Pieces of Me

Chapter Three

Logan

I'm pissed off. Bridget knew I did not want to come to this. She just wanted to show me off like a new pet to her squealing girlfriends.
I know I'm probably not putting in the effort - the effort a decent boyfriend would, but I never claimed to be one.
But, this, this was clearly a girls... whatever.. that I've intruded on, and now I have to hang around like a bad smell for God knows how long. You'd think the feeling of being the odd one out would be one I'd be used to by now.

Suddenly Bridget squeezes my leg under the table, then snakes her arm up, around my hips. I stiffen at the public display, but she smells good so I allow myself to breathe it in for just a moment.
If I'm honest with myself, I have a feeling she sees me as a project. But I'm not a project she can fix. I do like the fact she hasn't figured that out yet.

It's been 5 weeks. Us. Together. The longest I've been with someone in a while. She's charming in her own way, but she's also judgemental as fuck.
The hot and cold game she is playing with me at the moment is getting old though. Sometimes she's all over me, then other times it's like I don't exist. I'm finding myself like a dog waiting for scraps - and I hate that.

I flip through my book aimlessly, as the minutes seen to drip by. The only interesting part is when one girl lets out a porn worthy moan which immediately grabs my attention. When she'd realised the distinct noise that had fallen from her soft pink lips, her cheeks lit up like a fire engine, and I had to force myself not to make a crude comment.
The red-cheeked, brown-haired girl - she looks familiar, but I can't seem to place her.
I try to go back to the book in front of me, but I can't concentrate with all the female squawking. I don't know why I'm bothering to try to read this book anyway. I learn by doing, always have. Consequently, I find myself watching this girl from under my eye lashes. She looks a little prissy, like a know-it-all. She is leaning back on the chair, her arms crossed over her knee. All proper type. I wonder if she realises it emphasises her chest. I doubt it. I feel like one of her friends should inform her.
I listen as she engages in the conversation. When she replies to the others, her answers are in full. There's no "awing" or use of any noises as communication. I appreciate that. She answers in full intellectual sentences. She smiles warmly at her friends when they speak, and at one point she rests her head on the red-haired girl's shoulder, laughing along with the others.
I noticed earlier that her eyes flickered to me. Her eyes gliding over my book as if she was trying to get a peek at the cover. If she was trying to be discreet - she's failed.

There's something so attractive about the fact that I can see her looking at me too. But then again, maybe she's just as bored as I am.
This girl - she's pretty standard. Just a brown haired, brown eyed girl. Her cheekbones are strong and her bottom lip plumper than the top. I find myself wanting to bite it. 
But it's her eyes that I can't look away from. They are so deep, yet vacant . I can tell she thinks she's above this conversation. I wonder again if she's one of those prissy ones.
Her eyes never meet mine, even as I continue to watch as she smiles, biting that lip.

How do I know her? Maybe I've just seen her with Bridget before...

Before I get caught ogling this girl, I zone back into the conversation and will myself not to sigh loudly. I'm beginning to doubt that all this effort is even worth it. I'm bored, but really, I have nothing better to do - so I may as well do Bridget. But fuck me if this isn't so boring it's painful. It's now that Bridget turns towards me, smiling, and I feel like a complete arsehole for even thinking that. For looking at this other girl that's not Bridget.
Bridget's not that bad, she really isn't. And the way some of her words can hurt. It's comforting. Words and names I've heard many times before.

Will I always be this way?

Suddenly my phones vibrates, causing a vzzzzzt to reverberate through the cheap wooden table.
I am beyond grateful for the distraction. Grabbing at it quickly, i hope it's Andrew with an update on the car parts we need for my '65 Cadillac .
Turning the phone over in my palm, my eyes land on the message:
Lo, when are you coming back. I miss you so much!!!
There's only one person who calls me 'Lo'. She's the only person I let get away with it.
I feel my lip curl up into a smile at her overuse of exclamation marks, and my finger flies to the reply button.

Izzie, you know I can't. Not after last time, not for a little while at least. But I'm thinking of you. Love you, Lo.

I press send before slipping the phone into my pocket.
I can still remember the first time I saw her.
I'd never seen something so little. So squished. So... alien looking. I remember prodding her, like she was a lab experiment, until my dad slapped my hand away. She'd grabbed for me then, wrapping her tiny, wrinkled fingers around my pinkie. She was so fragile, so delicate. Then she'd screamed bloody murder. I has never wanted a sister, but in that moment I knew I'd been wrong, and that I'd do anything to protect her.
She's the child my parents always wanted – the complete opposite of me. The miracle baby granted by God. My mum had resigned herself to the fact she'd never have another child after me. The doctors were adamant. Then, seven years later Izabelle was born. Izzie to me.
She's the lighthouse in the rough sea that is my family, and the only reason  I ever go home.

My mind now starts to wander again, and I imagine her, my baby sister, being in the type of relationship I am now. An uncomfortable knot forms in the pit of my stomach.

I don't want that for her.

I need to change. I don't know why I can't - why the anger and hurt is always just beneath the surface.
I need to accept the kind of love my sister deserves . I need to be a better roll model. I need to step up.