E. Montes - Perfectly Damaged

I scowl at him, shake my head, and focus forward, not bothering to pay him any attention.

Logan chuckles. “How ‘bout you hop in and we can go for that ice cream you owe me?”

“I’m not in the mood for ice cream,” I say, deadpan.

“Even more reason why you should definitely go.”

“Can you just leave me alone?” I continue along. My thoughts are racing. What I need is a distraction and he is not helping right now.

“No.”

I stop and whip my head toward him. “No?”

He stares down at me as he sits up high in his truck, the whisper of a smile on his lips. “No. I’m not leaving you alone.”

“What do you want from me? What does anyone want from me?” Anger bubbles up from deep within. I tighten my jaw and clench my teeth. “I just want to be left alone. Is that so damn hard to ask?” I’m not sure where it came from exactly. I’m just frustrated. Logan shrugs once, one hand hanging casually out the window, while the other grips the steering wheel. His worn-out Phillies baseball cap hangs low over his eyebrows. The rim shadows his eyes, concealing any emotions within them, which means I can’t get a read on him at all. I hate it. Just effing hate it. “Would you take off that stupid hat?” I practically yell.

He laughs.

“What’s so funny?”

“You,” he says.

“Well,” crossing my arms, upset with myself for getting worked up—especially in front of him—I retort, “I’m glad I can entertain you. At least you’re a first.”

His lips tug into a lopsided grin. “Come on, Jenna. I can tell something is bothering you and in my experience, ice cream solves everything.”

Now I laugh. I laugh because I’m exhausted. I laugh because I’m exasperated. And I laugh because I want to cry, but I don’t.

I shake my head, temporarily releasing all of the emotions bottled up within me. Fine. If I want to get away for a while, maybe he can distract me. Maybe he can help rid me of this ache, even for just an hour or so.

Logan

Watching Jenna struggle up into my truck is an exercise in self-restraint. I’d love to wrap my hands around her waist and... Fuck me. I mentally kick myself in the ass. I should’ve gotten out and helped her, but the fact that she’s even agreed to hop inside my truck to begin with has thrown me off. My mind has been wrapped up with Jenna since she left the lake house Sunday morning. I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I actually looked forward to work on Monday just so I could see her. But I never did. Tuesday went by, and still no sight of Jenna. Until today, when I saw her all dolled up and beautiful—for another guy. Yeah, it stung, but I couldn’t show her it affected me in any way. So, as always, I used humor to distract her from how I truly felt. But that’s the thing—it shouldn’t have affected me nearly as much as it did.

I make a mental note for next time to help her in and out of my truck.

Finally settled into the seat, she moves on to her next battle—this time with the seatbelt. She huffs and puffs a bit before clicking it in place and facing forward. Though she’s looking straight ahead and isn’t making a peep, it’s obvious she’s pissed off about something. I’m sure it has nothing to do with me because for the first time I haven’t done anything. My mother’s advice hums through my mind as I put the car in drive. She said when a woman is pissed, leave her alone to cool off, but never leave her side because if she’s in need of a hug, you’ll be the first person she’ll find. So I turn up the volume on my radio and allow my favorite band to fill the silence.

As I drive, Jenna remains quiet. The last notes of one song fade as another begins. The melody of a guitar strums through the speakers. It’s one of those songs that once it begins, you just know—you know the words are going to hit you hard, and the melody… Well, it’s as if the melody weaves its way into your very existence, easing itself inside of you, altering your mood with its highs and lows. When the lead singer’s powerful voice begins, you pray for mercy, because you know what it’s capable of. It seizes every emotion you’ve ever experienced and wrenches them all to the surface, leaving you completely exposed. Exposed because sometimes we keep everything bottled up for a reason. But it’s songs like this that have the potential to change everything. They can put everything into perspective and make you feel like the words and the song itself belongs to you and only you.

I love this fucking band. This band does that for me—every single time. The words and music course through me, and I have to sing along.

“Who’s this?” Jenna asks, her tone soft. I shift my eyes toward her. She’s blankly staring at the radio, taking in every word, hypnotized by the sound, the lyrics. She feels a connection too.

“It’s City of Sound. They’re an indie rock band from Philly. You’ve never heard of them before?” I ask, completely shocked. They’re popular and have been around forever.

She shakes her head, her solemn gaze still stuck on my dashboard. “No.”

“Oh. Well they’re one of my favorite bands. This song is called ‘What’s the Point?’” The lyrics speak about life and whether it’s worth it. With all the fucked-up things we all go through, what’s the point of still living? There are times when you just want to give it all up. But then it goes on to say that maybe, just maybe, there’s a purpose in your life and that purpose could be sitting right next to you.

The light ahead of me flashes to red, and I take this time to study Jenna. Her head rests against the headrest, and her eyes are shut. Brown hair tumbles down her shoulders and touches her hands as they rub along her biceps. Goose bumps cover her arms. I have the air conditioner on, but it’s low. “Are you cold?” I ask.

“No. It’s just…the words. They’re dead-on. So dead-on. That’s all.”

I know exactly what she means. “I love their music. It’s always powerful, real, and raw. Their albums got me through some tough shit in my life. I can’t believe you’ve never heard of them.”

Jenna tilts her head along the headrest, large beautiful brown eyes looking into mine. “I’m surprised I haven’t either. Do they have more like this?”

“Ch-yeah!” She smiles at my response. “Do you want to hear one of my favorites?” She nods. I scan through the album on my radio until I find it. “This is ‘Rain on Me.’”

