After calming her down a bit, she was finally able to explain it to me. For the past two days, I’ve told her over and over again that none of what happened that night was her fault. There was nothing she could’ve done. But she feels if she’d never ran, the men wouldn’t have continued to beat Brooke to death out of anger that she got away. There was nothing I could do but hold her and allow her to shed all the tears she needed.
But yesterday she wouldn’t do anything. She wouldn’t eat. She wouldn’t get out of bed. She wouldn’t watch TV. She stayed in bed with the blankets wrapped around her all day. Then last night, in the middle of the night, I found her on the bathroom floor, curled up in a ball by the corner. She was slamming her head back against the tile wall and mumbling to herself. When I approached her, it was like she snapped out of a trance and woke up. Then she burst into tears because she didn’t know how she’d gotten in there.
It fucking scared me. So much shit ran through my head after that. I watched her sleep. I wondered if she’d be okay if I left for work. Would she hurt herself? So this morning I packed up any and all sharp items—knives, tools, anything she could use to harm herself. I’m still on the fucking fence about it all. I shouldn’t have left her this morning.
Bryson storms down the driveway. He looks pissed off. I bunch my brows as he walks over to my truck, opens the door, and hops into the passenger seat. “What the fuck happened between you and the McDaniels?”
“What are you—”
“Don’t fuck with me, Logan. Mrs. McDaniel called Pop this morning in a rage. She was threatening not to pay the balance. When Pops told her that the job is ninety percent done and he’d take her to court if she doesn’t pay, she said fine. But she refuses to have you on her property. What happened?” he demands.
Fuck. I slam my head back, groaning.
“It’s all just one big fuckup. That’s what happened.”
“Well, tell me. Pop is pissed off right now.”
I run a hand over my face and sigh. I tell Bryson everything: about Jenna’s disorder; about how Blair isn’t a mega-bitch after all and Laura takes the fucking cake on that one; about how Brooke died and how Jenna was there. I tell it all.
“What the hell.” Bryson huffs.
“I know.”
“What are you gonna do?”
“I’m going to take care of her.”
“Logan—”
“No. Before you give me this long spiel bullshit, I love her and that’s that.”
He sighs. “I know you want to help her, but she needs more help than just you. You can’t save her. It’s impossible. She’s sick, dude.”
“She’s fine.”
“Logan. We kept saying that Sean was fine, and look what happened. If you really want to help her, get her professional help.”
“I’m not fucking sending her off.”
He shakes his head, opens the door, and says, “I’ll talk to Dad about having you start on the Royersford place. At least you’ll have some work.”
I nod. Then he hops out and slams the door behind him.
Each day is unexpected. No matter how hard you try,
you can never prepare for the life ahead.
“Where the hell is she?” I mumble under my breath, pacing up and down the narrow hallway. The screams and sounds of items crashing and breaking ring loud and clear from behind my apartment door. So far three neighbors have stepped out to complain and said if I don’t get her to stop, then they’re calling the cops. I gave them my fucking death glare, and they stepped back into their apartments without another word.
I huff out in relief when Charlie—in her sleepwear—storms down the hallway. She narrows her eyes as she passes me. Without a single word spoken, she enters my apartment, shutting the door behind her.
Silence.
It’s like clockwork. I don’t fucking understand it. What am I doing wrong?
Forty minutes later Charlie steps out. “She’s sleeping now,” she says, deadpan. Then she moves to walk away.
“I’m sorry,” I say. Because there is nothing else I can say.
She turns around, her features distort into anger, and then she steps forward until she’s front and center. “Six times this month, Logan. Six times!” she stresses. “I can’t keep taking midnight runs over here every time Jenna has a breakdown.”
“I’m trying.”
“No, you’re not! I told you what’s best for her, but you’re so against it. She needs help, Logan.”
My nostrils flare. “I am helping her.”
“Keeping her locked in this apartment”—she points toward my closed door—“with no medication and no therapy is not helping her. She just remembered that she witnessed her sister being brutally attacked, that she was almost raped as well. That’s not even a trigger, that’s a fucking nuclear bomb that just exploded in her world, and that’s why she’s been getting worse.”
“Then get her medication.”
She laughs, shaking her head at my ridiculousness. I know I am, but I’m desperate. “She needs them prescribed.”
I shut my heavy eyes. This past month has been fucking hard. I’ve never felt this lost in my life. I want to help her, I just don’t know how. It’s as if she’s hanging from the edge of a cliff and I’m the one holding on to her hand. She’s begging for me to help her, to not let go, and I’m fucking trying the best I can. But she’s slowly slipping.
Every time I think of what happened to Jenna and Brooke I get pissed off all over again. “I wish I could find the bastards who did this and kill each one of them. I swear to God I would, Charlie.”
Charlie looks down. Her shoulders deflate as she crosses her arms over her chest. “I would too. I just keep telling myself they’ll get what’s coming to them someday.” She shakes her head, disgusted with it all. Then she looks up at me, a pathetic smile pulling at the corner of her mouth.
“Look at you. You look like shit. You don’t have to do this,” she says.
“Yes, I do.”
“Why?”
“Because I love her.”
“So do I,” she says. “And because of that we need to get her the best help right now.”
My shoulders drop. “I promised her I wouldn’t give up. Every time I suggest that maybe she should get help, she thinks I’m giving up on her, and then she spazzes out.”