“I don’t have time for this, Jason. So if you have anything to say, well, just say it. I can handle it.” There’s not a trace of malice to be found in my words. More like deflation. I really don’t have the time for this, and I can handle it.
I can. I’ve handled worse.
The image of my grandma violently coughing flashes before my eyes.
I can handle anything.
Jason takes a deep breath, running a shaking hand through his unwashed, greasy hair. “Something happened…”
I look up at Jason, and I realize his eyes are filled with tears. My stomach flips, and I feel a bit dizzy. He’s going to break up with me. As strong as I am, as much as I’ve been through, I just can’t handle that today.
When did we become this? The boy sitting next to me has been the only bit of home I’ve had for years. After the accident, he was the only constant in my life. Kennedy was gone. My parents had the twins. My grandmother got sick. But Jason was always there. I could always count on him.
I reach up and pull his face to mine. His lips don’t hesitate against my own. If anything, they’re more hungry, more desperate.
Something happened.
His words slither around in my head. Yes, something had happened. But whatever that was, I was going to fix it. We could fix it. Together.
I reach down and start to undo his belt buckle.
Jason pulls away, his breathing all wild and unregulated. “Right here?” he asks, looking over my head and scanning the parking lot.
I nod. “Right here,” I moan, surprising even myself. Who knows where the bravery comes from? Some reserve tucked away by old Annabel. I don’t care who sees us. I just need to know he’s still with me. Jason’s hands move under the back of my shirt, and he runs his fingers across my scars. It’s what he always does. His first move.
He’s still with me.
He’s the only one who has always been with me.
Chapter Four
Annabel
Kennedy, Mr. Honking Is My Only Form of Communication, has invaded my darkroom. I super try to suppress the groan that wants to escape my lips, but it’s hard. Like opening a jar of pickles that Thor himself closed hard. But try, try I do. It’s been a hell of a day, but that doesn’t mean I want to be the Lucy to anyone’s Charlie Brown. Especially not to Kennedy.
Besides, he keeps looking at me like he can tell I just hooked up with my boyfriend in my car only hours before. When we were kids, he could always tell when I was lying or hiding something. It would have been annoying, except most of the time he was up to no good right next to me. But that was a lifetime ago.
I try to ignore the way my heart skips a beat at being so close to him. How it panics. It’s not the erratic beating of a girl in a romance novel. More like a horror film. My heart senses it before the rest of me does: DANGER—this boy will hurt you. He has hurt you. Worse than any other boy ever will. RUN!
“Good afternoon, Annabel,” he almost sings as he moves next to me at the sink, pulling down bottles from the cabinet above our heads. I have to duck not to bang my forehead into his arm during my decidedly not verbal nod in response to his very verbal greeting. Despite the dimmed red glare of the darkroom, I can’t help but notice the dimple that appears on his left cheek as a smirk crawls across his face. I didn’t even know he was capable of dimpling. It seems like an action reserved for quarterbacks and farmers’ sons. I’m sure that dimple wasn’t there when we were children.
Kennedy chuckles softly, and I realize he’s caught me staring. I can’t be blamed. Not really. That dimple keeps going off like a lighthouse. There should be studies on this phenomenon. I must have looked at this boy a thousand times as a child. Shaggy dirty-blond hair that always screamed for a haircut. Piercing blue eyes that reminded me of the aqua-colored crystal candy you could buy from the Air and Space Museum in DC. Never in all those times staring do I remember seeing those dimples.
Not that it matters. He doesn’t get to walk in and dimple at me just because he decided ten years was long enough to avoid me for no reason. I roll my eyes and start gathering the necessary chemicals I’ll need for developing my film. Eye-rolling. Not one of my more attractive qualities. Or so my grandmother tells me. A lot. But eye-rolling is taking it easy on the kid, so I don’t feel too bad about it.
