by E. L. Montes
“Oh my God, Logan. You’re…” She drops her hand as she stares at me with bright eyes. “Very interesting. Yes, that’s it. You’re interesting.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment and not an insult.”
She sucks in her bottom lip. I think she knows the effect those lips have on me. Shit, she could recite the entire dictionary and I promise you right now, it would be the most entertaining narration I’ve ever heard—as long as I could stare at those lips. “It’s a compliment,” she says.
“Well, well. Now we’re talking…” Her eyes shift uncomfortably. “I’m kidding, Jersey. No need to get that scared look in your eyes.”
“Whatever.”
“So what about you? What did you major in at college?”
She slips another scoop into her mouth. “What makes you think I went to college?” I raise a brow, giving her a don’t-give-me-shit look. “All right, I did. My major was business. Their plan was to have me work for my father’s company, but things got in the way and I left school before I could finish.”
“You don’t have a degree?”
Jenna forces a tight smile. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
“No, you’re not disappointing me at all. It’s just that I’m surprised. What kind of things got in the way?”
“I knew you’d ask that,” she says, blowing out a long breath. “It’s, um, complicated. I just had a lot going on in my head. You know, petty teenage girl problems.” She brushes off the whole discussion with that last line, as if the interruption of her college career was no big deal, but I take it as a decoy. She’s trying to cover up the real reasons behind it, but I don’t push her.
“You said, ‘their plan.’ Who’s they?” I ask.
“What?”
“The plan for you to go to college and work for your father’s company. You said it was their plan.”
She shakes her head, remembering, then wrinkles her brow. It was only a minute ago. She must be pretty distracted with her thoughts to forget so soon. “Yeah, I meant my parents. It was their plan.”
“What was your plan? What did you want?”
Jenna’s face twists as if I’ve asked something she wasn’t expecting. “For my future?”
“Yeah.” I smile. “What did you want to do or still do?”
She swallows and wets her lips, hesitating to answer the question. She finally blurts, “I wanted to teach. What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
I adjust my smile. “Nothing. It’s just I could see that. You teaching.”
“Can you?”
“Yeah. What did you want to teach?”
She shakes her head. “It’s stupid, actually. A stupid pipe dream.”
“Not to me it isn’t. I’d like to hear it,” I tell her, genuinely interested in her response.
“All right.” She drops the spoon into her bowl and pushes it aside. “I wanted to teach art for young adults in their early and late teens—but not just any teenagers. I…” She looks down, staring at her now empty bowl, and brings a hand up to her cheek, pressing it in as if biting the inside. “I wanted to teach teens with mental illnesses, those who suffer from any type of mental disorder, whether it’s depression, bipolar, autism, or,” she looks up at me for the last one and whispers, “schizophrenia.” She closes her mouth and swallows nervously as she watches my expression. I don’t know what she sees on my face, but she must have deemed it okay to proceed because she continues, “A lot of teenagers who suffer from a mental disorder need an escape. Some use writing or music, and many use art as way to escape the monsters trapped in their head. I wanted to give them that escape, to be a mentor, an open ear, a person they can trust and feel safe with. I don’t know.” She laughs. “I told you it was stupid.”
“That isn’t stupid. That’s…wow…it’s fucking great.”
“Really?” she asks uncertainly.
“Really. I wish…” I let out a huff. “I wish Sean had that…had something like that. I mean, I know he was in his early twenties when he was released from jail, but I kind of wish he had that…” I trail off.
She reaches across the table and grabs my hand. “Thank you,” she says, giving it a tight squeeze.
I smile with a nod. “Yeah, no problem. So…” I shake off my thoughts about Sean and ask, “Why don’t you still do it? I’ve seen your work. You’re talented, Jenna, and to use that talent for something good would be awesome.”
“No. My parents, especially my mother,”—she rolls her eyes when mentioning her mother—“think art is a good hobby, not a career choice.” She shrugs. “Besides, I don’t paint anymore.”
“At all?” She shakes her head. “Why? Shit, if I was even a quarter as talented as you are, I wouldn’t throw that away.”
“Logan, when I paint, I feel. It may not make any sense, but painting brings out a lot of emotions for me. I’m sure, like any artist—musician, writer, sculptor—the emotion just pours out. But sometimes, it becomes too much to handle. You know?”
“Yeah. And what’s wrong with that? Do you know how many people keep so many bottled up feelings inside, there’s no way to just let it all out, and they don’t have a way to let it out. Why not pour it out into something beautiful? Make it a masterpiece, whether it’s a piece of art, or a brilliant poem, or a soulful song? That’s what makes it the best. When someone else can look at your work and see every single nuance, sense every individual emotion. Feel like they were there with you. I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t waste that talent.”
“Wow,” she says, lost for words. “Are you sure you don’t have any secret talents you’re hiding from me?”
“Nah. I wanted to be a rock star when I was thirteen, but that was short-lived. When I realized I couldn’t hold a tune, I had to give it up.”
She laughs. Hard. I laugh too. Then she looks at me differently, as if she’s seeing me in a whole new light. “I like you, Logan.”
“Who doesn’t?”
