I take extra measures to focus and it works. I make the next shot. I turn to face Logan, jumping up and down as I do. His wide grin and gleaming eyes show his affection for me.
I bite my lip, face Blair’s scowl, and put on my poker face.
Game on.
“All right…this is good, we still have a shot. You got this, Jersey,” Logan slurs. I raise my brow, completely and utterly sure that we’re going to lose. We lost the first round, which made the boys competitive, so they decided on best out of three. That’s a lot of drinking on their part. We won one round and Bryson and Blair won the other. This is now the third round and both Logan and Bryson are completely trashed. The opposing team definitely has better odds. They only have one cup left to win and I have three.
I toss the ball and make it in a cup. Bryson drinks. Blair takes her turn, tossing and missing. I go again and make the second in. The crowd around us—all highly intoxicated as well—whistles and cheers loudly. Bryson chugs. This is our last chance. One cup left for each of us. I want to win because there’s no way Logan can have another drink. I’m afraid he’ll pass out. Several cups of beers and three shots is no good, even for a heavy drinker.
Nervously, and with complete focus, I aim and shoot. Dammit. I miss. Blair takes her turn, shooting and landing it. While everyone, including Blair and Bryson, shouts and screams—a bit overly dramatic if you ask me—all I can do is look at Logan, who has the largest grin smacked across his handsome face. He sloppily lifts his right hand up to give me a high five. “We didn’t win,” I say.
“So?” He shrugs. “You played and that, my Jersey Girl, is a celebration in and of itself.”
He just called me his Jersey Girl, emphasizing the “my.” I can’t help but smile. Bryson, now beside us, places their last cup next to our last cup along with three shot glasses filled with vodka. Logan’s hooded eyes graze over the shot glasses and he cringes. I’m not sure why, but something in me just can’t do it. I just can’t let him. I quickly grab both red Solo cups and chug down one of the beers.
More whistles and cheering.
Beer is disgusting. I can’t fathom why people actually drink this for enjoyment.
I chug the second without another thought, gagging a bit at the end.
“W-what are you doing, Jersey?” Logan stumbles forward.
A hand tugs at my arm. “Yeah. What the hell are you doing, Jenna?” Charlie’s beside me now, looking at me like I have five heads.
I shrug her off, smirk, and grip two of the three shot glasses. Saluting Logan, I tell myself this is for him. I bring the glass to my lips, tilt my head and gulp down the burning liquid. Logan laughs at my face, which I’m sure is twisted in disgust. “Jenna…you don’t have to drink it,” Charlie says.
“I’m blending in, just like everyone else,” I say, taking the second shot, which I almost spit back out. I feel a burning in the pit of my stomach and wonder again why people drink this for fun.
Wetting my lips and already feeling sick to my stomach, I reach for the third shot glass, but a hand stops me. I look up at Logan, who slowly shakes his head. He grabs it for himself instead and gulps it down. I hear Charlie mumble something under her breath as she stomps off. I’ll deal with her in the morning. Right now, I can’t keep my eyes off of Logan and the look he’s giving me.
There’s no humor. Just Logan and his stormy blue eyes, scorching deep within me, trying to figure something out. He slowly steps forward. I tilt my head back to look up at him as his eyes scroll down over my face. What is this look, Logan? He rests his hands on my waist and gently pulls me in, my body against his. “Why did you do that?” he murmurs, low enough so only I can hear.
“Because believe it or not, I care enough that I don’t want you to have alcohol poisoning,” I try to joke. But I fail miserably, too consumed with how close Logan is and how his hands curve comfortably along my hips.
“You care about me?” He’s still giving me that unknown look.
Something is stuck in my throat and I try to swallow it back. “Um, I care enough about the alcohol poisoning thingy.” Thingy?
He leans down, his face centimeters from mine. “I care about you too,” he tells me. And I don’t know if it’s the way he’s looking at me or the words he’s saying to me or the fact that everyone else seems to have disappeared or a combination of all of those things, but I can’t help the way my heart soars at his declaration.
“Y-you do?” I stumble over the two words.
“I do.”
Don’t kiss me. Please do not kiss me. He leans in closer. My chest burns, and I’m not sure if it’s the aftershock of the vodka or my nerves causing it.
He smells like liquor and beer and Logan.
Please kiss me.
And he does. Three small pecks, but not where I expected. The first one lands on the tip of my nose—a small, simple peck. I shut my eyes at the contact. The second one presses along my forehead. It leaves a warm and tingly feeling and my chest expands. The third tickles my chin, lingering a little longer than the rest.
It wasn’t what I expected—and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping for a kiss similar to the first one on my front porch—but these three small kisses mean so much more.
They’re beautiful and gentle and simply Logan. They outshine the first kiss on any given day.
“Jenna?”
“Yes?” I yawn, my head dizzy from the liquor. I’m snuggled against Logan’s chest. It’s a little past three in the morning. Every one of the partiers has left except for the ones who crashed because they were too drunk. We’re lying beside one another on the large, comfy couch. His fingers are gently running through my hair, and it feels so good.
I like this.
I like cuddling with Logan. I like lying on Logan’s chest. I like the fact that our legs are tangled with one another’s and it feels completely comfortable.
He breathes out a heavy sigh. The smell of beer and vodka invades the thin space between us, but I don’t mind it. “I want us to be more,” he whispers.
More?
Oh no, Logan. Just…no. I knew it. I was afraid of this. As much as I’d love to be able to give him what he wants, I can’t. My thoughts roil with the idea. I’m too much more. He has no idea how much more I am—and not in a good way. He won’t be able to handle me, my issues, my illness, and especially how damaged I am. I’m just too much.