Nervously, and with complete focus, I aim and shoot. Dammit. I miss. Blair takes her turn, shooting and landing it. While everyone, including Blair and Bryson, shouts and screams—a bit overly dramatic if you ask me—all I can do is look at Logan, who has the largest grin smacked across his handsome face. He sloppily lifts his right hand up to give me a high five. “We didn’t win,” I say.

“So?” He shrugs. “You played and that, my Jersey Girl, is a celebration in and of itself.”

He just called me his Jersey Girl, emphasizing the “my.” I can’t help but smile. Bryson, now beside us, places their last cup next to our last cup along with three shot glasses filled with vodka. Logan’s hooded eyes graze over the shot glasses and he cringes. I’m not sure why, but something in me just can’t do it. I just can’t let him. I quickly grab both red Solo cups and chug down one of the beers.

More whistles and cheering.

Beer is disgusting. I can’t fathom why people actually drink this for enjoyment.

I chug the second without another thought, gagging a bit at the end.

“W-what are you doing, Jersey?” Logan stumbles forward.

A hand tugs at my arm. “Yeah. What the hell are you doing, Jenna?” Charlie’s beside me now, looking at me like I have five heads.

I shrug her off, smirk, and grip two of the three shot glasses. Saluting Logan, I tell myself this is for him. I bring the glass to my lips, tilt my head and gulp down the burning liquid. Logan laughs at my face, which I’m sure is twisted in disgust. “Jenna…you don’t have to drink it,” Charlie says.

“I’m blending in, just like everyone else,” I say, taking the second shot, which I almost spit back out. I feel a burning in the pit of my stomach and wonder again why people drink this for fun.

Wetting my lips and already feeling sick to my stomach, I reach for the third shot glass, but a hand stops me. I look up at Logan, who slowly shakes his head. He grabs it for himself instead and gulps it down. I hear Charlie mumble something under her breath as she stomps off. I’ll deal with her in the morning. Right now, I can’t keep my eyes off of Logan and the look he’s giving me.

There’s no humor. Just Logan and his stormy blue eyes, scorching deep within me, trying to figure something out. He slowly steps forward. I tilt my head back to look up at him as his eyes scroll down over my face. What is this look, Logan? He rests his hands on my waist and gently pulls me in, my body against his. “Why did you do that?” he murmurs, low enough so only I can hear.

“Because believe it or not, I care enough that I don’t want you to have alcohol poisoning,” I try to joke. But I fail miserably, too consumed with how close Logan is and how his hands curve comfortably along my hips.

“You care about me?” He’s still giving me that unknown look.

Something is stuck in my throat and I try to swallow it back. “Um, I care enough about the alcohol poisoning thingy.” Thingy?

He leans down, his face centimeters from mine. “I care about you too,” he tells me. And I don’t know if it’s the way he’s looking at me or the words he’s saying to me or the fact that everyone else seems to have disappeared or a combination of all of those things, but I can’t help the way my heart soars at his declaration.

“Y-you do?” I stumble over the two words.

“I do.”

Don’t kiss me. Please do not kiss me. He leans in closer. My chest burns, and I’m not sure if it’s the aftershock of the vodka or my nerves causing it.

He smells like liquor and beer and Logan.

Please kiss me.

And he does. Three small pecks, but not where I expected. The first one lands on the tip of my nose—a small, simple peck. I shut my eyes at the contact. The second one presses along my forehead. It leaves a warm and tingly feeling and my chest expands. The third tickles my chin, lingering a little longer than the rest.

It wasn’t what I expected—and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping for a kiss similar to the first one on my front porch—but these three small kisses mean so much more.

They’re beautiful and gentle and simply Logan. They outshine the first kiss on any given day.

* * *

“Jenna?”

“Yes?” I yawn, my head dizzy from the liquor. I’m snuggled against Logan’s chest. It’s a little past three in the morning. Every one of the partiers has left except for the ones who crashed because they were too drunk. We’re lying beside one another on the large, comfy couch. His fingers are gently running through my hair, and it feels so good.

I like this.

I like cuddling with Logan. I like lying on Logan’s chest. I like the fact that our legs are tangled with one another’s and it feels completely comfortable.

He breathes out a heavy sigh. The smell of beer and vodka invades the thin space between us, but I don’t mind it. “I want us to be more,” he whispers.

More?

Oh no, Logan. Just…no. I knew it. I was afraid of this. As much as I’d love to be able to give him what he wants, I can’t. My thoughts roil with the idea. I’m too much more. He has no idea how much more I am—and not in a good way. He won’t be able to handle me, my issues, my illness, and especially how damaged I am. I’m just too much.

And more is the last thing he needs.

Finally tilting my head up, I look at him. His eyes are shut, his lips slightly parted. Just like that, he’s fast asleep.

* * *

For the past hour this morning, I’ve scrolled through my phone, pondering whether I should or shouldn’t text him. Matthew has sent me a few messages since the day he landed on my doorstep unannounced and Logan was there to save the day. After each text was met with no response, he must have finally gotten the hint because he simply stopped messaging me altogether. The last text I received from him was over a week ago, asking if I wanted to go out for a friendly coffee date.

When Logan said he wanted more from me last night, it scared the hell out of me. Maybe he was just drunk and it was the liquor speaking, but that’s a chance I can’t take. I’m not sure if going out with Matthew is the best option. I used Logan to get rid of Matthew. Now I might use Matthew to push Logan away. The thing is I don’t want to push Logan away; I want us to keep what we have. It’s simple and perfect. But the more he wants will only complicate things. Letting out a frustrated breath, I type a text, send it off, and then head downstairs where the others are.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Ms. Drunkster herself,” Santino jokes. He’s seated by the kitchen table with Charlie on his lap as usual.