“You know, when someone gives you a compliment, just say thank you. Okay? Because you can ruin a moment like this.” She snaps a finger.
“Thank you,” I say.
“You’re welcome.”
I look across the street where the playground is. It’s nice out and I’m not ready to take her home yet. I’m not ready for her to want to leave either. I want to keep her as long as I can. I want to know her better. I want to just… Dammit. I just want to be able to look at her for as long as I can. “Wanna go to the park and act like big kids?” I blurt out.
“Hmm,” she contemplates. “Okay. I’ll race you.” She quickly stands, removes her shoes, and darts for it.
“Dude! That’s so not fair. You’re cheating!”
I swirl off my seat and run after Jenna, making sure there’s no oncoming traffic as I pick up the pace. I catch up, sticking my tongue out as I pass her. She gasps and runs harder. “First one to the slide wins!” she shouts out.
“Bet!” I respond.
We both run harder. Shit, she can run. I’m all out of breath, but I continue to push through. My legs are way longer than hers, so my strides are wider. She beats me anyway, by a few inches. As she reaches the red slide, she turns around, and throws out her arms, breathlessly yelling out, “I won! Ooot, ooot!” She does a little dance.
I stop in front of her and bend at the waist, out of breath and raspy. “Did you just cabbage patch?”
Jenna lands her hands to her hips. “Yeah, why?”
“You need to get out more.”
She laughs. “Well, you need to work out more. Because…I BEAT YOU! OOOT, OOOT!” She dances backward all the way to the swing. “Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah. Oh, oh, oh!”
“Please don’t ever quit your day job,” I tease, following her and taking a seat on the swing right next to hers.
“I don’t have a day job,” she says softly.
“Is that a bad thing?” I ask, swinging beside her, still trying to catch my breath.
“Yeah. My parents won’t let m
e work.”
“How old are you again? You’re not underage or anything, right?”
Jenna giggles. “I’m twenty-one. Damn. Is it that obvious I live under my parents?”
“Well, yeah. You’re twenty-one and listen to almost everything they say. Don’t you have thoughts of your own?”
She quiets. “Unfortunately, my thoughts are usually drowned out by others.”
“Ah.” I look over at her. She’s staring straight ahead to where the slide and sandbox are. She’s doing that thing again. “You do that a lot, the thing with your cheek.”
Jenna looks at me. “Oh.” She pulls her hand away from the side of her face. “Bad habit. I, uh, chew the inside of my cheek when I’m overthinking, or nervous.”
“Are you nervous now? Do I make you nervous?”
She shakes her head. “No, I’m not nervous now.”
“But I do…make you nervous?”
“A little,” she confesses. “I mean I don’t think you would harm me or anything. It’s just…I like you and that makes me nervous. That’s all.”
“You’re right, I wouldn’t harm you,” I say. “I like you too. A lot.” I smile.
“Why?”
I shrug. “I’m curious about what goes on in that beautiful mind of yours.”
Jenna rips her stare away, the corner of her lips twisting down into a frown. “Trust me, there’s nothing beautiful hidden inside my mind. Nothing worth telling and nothing worth knowing.”
“I disagree.”
She blows out a long, heavy breath, as if fighting back an urge to argue with me. “Well, let’s just agree to disagree, shall we?”
“Okay.” I don’t push her. “So how was your date?” I had to fucking ask. It’s been killing me the past hour.
She chuckles. “My lunch date with my father didn’t go as well as I’d planned.”
“With your father, eh?” I can’t lie; this news makes my ears ring with happiness. “That bad?”
“Here’s the thing: I’m close with my father. I have a bad relationship with my mother, ‘mommy issues’ you could say. What I thought was going to be a great lunch with my dad turned into a lecture about my relationship with my mother. So yeah, that bad.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Thanks.”
I wet my lips, hesitant to ask this next question, but decide to go for the plunge anyway. “That morning I found you by the street corner in your pajamas, was that about your mother too?”
“Yeah. Something like that,” she whispers.
“Want to talk about it?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “I’d rather not. Thoughts about my mother put me in a bad place. I don’t want to go there, especially not right now.” Jenna looks over, a delicate smile etched along her beautiful, pale face. “I’m having a good time. I don’t want it to be ruined.”
“You’re beautiful.”
“Huh?”
Fuck.
Did I just say that out loud? Yeah, I did. Oh screw it; I might as well own up to it. “You’re beautiful, Jenna. I’m a man and I’m not afraid to admit when I’m lucky enough to look at someone as beautiful as you.”
She doesn’t say anything, just stares back at me, her expression unreadable. Did I cross a boundary here? Should I not have said anything?
My mouth has gone dry. Logan thinks I’m beautiful. Great. Just great. Exactly what I don’t need. He’s a great guy; I can really tell.
You know how there’s that one person who stumbles into your life and you instantly have a connection with them? Someone who’s a genuinely good person. Someone you just know you can build a great bond with, and it doesn’t have to be in a romantic way either. It can be with someone you have no attraction to whatsoever, you just instantly recognize something in them and they in you. Like in another realm, in another life, you were meant to be together in some way. Whether with a mother, daughter, sibling, best friend, or romantic partner, it’s a strong, unexplainable connection between two individuals.
