to prickle from the sun immediately. I continue down the pathway, at the end of which is my father’s driver and a limo. In one hand he’s holding the back door open for me, and in the other, a gorgeous bouquet of yellow roses. I can’t contain the smile tugging at my lips. Every time Dad took Brooke and me on one of our father-daughter dates, he always had one of his drivers meet us, and they always had our favorite flowers: red tulips for Brooke, yellow roses for me.

A loud thump draws my eyes to the right. Logan is jumping off the back of his pickup truck when I spot him. He tosses a stack of two-by-fours over his shoulder and carries them across the lawn. My stomach twirls as I appraise him. His Phillies baseball cap is pulled down low, obscuring his eyes, but I can imagine the clear blue of them just fine. My tongue darts out, wetting my dry lips as I watch his sketched, bulging arms flex through his sleeveless shirt. He looks good with tats. Really good. For the better part of the weekend, we were up close and personal, but I still have no idea what kind of ink he’s sporting. I couldn’t risk him catching me studying his arms. There was just no way to do it surreptitiously, and it would have felt too personal to ask him about them. I didn’t want to give him the idea I was interested after all.

Logan’s head turns my way. He catches me staring and flashes a white, toothy grin. My heart skips a beat.

Shit.

“Hey, Jersey,” he shouts. Then he drops the wood down in front of him and lightly jogs my way. Why am I so damn nervous? We had a good weekend together, but I shouldn’t feel this fluttering in the pit of my stomach. “Hey,” he says again with a smile. Small beads of sweat glisten on his upper lip and neck.

“Hey,” I respond.

“You look really nice. Hot date?” he jokes.

I peek over to the driver, and then back to Logan, who follows my gaze. His smile falls a bit.

“Something like that,” I respond. What the hell possessed me to say that? It’s not like I’m trying to make him jealous or anything. But then again, it’s none of his business. Maybe if he thinks I’m dating, he’ll get the hint and won’t ask me out again.

“Oh. Well, he must be one hell of a guy,” he says. Then he fidgets with the rim of his cap, pulling it lower.

“Why’s that?”

“Well, I mean, it’s obvious. Look at me. If you passed up on something like this, the tool must be a hell of a guy, that’s all.” He’s joking, but something tells me it’s a cover-up. Either way I laugh because he has this amusing side of him that makes it difficult not to smile or giggle or find his charming sense of humor intriguing.

“You know, I’ve never met such an egotistical man.”

“Pfft. Imagine how I feel. I have to live through it. It’s not easy being me, Jersey.”

“Jersey? Is this a new name for me?” I ask, amused.

“Yeah. I figure two friends like us should have nicknames for one another.”

“I see. I don’t like nicknames, but I think I can come up with something for you.” I smile.

“Make it good, Jersey. You only get one shot at this. If it sucks, then you lose.”

“I wasn’t aware we were playing a game.”

He leans in, his gaze dropping to my mouth. “I didn’t think so either, since I’m not so keen on playing games. But there’s nothing wrong with a little fun.” His voice is low, rough. He’s not talking about the nicknames anymore; he’s talking about us. Before I can think of a witty response, Logan looks over at the car waiting for me. He straightens up and adjusts his cap again. “Well, I don’t want to keep you,” he says, suddenly upbeat.

I breathe in the chemistry wrapping around us. I feel it. I see it in his grey-blue eyes and right now, I want him to keep me. I want him to continue his attempts at flirting. I want him to make me smile, make me laugh, and bring back the side of me I’ve missed for so long. But then reality sets in. It whirls back around to the forefront of my mind, sweeping away any hopes I have of normalcy, of affection, of…love. Again, I’m reminded of all the reasons why Logan and I can’t be more than what we are. I let out a slow breath, one I’d been holding since he leaned in close enough to kiss me. “Okay. Well, um, chat soon?” I ask nervously.

“Yeah, sure.” He nods and turns away, walking back to the stack of wood assuredly. I watch as he bends over, picks it up, and tosses it over his shoulder. He doesn’t look back.

* * *

The drive into Manhattan is better than I had anticipated, except for one thing—the entire drive all my thoughts trail off to Logan. I question whether I should just come clean and tell him about my “issue.” At least that way if he wants to back off, he can. It won’t bother me. I’ve only known him for a little more than a week. And we haven’t shared anything more than what we’ve shared, which isn’t much.

The car pulls up and stops in front of Moon. The driver opens the door for me and gives me his business card with instructions to call him when I’m ready to be picked up. I quickly take in the busy streets of New York and hurry into the restaurant. Being in and around large crowds, especially the hectic crowds of New York, makes me feel uneasy.