I force my attention away from the enigma beside me and attempt to focus on my assignment. Despite the zillion-trillion technological advances that have come into existence since he’s starting teaching, our photography teacher, Mr. Perla, refuses to teach us a thing about digital photography. Not that I mind entirely. There’s something secret and special about being alone in a darkroom, bringing to life the images you’ve managed to capture, creating meaning for the pictures without anyone else’s ideas to tarnish or corrupt them. So while I originally signed up for photography at the community college to get a leg up on all of the other freshmen this fall, I often find myself longing for the hours alone in the quiet of the room where the glorious red light and darkness dance.
Except I’m not alone. And as if he can somehow sense I need reminding, Kennedy chuckles beside me.
“Is there something particularly funny that you’d like to share?” I nearly growl.
“Lots of things are funny about life. Where would you like me to start?”
More words?
A decade.
It’s been a decade since we have spoken full sentences to each other. I was stunned to see him walk into my photography class that first day, and a bit nervous, if I’m being honest. But we’ve been sharing a class for months and nothing has changed. Except for today. Did fate happen to tweet that I was already having a crappy day? Because the more he talks to me, the more I think of life before the accident, and, well, that sucks.
I clench my teeth and blow out air, unsure how to actually proceed here. Which Annabel does he want? The Intellect? The Do-Gooder? The Listener? The Bitch? Not that it matters, since he doesn’t know any of these versions of me. The girl he knew died in the accident.
My silence only causes Kennedy to laugh harder.
“I don’t have time for your philosophical bullshit today,” I snap as I drop my negatives into solution that will give them meaning.
Apparently, I have decided to go with The Bitch.
“Really? The way I figure it, you have exactly thirty minutes. It’s not like you can leave the room,” he reminds me, pointing to the red light that signals to us and the outside world that magic is happening inside the room. Magic that the smallest amount of foreign light could ruin.
I’ve always loved that darn red light. Not in a creepy way. If F. Scott Fitzgerald can write a whole novel about a man reaching for a green light at the end of a pier, I can adore the red light of my darkroom without hesitation.
“Now that we have this quality time together, let’s talk about what I find so funny,” he continues, apparently unfazed by my outburst. “Let’s start with this morning. I honk to wish you a pleasant and wonderful day and what do I get? Hmm?” Kennedy raises his middle finger and shakes it in my face. I smack it away. “Monkeys communicate better than you. At least they grunt.”
My mouth falls open and a sort of croak-like noise issues from it. I’ve never heard the sound before, and I can only guess it’s everything in my being balking at the nerve of this kid. The most he has ever uttered to me since this class started was “Nice pic.” He couldn’t even take the time to say picture. Two syllables. Pic-ture.
Whiplash. That’s what it reminds me of. This talking and joking. Pretending the last ten years didn’t exist. He doesn’t get to do that. If I can’t erase it, he can’t, either.
I pull my shoulders back and death-glare him. “Says the boy who used a horn to say good morning. Most girls don’t enjoy being honked at, by the way.”
“I didn’t know you wanted to be like most girls,” he retorts with a wink.
What the what? Is Kennedy Harrison actually trying to flirt with me? Could he be so despe
rate for a little downstairs excitement he thought he would try to seduce the girl he abandoned when she needed him the most?
Oh. Hades. No.
I pull a hand to my hip and raise an eyebrow. “Did you work on a script before you came in here? I know carrying out conversations with actual human beings isn’t a top priority for you. But I gotta say, we’re getting a bit trite here. Next, you’ll expect me to cross my arms and stammer, mortified that you called me out on my pretense of not wanting to belong to the mass horde of postfeminists claiming their groveling and begging for a boyfriend is their battle cry of sexuality and free choice, but secretly hoping you didn’t know that all I really wanted was to be a part of the group all along? We’ll banter back and forth for about another five minutes, you’ll lean over to get something, and your arm or hand, or some other unwashed extremity, will graze my skin, and I’ll nearly swoon. Is that really what you want to happen here? Did you suddenly decide lurking wasn’t your favorite pastime anymore and you wanted to try pestering? Or did you just come in here to make my already shitty day even worse?”
