Perfectly Damaged

His features are stern, not giving in. I’m sure he doesn’t believe it. “Meet me here tomorrow at eight in the morning.”

“I have to work.”

“Do you want to know?”

He nods after a few seconds in thought.

“Then call out sick or something. Meet me here at eight in the morning, and I’ll take you where we need to go. By the end of tomorrow, you’ll have all of your answers. And if you want me afterward,” I choke back on the words, knowing he won’t, “then at least you’ll know the truth.”

He nods. “All right. Okay. I’ll be here at eight tomorrow morning.” Logan presses his lips together to say one more thing, but I don’t let him.

Instead, I turn around, walking past the lawn and the pool, through the sliding doors, and back up the stairs. Charlie’s still in my room, cozy on my bed. She looks up from a magazine she’s reading and raises a questioning brow.

“I’m going to tell Logan everything tomorrow.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” she asks.

“He deserves to know, Charlie. I just hope after he finally knows it all, he’ll be okay.”

“I’m not worried about Logan,” she says, placing the magazine aside. “I’m worried about you.”

At 7:50 a.m. I pull up in front of Jenna’s house. I cut the engine, lean my head back, and look out the passenger window, facing the double-door entrance where Jenna will soon exit from. My eyes are heavy and my head aches from lack of sleep. The entire night my head was spinning with what to expect today. Jenna says by tonight I’ll have all of my questions answered, and if in the end I don’t want her anymore, then at least I’ll know the truth. What pisses me off is that I had to wait this long. The curiosity is ripping at me, and I hate that I have to wait another minute to know it all.

I had a talk with Bryson yesterday about not coming in today. I haven’t been myself the past few days, so when I told him I had a personal issue that I needed to take care of, he didn’t question me on it. Instead he said he’d talk to his dad if my whereabouts came up. Uncle George hasn’t been at the site as much, only once a week to check on things. The guesthouse framing and bordering are all up and the exterior is already designed. We’re now working on the interior, so me skipping a day isn’t going to set us back.

Exactly at 7:58 a.m. Jenna steps out of her house. I’d be lying if I said I’m not nervous—I am. I have no idea where she’s taking me, what she plans to tell me, or how I’ll react to it all. Her biggest fear is how I’ll perceive the information she’s been holding back. Now my fear is exactly the same. How will I accept it? As much as I want to believe that nothing can keep us apart, not knowing how severe the issue is that she’s keeping from me makes it hard to be sure.

Stepping out of my truck, I walk around and stand by the passenger side. I open the door, shove my hands into the front pockets of my jeans, and wait as Jenna makes her way down the path. With my head low, I try to focus on my breathing. Knowing this may be the last day we’ll ever have together stings. It’s the last thing I want to think about right now, but it’s unavoidable.

I catch a whiff of her scent before I look up. “Hey,” she says.

My gaze shifts from the pavement to her face. “Hey,” I respond. The dark circles under her eyes prove that she had just as little sleep as me. The impulse to reach out and touch her face hits me, but I resist, and we both just stand there staring at each other. It’s kind of awkward, and I sense that both of us have a lot running through our heads right now. I gesture for her to jump in the truck. She nods and I pull one hand out of my pocket, helping her to settle in.

After I hop back into the driver seat, I turn on the ignition. The truck roars to life as I crook my neck to face her. “Where to?”

She hands me her phone, the screen showing the navigation to an unknown location.

“Where is this?” I ask.

“You’ll see.”

I grab the phone and place it on a holder on top of the dashboard. “It’s a two-hour drive.”

“Yep,” she responds.

All right, then.

The music made up for the silence between us for the past two hours. There’s no getting around it. We’re both nervous about today, so I guess no conversation is necessary at this point.

Jenna shifts in her seat the moment her phone announces we’ve reached our destination. Making a left, I pull onto a long dirt driveway, driving until we approach a metal fence. I press on my breaks and roll down my window for the security guard.

Jenna leans over my lap, placing her hand against my thigh to keep herself balanced. “Good morning,” she tells the guard. “Jenna McDaniel visiting Carol Peterson.”

The guard looks over a list. He then presses a button and nods. The fence unlocks and slowly opens. I drive through, my eyes catching the large sign: Welcome to Brandy Mental Health Facility.

“Who’s Carol Peterson?” I ask as I continue down the path, following the signs to the main building.

“My grandmother,” she says softly.

I don’t respond. I just keep going until I reach a large brick building. It looks like a small replica of a castle from London or someplace like that, something out of a brochure. After appreciating the exterior—after all, buildings and architectural structure is my thing—I pull into the first available parking spot. I shut off the ignition, unbuckle the seatbelt, and twist my body to face Jenna. She has her head low, her hair covering most of her face, and both of her hands fidget on her lap.

I reach over and toss dark brown waves of her hair over her shoulder. My fingers tug the remaining strands over her ear to view her profile. Then I trace down her jawline and tilt her face until she’s looking at me.

“Jersey Girl,” I say quietly. She shuts her eyes, huffing out a ragged breath.

“It feels like forever since you’ve called me that,” she whispers. “Every time you say it, it feels right. Like everything is going to be okay. No matter how messed-up the world around me is, every time you call me Jersey Girl I feel safe somehow.” Her tear-filled eyes pop open.

I smile. “Everything is going to be okay.”

She sniffs back her tears, nods softly, and then hops out of the truck. Together, side-by-side, we step into the building.

It’s not what you would expect a mental health facility to look like. This place is definitely for the upper class and privileged. It feels like I just walked into a hotel lobby. I shouldn’t have expected anything less since Jenna comes from a wealthy family. Not that I’ve ever visited a mental facility, but I’ve seen my share of movies involving the mentally ill. Other than the distant moans and screams, I can’t find any similarities, though. Jenna approaches the front desk and signs us in.