Perfectly Damaged
Page 70I calm my breathing, and then call for my father to come in. When he enters, his eyes widen. I’m not sure what’s more shocking to him—the fact that I have a man in my room or the fact that there is actually a man in my room.
Dad straightens his shoulders before clearing his throat. “Jenna,” he says in a fatherly tone.
“Daddy,” I say, mocking his serious address. Logan snorts, which makes me giggle.
My father doesn’t find this as amusing as we do; I can tell by the very high, arched brow.
“Dad, this is Logan. He’s my…” I falter, looking over at Logan to see what we are exactly.
Logan smiles. “Boyfriend,” he finishes for me. Logan then stands and walks over to Dad, extending his hand. “It’s a pleasure meeting you, Mr. McDaniel.”
My father shakes Logan’s hand firmly. “Pleasure is all mine, son.”
And then the awkward silence descends. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed. Logan is standing beside my father, still trying desperately to cover his boner. Dad is staring at me. “You needed something?” I finally ask him.
“Yes. I wanted to invite you to dinner Saturday night with your mother and me.”
“Oh,” I say. The thought of having dinner with my mother is not very appealing.
Logan looks up at me for confirmation. I gently smile, indicating I’d like it if he joined me. He nods. Then he faces my father, straightening his stance. “I’ll be there, sir. Thank you.”
“Very well. Saturday at six. I’ll have my assistant make the reservations and send you the information, Jenna.”
I smile at him. “Thank you.”
He gently grins at me, nods at Logan, and then pivots to leave my room. Then, as if he’s forgotten something, he looks over his shoulder and grips the doorknob. “I’ll just leave this open,” he mumbles, then walks off.
Logan and I wait until we hear him halfway down the staircase before we finally look at one another and burst out laughing. “Oh my God, that was completely awkward,” I force out, gasping for air.
“Tell me about it,” Logan blows out, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. Then his shoulders relax as he lets out a sigh. “I should really get back to work anyway. I’m sure someone is looking for me.”
As much as I don’t want him to go—I just got him back—I know he has to. “You’re probably right.”
“This is for you.” He walks over. “It came in yesterday.” I grab the package he’s been holding. It’s pretty light, but large in size. Definitely not a CD. It’s wrapped in an old newspaper article. “You really need to invest in some wrapping paper,” I say.
He shrugs. “I figured I’d keep the tradition going.”
It’s an eight-by-ten personalized photo album. The black gloss cover has a metallic silver inscription: Jenna’s Art. I squint my eyes in confusion, wondering what that means as I open it. The first page is a personalized note in black ink from Logan.
You see what you did here?
You, my Jersey Girl, created art.
I told you. You’re stronger than you think.
Love,
Logan
I flip to the next page. The first image is one I took when Logan and I were lying down on the trail looking up. The sun is casting down through the branches and leaves of the trees. It looks just as beautiful in the photo as it did in person. The next photo is a close-up of a baby deer, drinking by the creek. The fur of the deer is more vibrant than I remember; its reddish tone bursts out of the page. It is the focal point of the entire image.
Not able to contain myself, I flip to the next photo. I smile remembering this one. We were walking alone, side-by-side, and I had the urge to take a photo of the long, empty trail ahead of us. Trees, plants, branches, and leaves surround the pathway. You can’t see the end, but even though it’s leading to the unknown, it’s still very welcoming, inviting. Like there’s a captivating journey just waiting for you to follow it. I remember how when we pulled into that parking lot, I wanted nothing more than to run away from that place. Looking at these pictures now, I can’t believe I ever felt that way.
I continue to flip through the pages, amazed by it all.
When I reach the very last picture, my breath catches in my chest. It’s an image of the mother and daughter we ran into. They’re walking away, and the focal point is their hands holding one another. A tiny dimpled hand nestles with its protective keeper. Everything around them blurs except for the hold the mother has on her daughter. This image speaks so much more to me than anyone will ever understand. It’s something I’ve wished for, for so long—the relationship a mother and daughter should have. The one I will never have.
My eyes water. Sniffing back the tears, I close the album and look up at him. “You did this for me?”
“I didn’t do a thing. You did.”
“Logan, I’m—I don’t know what to say. This is a beautiful gift. It’s…” I wrap my arms around the album, bringing it to my chest and hugging it tightly. “It’s something I will always cherish.”
He bends at the knees, meeting me eye to eye. “I just wanted to show you that you’re capable of doing what you love. It may not be with a paintbrush, but you captured something and created art, regardless.”
I quickly pay the cab, climb out, and shut the door behind me. Unable to properly survey my surroundings, I dart for the apartment complex, clinging to the bag in my hand. It’s too dark out, and even though the streets are quiet at this time of night, you can never be too careful. After entering the building, I climb the steps to the third floor and knock on apartment C-10.
I knock again and again and louder again until I’m banging on the heavy wooden surface, my knuckles reddening. “What the fuck?” He sneers. “I’m coming. I’m fucking coming,” I hear distantly. A deadbolt unlocks, and the knob screeches as it turns before the door opens.
His sluggish blue eyes scrunch then widen when he recognizes it’s me. “Jersey Girl? What are you doing here?”