Perfectly Damaged

“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.