The words spew from my mouth like the bile that came up after I suffered from the norovirus last spring. Not pretty. Not even human. My face heats up, and I’m pretty sure I’m beet red from my forehead to the tips of my fingers. Kennedy says nothing. Instead, his face pales slightly and he turns back to the work in front of him.
“I wasn’t trying to make your day worse. I was just trying to make you laugh. You’ve seemed stressed lately,” he says quietly, staring intently at the white photography paper in front of him.
He’s noticed? Why was he paying attention to me anyway? When I was in the hospital, I asked for him every day. Every. Single. Day. But he never came. If he didn’t care when we were best friends, why would he care when we don’t even know each other anymore?
My throat goes thick. All stopped up with everything the old me would have told him in an instant back before the accident. Things I haven’t really been able to talk to anyone about. Sometimes, I think it’s not the accident that almost destroyed me; it was losing him.
Judging from the easy nature of his conversation, the honking, and the pathetic attempts at flirting, it’s obvious our separation didn’t affect him nearly as much as it did me. I clear my throat and shrug, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing he got to me. “Stressed? Not really. Not about anything important. Just stuff,” I reply, trying to sound casual. I almost pull it off. Almost. I can’t stop my hands from shaking as I pick up the tongs to grab my picture from the solution. Kennedy reaches over and gently takes the tongs from my trembling hands. He shifts the photo I’m developing, so the solution touches all of it, consuming it, waking it into existence.
I clench and unclench my fists at my sides, feeling stupid as I stand around and watch Kennedy pick up my photo and clip it on the clothesline hanging above our heads. It’s of a row of overflowing trash cans from the week the roads flooded and the trash men couldn’t get to us.
I don’t know how to stand around and just watch someone work. There’s something about knowing that Kennedy is touching my pictures, my art, that feels like standing in the middle of a room completely naked. Like somehow a bunch a trash cans will reveal just how much I missed him when he left. I reach up a hand to grab another picture, but it continues to shake. Bad. Like I suddenly have epilepsy. Kennedy notices out of the corner of his eye, but for some reason, he doesn’t say anything. He places my second photograph in the solution without a word.
The room feels too small. Too dark. Too intimate. I take a step back from the counter. There’s nothing I want more in the world than to leave, but I know I can’t.
Kennedy looks back at me, and his forehead furrows. He reaches down into the pocket of his hoodie and pulls out his iPhone. He throws it at me, and somehow, I catch it, cradling it against my chest. I raise an eyebrow. Afraid that if I attempt to ask him why he threw it at me, I would tell him everything. About my grandmother. About how stressful it’s been since the twins came. About Jason. I would forget what we are and remember who we used to be.
And he doesn’t deserve that.
Kennedy takes a step toward me, and my whole body stiffens. He notices. God, is there anything this kid doesn’t pick up on today? He hesitantly reaches out his hand, and I place the iPhone in it, careful not to touch him.
Like I said, the room is too small. Too dark. Too intimate.
“Here, you listen. I’ll finish this up,” he says quietly. He takes a step closer to me, our toes touching. I can barely swallow. He’s a man now. That much is obvious as he towers above me. When did he get so tall? From best friends to strangers. From children to adults. It’s all new and weird, and I don’t know how to act. And if there are two things I hate, it’s new and weird. Kennedy places the earbuds inside my ears and presses play, his eyes never leaving mine in the process. I’m the one who has to look away.
Kennedy kicks my foot with his, forcing me to look back up. He pushes the iPhone in front of me, and I take it in my hands. I stumble back and lean against the wall, Kennedy’s music drifting through my ears and slithering down to my center as he continues to work.
