by E. L. Montes
Jenna lies beside me on her side, propping her head up on one hand as she traces up and down my torso with the fingers of her other hand. I’m lying on my back, staring at the ceiling. We’ve lain this way, in silence, for what seems like forever. But it’s a good silence. We enjoy each other’s company. Her fingers glide over my chest, making their way to my arm.
She begins drawing over my tats, up my bicep, and over my ribcage. The tip of her finger goes over the lump on my skin. Curiosity spikes as she leans in closer to inspect my scars. Then she finds the rest of them, several scars on the side of my ribcage and hidden beneath the ink on my arms.
“What are these from?” she asks, tracing each one.
“Surgery. After the accident,” I answer.
She doesn’t say anything for a while; instead, she admires and continues to trace my scars with her fingertip. I’m neither embarrassed nor attached to my scars. They are the consequence of my shitty behavior from one messed-up night. “You don't ever question it?” she finally asks.
I tilt my head and look at her. With furrowed brows I ask, “Question why I didn’t die?”
She shakes her head a little. “No. Question life. Why we turn out the way we do. Why we are the way we are. Why everything just falls out of place and seems screwed up eighty percent of the time. Why we’re tested over and over again, like a vicious cycle. Just like this.” She spreads her hand over my ribcage. “Why you lived and were brought back into a world that’s more screwed up than we’ll ever know. Why Brooke found me when I tried to take my life. Was it the universe’s way of saying we were given another chance? And if so, for what?”
My stare lingers on her for a long time, taking in everything she said. Then I turn my head and focus back on the ceiling. “When I woke up in the hospital, my uncle George was the first person I saw. My mother was talking to the doctors or something. He was the only one in the room with me, right at my bedside. He looked like shit, bags under his bloodshot eyes. When he saw I was awake, he tried to fight back a sob. I’d never seen him like that before. My uncle is probably the toughest man you will ever meet. I didn’t remember what happened to me or where I was. So I asked him. His response was, ‘You were given a second chance at life, son. You were brought back for a purpose.’ I had no idea what he meant by that.”
“Did you ever figure it out?”
I shake my head. “No.” I breathe in and blow out a sigh. “Life, Jersey Girl, sometimes pauses. It stops. Sometimes we don’t even realize how everything around us is moving so quickly while we’re standing in the middle of it, allowing it to pass us by. Most of us, if not all, just lose the why. Some of us never figure it out to begin with. We lose sight of the purpose that wakes us up every morning and pushes our day forward. We lose a sense of hope and the feeling of life in general. We view life as more of a test, one that’s trying to beat us down every day to see if we’re strong enough to keep going.” I lightly shrug. “That's why I just live today and push for tomorrow.”
“Live for today, push for tomorrow,” she repeats. “I like it.” She leans in and presses her lips to mine. Just like that, we’re lost in one another for the second time in one night.
For the last hour, Jersey Girl has been fidgeting. Her hands twist in her lap and her leg bounces as she stares out the passenger window. I’ve tried to hold her hand to stop her shaking. She eases for a few minutes but then goes at it again. “Shouldn’t I be the one nervous for dinner with your parents tonight?” I joke.
She shakes her head. “I’m not worried about my father. It’s my mother. She always manages to ruin everything.”
I continue to steer the wheel with one hand and reach out my other to hers. “You and I are in this together from now on. You know that, right?” I tear my eyes from the road and quickly glance her way. She’s looking ahead, nodding.
“I know.”
“So know this: I’m not going to let her hurt you. All right?”
“Okay.”
Dinner isn’t as bad as Jersey Girl had expected. Her mother is quiet for the most part. I’ve even caught her peeking over at Jenna from time to time. But mostly her father, Gregory—he asked me to call him that—keeps the conversation alive. We talk about the contracting business, his work, and even politics, which I don’t care for, but he makes it an interesting topic.
Gregory couldn’t get reservations for the restaurant he wanted, so he hired a private chef to come to the house and make us dinner instead.
I lean back in the chair, patting my stomach as the chef comes out with dessert. “I can’t. I’m going to burst at the seams if I have anything else,” I say.
Laura smiles. “I’m sure you can find some room for chocolate cake.”
I don’t want to seem rude, so I just nod. “I’m sure I can find room.”
“You don’t have to, Logan,” Jersey Girl says. Her hand reaches over and clasps my shoulder. “We can take some for later.”
Gregory nods. “Yes. Don’t worry about it. Dessert is my wife’s favorite part of dinner, so she always makes room for it.”
“It was Brooke’s as well,” Laura mumbles.
That was random and awkward. I don’t know what to say. I look between Jenna and her father. Gregory’s jaw tightens as he focuses straight ahead, keeping his eyes away from Laura. Jersey Girl bows her head, looking at her lap.
“Very well,” Laura spits out. “I guess I’ll enjoy dessert on my own.” She slides a plate closer to her, lifts her shoulders graciously, and then stabs her fork into the cake, bringing a crumb-sized bite to her lips. “Delicious.”
Another awkward moment goes by before Jersey Girl announces, “I’m thinking of going back to school.”
I smile. I know how hard it was for her to say that. We talked about it at the lake house and on the drive back from there, and she was nervous to even mention the idea of going back to her parents.
