Perfectly Damaged

“I don’t know. Go and talk to her.”

“I did. Last night. And she doesn’t seem interested. And you seem kind of pushy. What happened to not flirting with our clients?” I shrug it off as no big deal. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“Well, I had a little talk with her this morning. She seemed very interested in you. She couldn’t stop asking questions.”

“Really?”

“Now who’s smiling?” he asks.

“Dick.” I look back out the window. “Maybe I can take her out a cup of coffee.”

“Nope. She doesn’t drink coffee.”

“Does she drink orange juice?” I ask, facing him again.

“How the hell should I know? I need to shower. Peace.” He flashes two fingers, turns, and then jogs up the stairs.

I don’t know why, but Je

“Well, isn’t this your lucky morning.” I a

She slowly crooks her neck to look up at me. “How so?” Well, at least she’s not pushing me away. Yet.

“May I?” I point at the empty space beside her. She nods. I sit down, stabbing a foot to the ground to give us more of a push on the swing. “I brought this for you.” She takes the red Solo cup filled with OJ.

“This isn’t spiked, is it?” she teases, but something tells me it’s a serious question.

“There’s only one way to find out.” She lifts the cup to the tip of her nose and takes a sniff. I laugh. “I’m joking. It’s pure orange juice with some pulp.” She flashes me a sly grin, then takes a sip. After the first taste, she downs the rest of it. “Whoa. Take it easy there, killer. You don’t want to OD on pulp.”

“Fu

Easy sounds like the wrong word choice, but I encourage her to go on. “Yeah? Easy how?”

She leans back, getting comfortable on the wooden bench—the bench my brother and I built together. “Just easy. Life feels like it’s always hard. There’s never a calm way to get through it, to just breathe. Every day brings the same challenges, the same routines…the same everything. And as much as I hope the next day will be different, it’s not. It’s just the same old cycle over and over again.” She turns her head and rests her chin on her shoulder. “Sorry. Is this too much for an early morning chat over orange juice?” She giggles nervously.

“No, not at all. I sometimes feel the best mornin’ talks are had over a fresh cup of OJ.”

She laughs. “Logan?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For yesterday morning. And I’m sorry about last night—you know, the way I acted on the dock. It wasn’t right—”

“Hey, don’t worry about it. And you’re welcome. Again.” I tease.

“Again?”

“I mean…” I purse my lips, lift both arms, and shrug. “I keep saving your life: the pool, that Matthew dude, and then from the evil, perfect house. I think we’re meant to be. After all, how could you resist this body?”

“Wow. Are you always this into yourself?”

“Hmm.” I tilt my head, pretending to be in serious thought, then nod. “Pretty much.”

She nudges my arm. “At least you’re honest.”

I smile. “That I am.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, thank you for all three.”

“It does,” I say. Je

“Like you’re trapped in a nightmare, where you’re screaming for someone to wake you, but it never happens?”

I nod. It does feel like that at times.

Je

Yesterday, as she stood in her pajamas on the corner, I told her how after Sean’s death, I felt like I was stuck, at a standstill. Me and my big fucking mouth. It’s been two years since his death, and it still kind of fucking hurts to talk about him. But I do anyway. “Yeah. We were really close.”

“I was very close with my sister before she passed,” she confesses.

A jolt of shock rushes through me. “You had a sister who passed?” She nods. “How long ago?”

“About eight months now.”

“Wow.” It’s all I can say; I can’t believe she lost a sibling as well. In some ways, this explains a lot about what I’ve witnessed of her so far.

“Yeah,” Je

“Is it too early for me to ask how she passed?” She looks down and nods. I can understand. For the first year of Sean’s death, it was difficult for me to talk about how it happened without it taking an emotional toll on me.

This little confession of hers sparks an idea. I stand from the bench and reach for her wrist. She looks down at my grip, then back up at me. “Come on,” I say. “I want to show you something.”

She doesn’t resist. Instead, she reaches out and places her hand in mine. I hold her small, delicate hand the entire time as I lead her toward a large wooden shed. I leave the doors wide open, just in case she feels uncomfortable, and guide her in. Je

Je

“Did you make these?” she asks.

“No. Sean did. At first it was a hobby for him. Then he became really good at it. He did it as a way to cope with his depression.” She looks back at me. Her features are pinched but unreadable.

“He suffered from depression?”

“Yeah.” I move forward, standing beside her as I look over each sculpture. “He was dealing with a lot of difficult issues. Issues a regular teenager should never have to go through.”

Je

I swallow, wondering if she’ll act like most everyone else who hears about Sean’s story. “When he was younger, about seventeen years old, he was reckless and out of control. What teen isn’t, right? Well, one night he was underage drinking and driving with a few friends in a car. He accidently ran a red light and hit two people crossing the street—a kid and his mom.”

“Oh my God,” Je

“Yeah.” I nod, tempted to leave it as that, but I decide to keep going. “He didn’t leave the scene. He pulled over and called an ambulance. He waited there and held the kid in his arms until help came. But by the time they arrived, the kid had lost so much blood he was already dead. The mother suffered severe injuries, but she survived. Sean did some time in jail for it. Once he was released, he was never the same. Mentally. He couldn’t get the image of that scene out of his head and knowing that his irresponsible behavior killed an i

It’s the first time I’ve spoken about Sean’s history with anyone. Family and close friends who know of the incident never speak of it. When Sean was released from prison at twenty-two, everyone just tried to pretend it never happened. But Sean still lived with it every single day until the day he died.

I went on, staring intensely at one of the pieces—a half angel, half demon full-body sculpture. “Some say that Sean’s death was an accident, that he lost control of his bike and hit the tree. He wasn’t drinking. It wasn’t snowing or raining. It wasn’t dark out. It was a direct hit to the tree. As much as everyone wants to believe it was an accident, I know in my gut that he did it on purpose. It wasn’t the first time he tried to take his life. It was the day before the a