I moan, brushing him off as I take the only empty seat, which is beside Logan. He smiles and pushes a full glass of water and a bottle of aspirin toward me. I open the cap of the bottle and pop two pills, gulping them down with the water. Everyone is minding their own business, chatting away. Logan leans in, quietly asking, “What happened to you this morning? I woke up and you were gone.”

“I had to use the restroom, and I felt so sick I just went to bed upstairs. I didn’t want to chance it if I had to vomit. Sorry.” I really needed to just get away. To think. Alone. Without being in his arms.

He reaches up and brushes my bangs aside in understanding.

“Would the two of you just hook up already?” We both turn our heads and face Blair Mega Bitch. She rolls her eyes. “Don’t give me that look. We all think the two of you should just do it already,” she says, tossing both arms in the air in frustration.

“We’re just friends,” I say. My phone buzzes. I open the text that came in and read it.

“Well, with friends like the two of you, who needs fuck buddies, right?” she goes on.

“Jealous?” Logan retorts.

Blair’s eyes spread wide, then she laughs. “Of the two of you? Hell no. It’s just disgusting. The tiny whispers, giggles, cuddling, but no kissing or sex? Pfft. The entire scene makes me have blue balls and I don’t even have balls.”

Logan opens his mouth to retort, but I cut him off by saying, “Well, like I said, Logan and I are just good friends. In fact I have a date on Tuesday.”

“With who?” Logan whips his head around, eyes glaring and lips slightly parted.

Shit. Why do I suddenly feel nervous? Most of all, why do I feel guilty? “Matthew.” I say it so low, I don’t think he hears me, but his twisted features tell me otherwise.

“Matthew?”

I look around at everyone. I guess I’m secretly hoping for help, but everyone turns their head and pretends not to be listening—except for Blair Mega Bitch, that is. The smirk on her face just proves she’s enjoying all of this. I’d like nothing more than to smack it off her face.

“Yeah. We’re going out on Tuesday for a late coffee date. Is that a problem?” I face him, arching a brow.

“Nope. Not at all,” he says smoothly. I study him. Interestingly enough, he seems to be okay with it.

* * *

Logan

Is she fucking kidding me?

Matthew?

The same dude that stopped by her place when she forced me to kiss her so she could get rid of him?

Do I have a problem with it?

Nope. Not at all.

I’m completely fucking cool about it.

She can go out with Matthew.

I couldn’t care less.

I couldn’t give two fucks.

Matthew?

Fuck Matthew and Tuesdays and shitty fucking coffee dates.

* * *

Jenna

It’s Tuesday, six in the evening. Matthew took me to a quiet coffee shop nearby my house. Over the past hour he’s been going on and on about starting grad school in the fall, and how his parents are proud of all his achievements, and how he graduated top of his class, and how he wants to be involved with politics just like his father and hopes to one day be president of the United States, but before he can move up, he has to start from the bottom, so his first goal is to be a senator within six years and blah, blah, blah.

None of this interests me.

Physically, I’m here with him as I nod and smile. Emotionally, my head is wrapped up in Logan. He sent me a few texts last night. They were simple, as simple as Logan could be.

LOGAN: Excited about your coffee “date?”

ME: “Date?” Yeah, I guess I am.

LOGAN: Yeah, “date.” I mean who takes a girl out for coffee as a date?

ME: Believe it or not, it’s very common.

LOGAN: It’s stupid.

ME: What would you do for a first date?

LOGAN: Take her out to a diner and then back to my house to watch a comedy ;-)

ME: Sounds like a nice date. Lucky girl.

And then I regretted texting it because it was flirty and I didn’t want to give him the wrong impression. So I changed the subject to something completely random, talking about the weather and how it’s going to be extremely hot in the coming week. He must have gotten the hint because he played along.

“Are you okay?” Matthew prods.

“Huh? Yes. Well, not really. I have a headache.”

“Would you like me to take you home?”

I know this is so bad in so many ways, but I ask anyway. “Do you mind driving me to a friend’s house in Philly?”

“No, not at all.”

I smile.

* * *

Logan

I’m enjoying my second beer, playing a video game, and trying to focus on anything other than picking up my phone to bug Jersey Girl. I know she’s on her “date,” so I’ll just wait. But waiting is a bitch. I’m just about to break my own rule when the doorbell rings. I groan. Who the hell could that be? I’m not in the mood for visitors. Reluctantly, I stand from the couch and make my way toward the door, opening it while I take a sip of my beer. My eyes meet with Jersey Girl’s brown gems and I act natural. I don’t want her to see how much her being here actually excites me.

Jersey’s eyes trail down my shirtless body and the PJs hanging low from my waist. Then she looks back up and smiles at me. “Can I come in?”

I step aside, still holding the door open for her, and close it after she steps in. “How’d you get here?” I ask, following behind her as she makes her way into my kitchen.

“Matthew.”

Matthew. I’m happy her back is facing me so she can’t see the way my expression sours at the mention of his name. “You asked your date to drop you off at another guy’s place?” That makes me smile.

“Nope. I told him it’s a friend’s place. I didn’t stress it was a guy’s place,” she says, opening my refrigerator. “I’m so hungry.”