Crossing her arms, she looks around my living space, taking in every detail of my spot. I sit there and just watch her, remembering what she said about the perfect house and what lies within. As her eyes roam past the large flat screen mounted on the wall, I wonder if any of that is on her mind now. Her vision brushes down to the entertainment stand, which holds both of my game consoles and three piles of video games. A soft smile pulls at the corner of her lips. I grin too. Just watching her as she examines my place feels awkward. A good awkward, though. It’s like she’s collecting all the artifacts of my world and filing them away in that mind of hers to examine later.

Those perfect lips, which I always seem to come back to, press into a straight line as Jenna’s stare circles the room, drifting over the plain, artless white walls. She twirls a bit, facing the galley kitchen. Then she turns back around to face me. “Your place is so normal.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Were you expecting whips and chains?”

“No. It’s just…I don’t know what I was expecting. It’s just simple, like you. You know?”

I shake my head. “No, I don’t know. Won’t you tell me?” I pat down on the cushion next to me, gesturing for her to sit down.

She does, right beside me. “You were definitely right about it being a bachelor pad. No art on the walls, not even a picture frame.” She chuckles. “But I like it. It’s definitely you. A place can tell you a lot about the person who lives in it.”

“Very interesting—and what does my place say about me?”

“Ha. You’d love to know, wouldn’t you? I’ll keep that to myself,” she teases as she lifts her leg up onto the couch and twists her body to face me. Her arm hangs over the back of the sofa. She’s acting playful again. All of her body language says she’s beginning to feel comfortable, thank God.

“Wanna laugh at Kevin Hart’s pain?” I ask.

She nods with a small smile.

We watched two stand-up comedies back-to-back. I stayed on my end of the sofa, and Jenna stayed on hers. We poked fun at the comedians, laughed at a few jokes, and laughed even harder at the funnier ones. All in all, it was a good night.

Afterward, I took Jenna home. She kissed me good night on the cheek, and I drove away.

My mind is reeling over Jenna. She’s smokin’ hot and very mysterious and secretive, which, to a certain extent, I actually like. I’m beyond curious about the things she seems to avoid talking about. I push those thoughts away, deciding that if she’s ready to tell me more—if there is more—I’ll be waiting, but I will not push it out of her.

Jenna

If I could meet anyone from a past time, it would probably be Vincent Van Gogh, and it’s not only because he was a brilliant artist. It’s more because, in a way, I’m able to relate to his mental illness—he was known to have suffered “hallucinations of sight and hearing.” If he were living in this era, his symptoms would be diagnosed as schizophrenia. He also suffered from depression. He used painting as a way to cope, or I guess as a way to escape.

As I lie here on the dock by the lake house, with my elbows bent and hands beneath my head, I admire the night’s canvas. The sky reminds me of one of Van Gogh’s most famous paintings, The Starry Night. I’m reminded of this painting because everything about tonight is perfect: the cool breeze, the breathable air, the way the moon casts over the trees and gleams down on the lake. If Van Gogh were here, would he have attempted perfecting The Starry Night?

When I was in college, I minored in art. One of the things I learned about Van Gogh is that he admitted himself into an asylum, but not for fear of others, more for fear of himself. I became obsessed with researching and learning about him, about his life, and his art. I read hundreds of articles about him, and still it wasn’t enough. I wished I were able to have been in his head, to have spoken to him in person. He was brilliant: a talented artist, yet he suffered from a disease that slowly crippled his mind.

Van Gogh died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to his chest. When his brother Theo came to his side after hearing of the incident, Van Gogh’s last words to him before his death were “the sadness will last forever.”

“The sadness will last forever.”

When I read his dying words, I cried, not out of sympathy, but because I understood what those words meant. It’s something that cannot be controlled or escaped from. Depression is evil. Before you know it, it takes over and there’s no escaping it. Van Gogh died a sad and broken man, yet he left a legacy with his paintings that will last forever. Still, I want to know—when he painted, when he admired the sky at night to paint it from memory during the day, was he troubled in those moments? Because right now, this beautiful scenery is doing wonders for my state of mind. Right now, I am peaceful, content; there’s no possible way I could be sad. How will I feel when I remember this moment tomorrow in the daylight?

Footsteps make me alert, but I don’t move. I already know who’s coming toward me. I texted Logan about an hour ago, letting him know I’d be on the dock, waiting for him. He was working overtime on the guesthouse when Charlie and I drove up to the lake earlier today.

The past couple of weeks, things have been really good between Logan and me. We’re slowly developing into something more, which scares the hell out of me. Ever since the ice cream get-together and watching comedy at his place the next day, we’ve been inseparable. After his shift, we usually go out somewhere, whether it’s driving around, walking through the park, or just to his apartment. We’ve been spending all our free time with one another.

“Always by yourself, Jersey. I think you like being all alone,” Logan says, almost whispering. It’s so quiet it seems like more of a statement for himself than for me to hear.

“Have you not learned anything in the past couple of weeks?” Still in the same position, I tear my stare away from what could be a Van Gogh masterpiece to a uniquely Logan work of art. A smirk spreads across his gorgeously chiseled features. He lifts his hand to frame his chin, his thumb rubbing along the stubble. I’ve come to recognize this pose as his version of The Thinker.

“Well, we have been spending a lot of time together, so I guess you’re not too much of a loner.” He settles to lie down beside me, and puts his hands behind his head as well. “What are we looking at?” he asks, looking up.

I tilt my head to look up as well. “I’m admiring a Van Gogh. The Starry Night.”

He chuckles. “Oh, wait. You’re talking about that painter dude who went crazy, right?”

“Not crazy. He suffered from a mental illness, Logan.”

“Um, if memory serves me correctly, he cut off his own ear. I’m pretty sure that’s some form of crazy.”

“Yes. Yes, he did cut off his own ear,” I admit, but I don’t give in on the crazy.

“And didn’t he, like, shoot himself? That’s another form of crazy.”

“All right. Enough about Van Gogh. How was your day?” I ask, changing the topic. Obviously, this “crazy” talk and how he perceives a mental illness will only add fuel to a very small fire building within me, and I don’t want this night to go wrong. Not tonight, not with a view like this.

“Oh, you know. Same shit, different day,” he says nonchalantly.

“Ah.”

“Well, I was mostly thinking about you,” he confesses quietly.

“Me?” Tilting my head, I meet his gaze.

“Yeah.” He smirks, charmingly so. “I just thought about how you’ll be surrounded by so many people here today. It’s a pretty big crowd tonight.”

Right. The party, which is happening behind me and which I’ve managed to tune out for the past few hours. “It’s okay. That’s why I’m out here on the dock, away from everyone.”