That’s how I feel with Logan. But instead of being platonic, the attraction between us is undeniable, which makes it that much more difficult to ignore. The pull, the tug, the electric current charging the air between us… It’s constant. And I don’t need it. Not now, maybe not ever.
“Logan,” I start.
“Wait. Don’t say anything. I get it. I just wanted you to know you’re beautiful. I wanted you to hear it for yourself. I understand you just want to be friends. I understand this isn’t a date, and I understand you don’t care to ever go on one with me.”
“That’s not true. It’s just…” I sigh and shake my head. This is so frustrating. “Can I be honest with you?”
“Yeah. I want you to be.”
“I’m not exactly dating material.” I laugh at how ridiculous I sound. “It’s me. Seriously, it’s not you.”
“Oh no, not the good ole ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ spiel. I’m kind of shocked, Jersey. Usually that talk comes after people have started dating. You just like being ahead of the game?” He chuckles.
I don’t find it funny. “It’s not a spiel—I’m serious. And it’s not just you—it’s anyone. I’m not dating material for anyone. I’m—God, this is so hard to say.”
“Then don’t say it. I get it.”
“No, you don’t.” I shake my head, fiddling with my fingers as a way to distract my thoughts. How would he look at me if I told him the truth? Could he handle it? “I have issues, Logan. That’s all. Nothing more, nothing less. Just plain old emotional issues.” I settle for that because he’s not ready to know about me and I’m not ready to tell him.
“I can handle issues, Jenna.”
My head twists to look up at him, and I smile softly. It’s nice for him to say that, but I know the truth. “Not my issues. Just trust me on that.”
Gripping the chains of the swing, he stomps his foot to the ground and pushes, slightly lifting his feet and leaning back to gain momentum. “You know, if this were a date, I’d feed you this long line of cliché bullshit about how everyone has issues and there’s someone out there, regardless of what you may think, who can handle anything you’re dealing with—because maybe that person needs you just as much as you need them. And then, my cliché bullshit would probably touch you somehow, make you feel some type of emotional connection with me, and possibly make you swoon, which would only allow me to go in for the kill and kiss you. But like I said, that’s if this were a date. Since it’s not, you’re not so lucky.”
I let out a hard laugh, rolling my eyes playfully. “Thank God this isn’t a date. You saved me from your long line of cliché bullshit.”
He chuckles. The corners of his eyes wrinkle slightly when his mouth spreads into a white, toothy grin. Those strong, chiseled features…they’re kind of gorgeous.
God.
I like him. Logan. I like that he’s not so intense. I like that he knows when to stop asking questions. I like how he turns a serious situation around and finds humor in it. I like his silly personality. I like that he’s funny. I like that he makes me laugh. I like the crooked grin he gives me when he’s being cocky. I even admit that I like that stupid Phillies baseball cap he wears all the time. It looks good on him.
Dammit.
I just like…him.
“Have I told you I was the fucking king of the monkey bars back in preschool?” he asks.
You see what I mean?
I bite my lip, resisting the urge to just melt for this man. He makes me feel young. I know that may sound ridiculous because I’m only twenty-one, but the past few years have aged me in inexplicable ways. But Logan, he makes me feel my age. I feel vibrant and alive when I’m with him.
I shake my head to answer his monkey bar question.
“Well, allow me to show you the moves that earned me the title.”
He stands from the swing, reaching his hand out to me. I look up, smile, and grab it. The palm of my hand meeting his is a welcome sensation, and ou
r fingers lock between one another’s. We walk and I silently note how small my hand is in his large, calloused one. It feels perfect. It feels so right. It feels like they belong together.
Two lost pieces of a puzzle, finally meeting their match.
I’m so screwed.
Logan’s truck slowly approaches my house. It was getting dark out, so we decided to call it a night. I’ve learned a bit more about him this evening, which only makes him that much more appealing to me. It’s scary how two people can so easily fall into the get-to-know-you process, where they confess all these things they’ve never told anyone else. Except there’s one tiny issue—a secret one of them is afraid the other might be turned off by. That’s my reality. And I’m sure Logan has a secret too. He has to, there’s no way he’s the perfect guy he portrays himself to be. There’s no way he’s this open and honest about himself. He must be holding something back, just like I am.
Rocks crunch under slowing tires, truck shifts into park, a seatbelt clicks.
I look over at Logan. He twists in his seat to face me, a smile set on his face. “So, I had fun.”
I match his grin. “Me too.”
“What are your plans for tomorrow? I’d like to hang out with you again. Like around five, since that’s when my shift ends. It’s not like I have a far drive to pick you up or anything.”
Laughing, I unbuckle my seatbelt, eyes still on him. “Well, if you were paying any attention over the past three hours, you’d remember that I have no life since I don’t work or go to school. So yeah, my plans for tomorrow will probably be sitting by the pool or hanging in my room, watching awful reality television.”
He wrinkles his nose. “Yikes. Bad reality TV is a waste of life if you ask me. Why do that when you can be doing something much more fun?”
“As in?”
“As in hanging out with me tomorrow. Same time. What do you say?”