It’s not the kind of music I expected him to listen to. As he develops the pictures, I’m treated to the likes of Air, Explosions in the Sky, and Balmoreha. You’d find every one of these groups on my iPhone. I wonder if he likes them for the same reasons I do. Does he see them as a collection of sounds? Wordless and open to interpretation? When I listen to them, I can find what’s hidden between the keys of the piano and the strings of the violin, the empty spaces of the synthesizer. There’s a beauty to discovering something no one else will search for because they don’t know it’s there to find.
Most people would hate this stuff, preferring to listen to the same song that has been sung by a thousand different artists in a thousand different ways. The same story on repeat. I prefer the story that I make up in my head.
I can’t help myself. I scroll through his music. I find everything in there from dubstep to classical, country to oldies. I mean everything. If it were possible to be a music hoarder, this guy would be it.
When I manage to tear myself from Kennedy’s iPhone and look up to check on his progress, I nearly jump out of my skin when I find him staring right at me. My cheeks flash hot again, and I can’t help but feel like I’ve been caught riffling through his porn stash. And then I’m thinking about what kind of porn he likes.
I yank the earbuds out and shove the iPhone toward him, nearly dropping the damn thing in the process. Kennedy reaches forward and takes it, fighting a grin the entire time.
I really wish he would stop smiling at me like that. Like we were just some boy and girl with no history.
If there is one thing that hasn’t changed in a decade, it’s that. He still smiles the same. He’s certainly perfected it—the whole dazzling grin thing to make girls all swoony. Maybe if he was a different boy and I was a different girl, I’d feel a little light-headed myself. But we are who we are. And if I’m feeling anything, it’s because I skipped breakfast.
I clear my throat. “You about done? I could have helped, you know.” Except I couldn’t.
“Yeah. About done. I really like this one,” he replies, pointing to the picture of the trash cans.
“Trash cans? That was the first picture I took. I was just trying to make sure I had the right lens on,” I scoff, afraid he’s teasing me.
“Do you always go on the defensive?” he asks. Simple. Direct.
I try not to cringe at his words, and shrug. “Not always. But I also don’t accept compliments I don’t deserve.”
“I wasn’t complimenting you. I said I like the picture,” he replies matter-of-factly.
I should feel insulted, but I don’t, and I sort of hate that I appreciate his honesty. I don’t get that a lot. The truth. People always tell me what they think I want to hear. Once a victim, always a victim. Doesn’t matter that I’ve devoted all of my energy
to proving I wasn’t. Top of my class. Early admission into UVA. People still tell me whatever they think would make my scars disappear. Their lies only remind me of them. I take a step closer to the photo. “What is it that you like about it?”
“I like what it reveals. What it says about the town.”
“What does it say about the town?”
“You tell me,” he urges. And here goes the eye roll. Kennedy laughs. “What is it about that question that results in eye mocking?”
“Eye mocking?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. If I raise it any more, I’ll look like Peter Falk from Grandma’s favorite show, Columbo.
“Yes, that’s what eye-rolling is. Mocking with the optic nerves. Now, answer the question.”
“Which one? The one about what trash reveals about the town or the one about why I find your question pretentious?”
Kennedy laughs even harder. Rumble. Mountain-man laugh. “Either one. I’m pretty flexible.”
“Finnnnneeee,” I drawl. “Give me space. I need to think,” I reply, shooing him away from me. Kennedy holds up his hands in mock surrender and takes several steps away from me.
Temporarily, I forget about everything before this moment. The reasons I shouldn’t be talking to this boy. It’s the first honest conversation I’ve had in forever.
I pull my hands to my hips and squint. I bite on my bottom lip and hold my breath. It’s a strange routine, but it’s what I do when I investigate, break down a picture to see if it’s worthy of adding to my portfolio or not. Once I’m able to tune out the fact that Kennedy probably thinks I look like a giant ass, the picture begins to bubble and jump out at me.
All in all, it’s not a very good picture. At least not technique-wise. The light’s all wrong, and I did, in fact, use the wrong lens. But there is something to be said about the contents of the picture itself.
Seven Ways to Lose Your Heart Page 3