Unhinged Read Online Free PDF Page A

knew I absorbed his memories. They all
know. The people I touch can feel their memories come off them in
waves; like a harmless download. It doesn’t hurt them, but they
always know.
    I look up at Logan from beneath his cloud of
memories and see this mischievous look on his face. It’s almost as
if he planned this, hoped I would see a memory of him without a
stitch of clothing. I punch him playfully in the stomach. It
doesn’t even phase his rock hard abs.
    “You ass,” I declare, a bit miffed at him for
knowingly sending me memories that would be embarrassing. But deep
inside, I’m just grateful that they aren’t of blood, murder, rape,
or betrayal. I’ve seen enough of those to last me a lifetime.
    I tell Logan to wait by the door as I go and
grab my book bag. I shove the Eggo into my mouth, throw on my
gloves, and walk with Logan to his car. As we round the corner and
make our way to my front driveway, I see Logan’s red Nissan Rogue
parked smack dab in the middle of it. Like most guys, he loves his
car and only allows two stickers to adorn it: Go Hawks! after our school mascot and Mean People Suck for his life
motto.
    Always a gentleman, Logan follows me around
to my side of the car and opens the door for me. I slide in and
watch as he closes the door behind me. As he makes his way back to
his side of the car, his movements are manly but graceful, most
likely from years of playing sports. In the past, when I’ve heard
girls talk about guys they liked, they would mention how much they
loved their legs or butt, or how beautiful their eyes were. Not me.
My favorite part of Logan is his hands. Strong hands, capable of
swinging a bat hard enough to hit a home run, or dunk a basketball
for the winning shot.
    Or, like I saw firsthand months ago, hands
that were sturdy enough to beat down a serial killer and save our
lives. But none of that is why I like them so much. It is his
gentleness, the way he uses his hands to tuck my hair behind my
ear, or how his hand just seems to fit into mine. His hands are
what mesmerize me, what remind me with every touch that he is
mine.
    Logan deftly takes his seat behind the wheel
and revs up the car. As we drive to school, I finish my Eggo,
trying not to get too many crumbs on his seat. Keenly aware of his
neat freak tendencies, I scoop what I can from my lap and throw
them out the already cracked window. From the corner of my eye, I
see Logan laugh at my pathetic attempt at making order from
chaos.
    “You know you probably just sent half of
those crumbs to my back seat,” he points out smirking.
    I look behind me and see that Logan had
cracked the back windows as well as the front. It was the perfect
temperature this morning: not too hot or too cold. Dammit, I hadn’t
even noticed.
    “Sorry,” I mumble, embarrassed.
    “It’s okay,” he says as he strokes my knee.
“You can dirty my car anytime, babe. Just as long as it’s you in
the seat beside me, I don’t really care.”
    Blushing, I look at his perfect hand resting
on my knee. I place my gloved hand over his and give it a squeeze.
I look up into his face, see his lopsided smile as he watches the
road, and wonder yet again at how lucky I am to have him in my
life.
    Sadly, that feeling doesn’t last long.
Suddenly, like a freight train crashing into my heart, an
overwhelming feeling of dread consumes me. Confused, I jerk my hand
away from Logan’s like it’s on fire. I should be happy right now,
sitting next to the most wonderful boy in the world, but I can’t
seem to shake this fear that has a death grip on my heart.
    Before I could go into full panic attack
mode, we arrive at school. Logan pulls into his assigned parking
space adjacent to the stadium. I grab my book bag, jump out of the
car, and run to the staircase that leads to the school. Logan
catches up to me, breathless, confusion written all over his face.
I simply stare at him, unwilling to explain my unusual behavior and
thankfully, he doesn’t ask.
    Dejana