Her lips curl into a grin as the song starts. Listening intensely to the words, she leans back again, closes her eyes, and allows the music to just seep through. After the first verse, she starts bobbing her head side to side along with the beat. She’s enjoying it, feeling it. I can’t stop smiling. It’s like I’m listening to the words for the first time.

Jenna flashes her lids open when the song ends and looks at me. Her eager eyes widen at catching me staring at her, but then she blinks as she beams from ear to ear. “I love it. I want to hear more.”

I chuckle. Whatever was bothering her before isn’t on her mind now. “All right, here’s another one of my favorites.” I find the song and continue to drive.

* * *

“I can’t believe you didn’t let me pay,” Jenna argues, her round button nose wrinkling as she slumps down into a chair.

“I told you, it wouldn’t be fair to make you pay when you’re not in the mood for ice cream, so it’s my treat.” I wink, settling in a seat across from her.

“You think you’re just so smart, don’t ya?”

“Well, I didn’t get the highest SAT scores out of my entire senior class for nothing.”

“Really?” she asks.

“No,” I confess. “I had a terrible score.” Jenna’s cheeks color as she laughs at me. I smile charmingly and continue, “But I’m sure I could’ve done better. I didn’t bother to study. There was no reason to. I already knew college was out of the question for me.”

Her features shift out of curiosity. “Why was that?”

“’Cause I knew I had a set job with my uncle. I hated school to begin with. I hated studying, for that matter. I just didn’t see the point.”

“Is that what you always dreamed of doing? Working in construction your entire life?” She seems disappointed.

“Look, Jenna, not all of us have it easy. I didn’t want to try and scrape up money and then work three dead-end jobs just to pay for a diploma. I knew a piece of paper wasn’t gonna get me anywhere in the end.”

“I see.” She looks down, dips her plastic spoon into her ice cream, and then brings it up in salute. “Here’s to stupid, overpriced pieces of paper.” She smiles, drops the spoon into her mouth, pops it out, and licks her lips afterward, letting out a slight moan as she does. “This is so good.”

Fuck me. I wet my lips and look down, stabbing my spoon into my own bowl. I just can’t. It’s taking every fucking ounce of my willpower not to lean across the table and suck on her chocolate-flavored lips. This is going to be harder than I thought. “Yeah,” I add. “I tried to convince Bryson to return his diploma after he freaked out when he received his first student loan bill. He said it doesn’t work that way.” I know it doesn’t work that way, but it was my way of using humor to make a shitty situation better. A new noise brings my head up. Jenna’s hand is covering her mouth. “Did you just snort?” I ask her.

“Oh my God, Logan. You’re…” She drops her hand as she stares at me with bright eyes. “Very interesting. Yes, that’s it. You’re interesting.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment and not an insult.”

She sucks in her bottom lip. I think she knows the effect those lips have on me. Shit, she could recite the entire dictionary and I promise you right now, it would be the most entertaining narration I’ve ever heard—as long as I could stare at those lips. “It’s a compliment,” she says.

“Well, well. Now we’re talking…” Her eyes shift uncomfortably. “I’m kidding, Jersey. No need to get that scared look in your eyes.”

“Whatever.”

“So what about you? What did you major in at college?”

She slips another scoop into her mouth. “What makes you think I went to college?” I raise a brow, giving her a don’t-give-me-shit look. “All right, I did. My major was business. Their plan was to have me work for my father’s company, but things got in the way and I left school before I could finish.”

“You don’t have a degree?”

Jenna forces a tight smile. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

“No, you’re not disappointing me at all. It’s just that I’m surprised. What kind of things got in the way?”

“I knew you’d ask that,” she says, blowing out a long breath. “It’s, um, complicated. I just had a lot going on in my head. You know, petty teenage girl problems.” She brushes off the whole discussion with that last line, as if the interruption of her college career was no big deal, but I take it as a decoy. She’s trying to cover up the real reasons behind it, but I don’t push her.

“You said, ‘their plan.’ Who’s they?” I ask.

“What?”

“The plan for you to go to college and work for your father’s company. You said it was their plan.”

She shakes her head, remembering, then wrinkles her brow. It was only a minute ago. She must be pretty distracted with her thoughts to forget so soon. “Yeah, I meant my parents. It was their plan.”

“What was your plan? What did you want?”

Jenna’s face twists as if I’ve asked something she wasn’t expecting. “For my future?”

“Yeah.” I smile. “What did you want to do or still do?”

She swallows and wets her lips, hesitating to answer the question. She finally blurts, “I wanted to teach. What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

I adjust my smile. “Nothing. It’s just I could see that. You teaching.”

“Can you?”

“Yeah. What did you want to teach?”

She shakes her head. “It’s stupid, actually. A stupid pipe dream.”

“Not to me it isn’t. I’d like to hear it,” I tell her, genuinely interested in her response.

“All right.” She drops the spoon into her bowl and pushes it aside. “I wanted to teach art for young adults in their early and late teens—but not just any teenagers. I…” She looks down, staring at her now empty bowl, and brings a hand up to her cheek, pressing it in as if biting the inside. “I wanted to teach teens with mental illnesses, those who suffer from any type of mental disorder, whether it’s depression, bipolar, autism, or,” she looks up at me for the last one and whispers, “schizophrenia.” She closes her mouth and swallows nervously as she watches my expression. I don’t know what she sees on my face, but she must have deemed it okay to proceed because she continues, “A lot of teenagers who suffer from a mental disorder need an escape. Some use writing or music, and many use art as way to escape the monsters trapped in their head. I wanted to give them that escape, to be a mentor, an open ear, a person they can trust and feel safe with. I don’t know.” She laughs. “I told you it was stupid.”