Perfectly Damaged

She steps away and flattens her back against the wall. Her lashes and cheeks are soaked in tears, her face filled with pain. She brings a hand to her stomach as if she’s going to be sick.

I quickly turn, searching for a suitcase or bag. Anything. I finally find her luggage by the closet and pack whatever I can find—clothes, shoes, her toothbrush. I rummage through her room, all while peeking over every few seconds to look at her. She’s still in the same position, zoned out in space.

I zip up her case. Then I march over to her, watching her as I approach. With every step, I grow angrier. I can’t believe her mother would do this. I tug at her chin and look her in the eyes, but she’s not staring back. She’s lost somewhere. “Jersey Girl,” I say. “I’m going to take care of you.” I rub my thumb over her jawline. “I’m going to make sure you never have to see her again. She’s wrong. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Okay?”

She doesn’t say anything.

Fuck.

I pull her into me, guiding her back down the stairs and out of the house while her parents argue in the background.

Brooke spins around in the middle of her dorm room. The edge of her navy blue dress twists and hugs her curves as she whirls in place. Then she stops and looks at me. “Will you cheer up, buttercup!” she says, her smile brightening as she fists both hands on her hips. I force a smile, shifting uncomfortably on top of her roommate’s bed, which is mine this weekend since her roommate is out of town “We’re going to have a blast tonight! Who knows,” she starts, lifting one shoulder into a slight shrug. “You might meet a boy.”

“Oh my God,” I cry out as I dig my fingers into the passenger seat. Logan reaches over.

“What’s wrong?” he urges.

My head slams back against the headrest over and over again as every detail of that night whirls in my head. I remember. “I was there,” I breathe out.

Music blasts in my ear the moment we step foot into the sorority house. I wrinkle my nose at the smell of piss beer and hard liquor floating through the air. Most of the ditzy girls are already drunk and stumbling around, throwing themselves at the first guy who walks by them. Brooke lets out a loud squeal, making me jump. She runs over to a guy who’s dressed in skinny jeans the color of Pepto-Bismol, a fitted white T showcasing his lean figure, and—the only boyish piece of clothing on him—white slip-on sneakers. Brooke pulls him into a tight hug.

“T, this is my sister, Jenna. Jenna, this is T.”

“Brooke has told me so much about you, honey.” He smiles broadly at me and waves a large hand my way. “It’s nice to finally put a face to a name.”

I nod, raising both brows. Brooke’s never mentioned him to me, but I don’t say that to him. “Hi,” I say.

“Well,” Brooke says excitedly. “Let’s party, shall we?” She wraps a hand through the crook of T’s arm.

T searches around the room, narrowing his eyes as he takes in the scene before us. “Which men will be our victims tonight?” he purrs.

Brooke tosses her head back in laughter. I smile because I haven’t seen her this happy in a long time. She looks over her shoulder, her smile expanding when she sees mine. She winks playfully and shimmies as she says, “Come on, Jenna. Let’s dance.”

Over the next few hours, I’m a wallflower as I watch Brooke and T dance the night away. They’ve had their fair share of shots of tequila and beer chugging. I’m sipping on my second can of Sprite when Brooke stumbles into me. “Jenna, you’re no fun…” she slurs and wiggles a finger at the tip of my nose. “You need to live a little.”

I place my Sprite down on a table beside me and grab Brooke by the elbows to balance her. “All right, I think you’ve had enough. Shall we go back to the dorm?”

“What? No. I’m having a blast!” She quickly twirls, but sways side-to-side as she tries to stop. “Whoa. That made me light-headed.”

“Yep. We should go. Where’s T?” I ask, looking around.

“He found a hottie to make out with. He’s such a whore.” She giggles as she squints her eyes to search for him. “There he is!” She points to the middle of the dance floor. If it weren’t for his pink pants, I would’ve missed him since his face is currently being smothered by another dude’s. I shake my head.

“Well, I can’t drive, so how are we getting back to your dorm?”

“Walking. Duh.”

“Walking?”

“Yes, Jenna. It’s not a long drive…” She hiccups.

“Exactly, drive. How long is the walk?”

“About fifteen minutes.”

“Okay, we can do that.”

Fifteen minutes have come and gone and still no sign that we’re near the dorm rooms. At this point I’m irritated. Brooke is singing along to God knows what as I sit her down on a bench in front of a graveyard. It’s dark out and beginning to drizzle. I let out a frustrating sigh as I look around. The last thing I need is to get caught in the rain with my drunken sister.

“Jenna, we should make a musical!”

“Not now, Brooke.”

Lively laughter echoes from behind me. I twirl around, my heart panicking as I hear noises coming from the graveyard—like boots crunching against fallen leaves or branches. The laughter grows and I hear muffled talking. It sounds like several voices, but I can’t make out how many. “Brooke, come on. Let’s keep moving,” I say anxiously.

I pull at her arm, my eyes and ears alert to whatever may be beyond the cemetery fence.

“My feet hurt,” she whines.

“I know they do, just come on—”

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” a low male voice asks amid chuckles.

I look toward the voice. Three men step out of the graveyard and onto the sidewalk beside the bench where Brooke and I are.

“Looks like we have a drunk one on our hands,” another one says, his cadence hinting at a southern accent. He takes a long pull of a joint. Then he steps forward, extending his arm and the butt toward me. “Want a drag, little miss?” he offers.

I shake my head. My heart lurches as I take in all three men. The first one that spoke looks to be the youngest with blonde hair and honey-brown eyes. They might be attractive if they weren’t so bloodshot, I’m sure from whatever drugs he enjoyed throughout the night. The second one, the one who offered me a smoke, looks like he might be the oldest. He has long, dark hair, dark eyes, and a poorly trimmed, long goatee. He stumbles a bit, which only proves he’s just as stoned as his buddy. The third one, who hasn’t uttered a word, stands farther behind them. His brown eyes seem gentle, as if he’s silently apologizing to me.