Perfectly Damaged
Page 50Yeah. Now she’ll probably run as far away from me as possible. That was my past. I’m not like that anymore.
Jenna’s features distort in confusion. “You don’t do drugs or anything anymore?” she asks.
“No.”
“But you drink?”
This is difficult to explain. “Yeah, I do. I’m not addicted to alcohol. I know that’s what an addict would say, but I’m not. I never was. I drink from time to time, socially, but I don’t turn to booze to solve my issues. When I’m dealing with something, I work out instead. I take out all my frustrations at the gym.”
“Oh,” she says.
I lean forward, lowering my head in an effort to coax her into looking at me. Her eyes meet mine. Finally. “Tell me what you’re thinking right now. Tell me if what I just told you changes your opinion of me. One thing you’ll learn about me, Jersey, is that I’m very honest and I don’t like to sugarcoat anything. What you see is what you get. And I’d like it if you could be that way with me as well, okay?”
“All right.” She straightens her shoulders, her eyes boring into mine. “What do you want to know?”
“What are you thinking right now?” I ask.
“That you’re not perfect,” she responds, deadpan.
“I know. I like that about you.”
“You like that I’m not perfect?” I ask, waiting for her to clarify.
“Yes. It makes you real, authentic. I’m not perfect either.”
“So are you saying you have a dark side you’re withholding from me?” I ask playfully, but the look in her eyes transforms my smile into a thin line. “What are you not saying?”
“Judgments are given so easily; learning about a person and their struggles is far more difficult.”
“You’re right—judgments are easily given. But I’m not judging you, Jenna. I would never do that. I genuinely want to learn about you. If you allow me to, that is.”
She seems to be struggling with her own thoughts. Her eyes are downcast as she brings a shaky finger to the side of her temple, rubbing it as if her head aches. “Excuse me. I have to use the restroom,” she says before she stands and walks away.
Pacing back and forth inside the bathroom, I try to breathe. I’m having an anxiety attack; at least it feels like I am. Why is it so hard to just come out and say it? Logan could walk away right now and it wouldn’t hurt too bad, would it? Then again, he shared personal things with me about himself, which I’m sure wasn’t easy for him to do.
“I’m schizoaffective.” I say it out loud in the empty bathroom. “I’m schizoaffective.” I allow it to roll off my tongue.
How will he look at me? Logan says he won’t judge me, but I know the truth. It’s never easy to look at someone the same way after hearing news like this. It’s different when you tell someone you’re dying because of an illness. Then, you just get the sympathy treatment. When you tell them you have a mental illness, especially when it’s associated with schizophrenia, you get the is-she-going-to-jump-out-and-stab-me-because-she-must-be-crazy look.
It’s the same look my mother gave me when I was diagnosed. Maybe it was like reliving her childhood all over again, I don’t know. Either way, she couldn’t bear to even look at me. My own mother turned on me. What makes me think Logan will be any different? He has no ties to me; he can just up and leave and never look back. My mother had no choice but to deal with me.
Dammit. I feel dizzy. I grip the sink to keep my balance and then look up at my reflection in the mirror. Look at me. All this makeup, my perfectly styled hair, these clothes neatly paired together—it’s all just one big cover-up. No matter how hard I try to perfect being normal, I will never be able to. There’s not enough foundation or eye shadow or even clothing in the world to conceal who I really am. And even if I were to fool everyone around me, I could never fool the villains inside my head. I will always be me: Jenna McDaniel, the girl with more issues than she can carry. No man will ever be able to handle them. Not even Logan Reed.
When Jersey comes back from the bathroom, she seems distracted, distant. She’s barely said a word in the last ten minutes and I’m beginning to wonder if I said or did something wrong.
The waitress dropped off the check and I paid cash, leaving the money on the table. “I’m thinking maybe we can go to a movie, since the art show didn’t work out.” Shit. Stupid ass, a theater will be just as packed with people. “I mean we can go back to my apartment to watch a movie.”
That didn’t sound right either. Just shut the fuck up. Jenna is back to feeling uncomfortable. I can tell as she shifts nervously. Great, asshole. “Or I can take you home. Either way, whatever you want.” I try to save my sorry ass, but I don’t think it did any good.
“Sure. I don’t mind going to your place.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I’d like to see how Logan Reed lives. I’m sure it’ll be very amusing.”
She finds this funny. “You know, I had a feeling you’d be a gamer. After spending time with you, it just seems like you.”
“If you keep figuring me out, Jersey, we’re gonna have to end this friendship. It’s getting out of hand.”
At least she gets my humor. Most women find it arrogant and not funny at all.
“All right, I’ll go to your apartment, and if I find anything un-badass, I promise to keep it to myself. Under one condition.”
“What is that?”
Jenna’s face turns serious. “I need your address. I need to text it to Charlie. Please don’t think I’m weird or anything. It’s just that I’ll feel safer if someone knows where I—”
I cut her off, reciting my address. I can understand this. I don’t ask her anything or the reason behind it. After all, I don’t want her to feel unsafe in any way. She pulls out her cell, and I can tell she feels embarrassed to ask if I’m being truthful. So instead of reciting the address again, I pull out my wallet and hand her my driver’s license.
Jenna looks down at the plastic card; it takes her a few seconds to finally grab it. She punches my address into her phone and sends it off to Charlie, who kind of scares me a bit if I’m being completely honest.