I’m fuckin’ proud of her right now.
“That’s great, baby. Really great,” her father encourages.
“You can’t,” Laura states.
“Why?” Jenna asks, her brows creasing.
Her mother raises a brow. “Because of your…” She glances over at me, then looks back to Jersey Girl. “Your condition.”
Jersey Girl straightens her shoulders. A tiny smile pulls at her lips. “Logan knows.”
Both Gregory and Laura shift their eyes my way. Her father’s amused, maybe even impressed, but her mother… Well, her expression looks like a mix of disgust and shock. “Of your mental illness?” Laura hisses the words mental illness.
I nod. “Yes, ma’am. I’m aware of Jersey Girl’s disorder, and it doesn’t change how I feel about her.”
“Jersey Girl?” her mother scoffs.
Gregory shifts in his seat, grinning at me. He nods in approval. “I think that deserves a drink. What do you say, son?” He stands. “Are you a whiskey man?”
“Sure.” I move to stand, but he gestures for me to sit back down.
“I’ll bring it to the table.” He turns and walks in the direction of his office by the front entrance.
The table falls silent in his wake. Laura is staring between Jersey Girl and me, her expression seriously annoyed, maybe even angry. “You told him everything?” She locks eyes with Jenna.
Jenna nods.
“Even about Brooke?”
Jenna meets her mother’s glare but doesn’t answer.
I chime in, “Well, I know Brooke’s life was taken from her.”
“Logan,” Jenna begins with a whisper.
Laura’s eyes widen, a malicious smirk spreading across her face. “Ah, he doesn’t know,” she says.
“That’s enough, Mother,” Jersey Girl warns.
I’m very confused. “Doesn’t know what?” I ask.
Laura tilts her head, gazing at me. Then she looks Jenna straight in the eye. She leans into the table, her stare hardening as she hisses, “It was all Jenna’s fault.”
What?
“No.” Jenna
shakes her head. “No, it wasn’t.” She continues moving her head side-to-side. Then she begins to rock in her chair.
“Yes, it was. You were there.” Laura continues as she stands from her chair and taunts Jenna, “You watched them rape her and repeatedly beat her.”
“Stop it,” I say. This is fuckin’ ridiculous. I pull away from the table and kneel beside Jersey Girl. “Look what you’re doing to her.” My tone sizzles. I grab both of Jersey Girl’s hands. They’re shaking; her entire body is fucking trembling.
“No,” her mother continues, “I will not stop. She walks around as if she doesn’t remember. Doctors said she blocked that memory out, but I know the truth. She remembers clearly. Don’t you, Jenna?”
“I said stop it, dammit!” I stand and bring Jenna up with me, pulling her into my arms. Fuck. She’s shivering. I look at her eyes to see if she’s having a seizure that’s how bad she’s shaking. Her pupils are dilated, her eyes are filled with tears, and her face is ashen. She shakes her head, her mouth opening in shock. “Oh my God,” she sobs out.
“You remember, don’t you?” Laura accuses. “You’re just as much a murderer as they were.”
Jersey Girl’s fingers clench at my chest, digging through my shirt as she tightens her grip. “Don’t listen to her,” I say. Jersey Girl shakes her head. “Don’t listen to her,” I repeat.
I pull her into my chest and guide her, storming out of the dining room and down the hall, past Gregory. His eyes widen as we pass, two whiskey-filled glasses in his hands. “What happened?” he asks.
“Ask your wife. She’s a bitch,” I bark out.
“Excuse me!” Laura shouts from behind. I stop, turn around, and glare at her.
“You heard me. You’re despicable. You’re scum. You’re an evil bitch. I can’t believe you have the audacity to call yourself a mother.”
“What did you do, Laura?” Gregory demands.
Laura’s eyes widen. “You’re going to allow him to speak to me that way?”
“What did you do?” he booms.
Instead of sticking around for their back and forth, I turn with Jenna in my hold and guide us up the stairs and into her room.
“Jersey Girl, you’re coming home with me, okay?”
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.
Because of him, I ask, “Do any of you know where the university is by chance?”
“Do I look like I’m from here?” The southerner chuckles again.
The gentle-eyed man steps forward. “It’s on the other side of the graveyard. Once you pass the gates, you’ll see the entrance for the university.”
“Thank you,” I say emphatically.
Gathering Brooke, I lift her up and sling her arm over my shoulder. Side-by-side we step into the graveyard. It’s dark and hard to see, but thankfully the moon is full and bright, which gives me enough light to find my way through. I continue down a pathway intended for cars to drive on instead of walking on the grass where the tombstones are.
Brooke and I pick up the pace when the drizzles turn into rain. Our clothes are beginning to soak through, and my feet squeak into my flats. I hear heavy footsteps behind us, so I stop and turn around. The three guys are running our way, yelling out for us—something about how we forgot something. The one with gentle eyes is waving a purse in the air as he jogs our way. I search over Brooke’s body and, sure enough, she left her bag behind.
“You forgot this.” He extends the purse.
“Thanks.” I reach for it, but he pulls back. I look up at him, my chest clenching in fear.