My anxiety kicks in as I step into the waiting area of the restaurant. It must be a busy day for the restaurant. It’s jam-packed. I weave through all the people waiting to be seated and approach the hostess. “Hello, I have a reservation under Gregory McDaniel.”

The hostess skims through the list. “Yes, he’s already seated.” She tilts her head toward a gentleman beside her. “Please take her to table 45.”

The gentleman’s gaze lands on me. With a smile he says, “Please, follow me.” And so I do. I follow closely behind, focusing my eyes on the back of his head. “Here you are.” He halts. I almost stumble into him, but I catch myself before I do.

My anxiety quickly dissipates as he walks away and my father turns to face me. His warm smile lights up his face. “Jenna, you look absolutely beautiful.” He stands, places a peck on my cheek and guides me into the booth. He settles in as well, across from me. It’s the same booth he always reserves—tucked in the far corner of the restaurant, beside a large window that looks out over Manhattan’s skyscrapers. Although Moon is surely filled to capacity, our little corner feels private, like it’s just the two of us in the crowded space.

“I’m glad you were able to make it,” Dad says. He stretches his arm out across the booth and grabs my hand.

“Me too.” I gently smile at him. “We haven’t had one of these in a long time. It’s nice.”

“Yes. It was quite overdo, wasn’t it?” He grins. The waiter approaches us and we order our usual. Dad leans back, unbuttoning the perfectly tailored suit jacket as his eyes pierce mine. “So, tell me, how are you feeling?”

“All right, I guess,” I answer with a slight shrug.

“Jenna,” he hesitates. “I don’t want to make you upset”—which means he will—“but I want to speak to you about your mother.”

Here we go.

My shoulders tense uncomfortably. “I’d rather not. I just want to enjoy lunch with you without Mom ruining my day, as always.”

“Well, how about we just get it out of the way so we can enjoy the rest of our lunch? What do you say?”

“Fine.” There’s no escaping this conversation, so I give in. “What do you want to talk about?”

“First, I feel you owe your mother an apology.” My eyes narrow to a harsh glare, and he lifts a hand to stop me from an outburst. “Before you say anything, I feel she owes you an apology as well. I’m not picking sides, Jenna. I love you both. It’s very difficult for me to see two women whom I love deeply despise one another. She’s your mother, and you are her daughter. I’m already swamped with work in the office. I have a potential client I’ve been trying to pull in for years that’s finally beginning to cave. The last thing I need is to come home to the two of you acting like juveniles. I shouldn’t have to deal with it. It’s infuriating. Do you understand?”

I cross my arms over my chest. Is this what our little lunch date was for? For him to just educate me on my rights and wrongs? For him to judge my relationship with Mom, even though he has yet to witness just how cruel she can be? I can’t help but laugh. “Yes, I understand,” I say, hoping it ends this topic.

“Good. I arranged for the two of you to have a girls’ spa day tomorrow.”

“What?” I nearly shout.

“Can you at least pretend to be thrilled about it?”

“I’m sorry if I’m not bursting at the seams with excitement at this very moment. But I’m not ready to face a woman who told me I shouldn’t blame others for my failures during one of my episodes,” I blurt out. My father’s twisted expression immediately has me feeling guilty for not thinking before I spoke.

“She said that to you?” he asks, his tone low, his eyes darkening in distress. Not toward me—he’s disappointed in my mother. And I know I shouldn’t care if he is or isn’t, but when it comes to my mother and me, my father has a very soft spot. When he looks at her as if she’s let him down, I can feel exactly how she feels. The burning whole within your chest. The shame of knowing that you’ve disappointed a loved one. It’s how I feel every time she looks at me.

My mother, when she gets one of those stares from my father, does everything and anything to win back his affection. She would be nothing without my father. If she had to, she’d crawl through a pile of nails, walk through fire, and swim through a tank of sharks to win back his love. Because that’s what you do for people you love, right? And she loves him. Truly loves him. And she knows if he ever left her, she’d have no one. She’d always be alone.

Maybe she’s more fucked-up than I am.

Sometimes I wonder if she would be better off alone. Other times, I wonder why I feel bad for her in the first place. Is it because deep down she’s still my mother and I’m still waiting for her validation? No matter what has happened between us, if she were ever to change, if she were to ever tell me she was truly, sincerely sorry and wanted to work on our relationship, I’d do anything to win that from her, to win the affection of my mother’s love. But we’ve gone through this for so many years now, and she’s always been the same with me. I’ve gone bitter. And my mother? Well, she has too much pride to ever ask to rebuild what’s been damaged between us.