Seven Ways to Lose Your Heart

by Tiffany Truitt

  “Sounds great!” I exclaim. I nearly run to the front door, so I can make it inside before Annabel can stop me. I’m super interested to see how the house has changed. “But I’ll just take some water or coffee.”

  Thankful that she hasn’t pulled out a knife to stab me, I follow Grams into the kitchen. She’s moving at a turtle’s speed, but I know better than to move past her or, worse, offer her help. She would see it as an insult.

  “I can’t believe you called her Grams,” Annabel whispers to me.

  I shrug. “Always give the thing you fear a cute nickname to make it less scary, Le Chat.”

  “You’re an idiot.”

  “I know.”

  As I walk through the house, I notice just how different it is from the last time I visited. Gone is any kind of effort at organization or cleanliness. It’s not that it’s necessarily a mess; my apartment is a mess. It’s just that it looks lived-in. Whereas before, it looked like a house you see in a commercial for cleaning products. Empty walls are now covered in pictures of Annabel and Grams and the twins. Artwork, both drawn on paper and directly on the wall in some cases, decorates the home like confetti at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

  And there are lots and lots of pictures of Stephen. Pictures of him as a baby, a toddler, a young adult, and then nothing. A timeline cut short by fate and all her vengeance.

  I can’t look at his pictures too long, so I try to keep my eyes down as we enter the kitchen. I plop down on a stool next to an island in the middle of the kitchen, patting the empty seat next to me. With a sigh and quite the mighty glare, Annabel sits down. She starts biting on that bottom lip of hers, but not in the sexy, torturous way I’ve come to long for. She’s eagle-eyeing her grams as she moves about the kitchen making coffee. It’s clear that Annabel is scared to death of losing this woman, which I get, considering how much she’s lost already.

  “How do you like your coffee?” Grams asks, interrupting my staring at Annabel. No doubt catching me staring at Annabel. But I can’t stop looking at her.

  “Like I love my women, strong and black,” I quip without realizing what I’m saying. It’s an old joke, but not one entirely appropriate for either of the women I’m sitting with. “Not that I’m racist. I mean, I like all women. All shapes. All sizes. All skin tones. Super-big fan of the woman over here,” I start frantically mumbling.

  Annabel’s eyes have gone record-size big. I turn to look at Grams, and she starts full-out laughing. Like almost a cackle.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Annabel asks, clearly miffed she’s not in on what we’re talking about.

  “So, what exactly are your intentions with my granddaughter?” Grams asks. I gulp as she slides me a mug of coffee.

  “Well, we’ve both established we’re asexual beings, so really, I’m just using her for inspiration. She’s letting me tag along as she takes some pictures, and I’m hoping it inspires me to get some writing done,” I explain in between sips. This answer is easier than the real one: I’m trying to make up for the awful way I treated Annabel after the accident, get my friend back, and try not to fall for her all at the same time.

  “Asexual, huh?” Grams asks, clearly not believing any word of that line.

  I gulp again.

  “You think she’s good, huh?”

  It takes me a minute to realize she’s referencing photography. “Oh, heck yes. She’s amazing. She’s got a real way for seeing what others don’t,” I reply, hoping my face isn’t as red as it feels.

  “She’s never bothered showing me any of her work,” says Grams.

  “Because I didn’t think it was worth showing. I never really thought much of it. Not till Kennedy—”

  “And this is helping you write? Because construction might be good enough for some, but it ain’t good enough for you,” Grams says, cutting Annabel off.

  I nearly choke on my coffee. How did she know I worked construction? How did she know I wrote? The only person I’d told about that is Annabel. And what could she possibly know about me to think I should be doing something better with my life? I could count on one hand the number of people who think I’m even capable of dressing myself without help. I didn’t spend much time with Grams even when Annabel and I were glued at the hip. She was always off at some town meeting or social event. Quite the mover and shaker and ball-breaker. So what gives?

  “Don’t look so shocked, kid. You think I wouldn’t do some research about the boy who took my granddaughter joyriding in the middle of the night? Especially considering your past behavior toward her? The internet is a wonderful thing, Kennedy. I’ve read some of your stuff. It’s pretty good. I mean, I think the music you like is crap, but the actual writing…well, that’s pretty good.”

  “Wow. Thanks,” I reply.

  “So what’s next? You can’t just write for that blog forever. You planning on going to school?”

  Annabel lets out a heavy sigh, and I’m not sure if it’s to remind us that she’s in the room or because she’s no longer a part of the conversation. Either way, she gets up and attempts to scrub the mud off her tank top from her tussle with the twins.

  “Well, actually, a new opportunity has landed in my lap,” I reply. I eye Annabel to see if she’s paying attention. I had rather hoped to broach this subject with her in a different way, but maybe what I really needed to be successful was Grams’s help. Maybe the only way to take down a ballbuster was with an even bigger ballbuster?

  “The blog I write for wants to send me to the Infinite Festival in Delaware. It’s a three-day music festival. All kinds of music, too, so a little something for everyone. They want me to cover it, and they think they could get some major sites to run our stories. Good for our blog and good for me,” I continue.

  Annabel doesn’t turn to look at me while I’m speaking, but I notice that despite the water running, her hands are still. I’ve got her attention.

  “Good for you how?” Grams asks.

  “Well, if I can get published on these bigger sites, it might open some doors.”

  “Well, hell, you’ve got to do it,” she replies.

  I take a deep breath. Here goes. “There’s a little catch,” I say, scratching the back of my head. “I need Annabel to go.”

  “Como, say what?” Annabel asks, spinning around. Not even cognizant of the fact that half her tank top is now plastered to her stomach, outlining a hell of a body, which I shouldn’t even be looking at right now because it is so not the time for that.

  “Go pack your bags, Annabel,” Grams commands.

  “Hold on a second,” Annabel replies. “First of all, Grandma, you haven’t talked to me in days, so I won’t be taking orders from you. Second, what are you talking about, Kennedy?”

  “Look, I didn’t even get the chance to tell you the other night, but I showed your picture, the one of the trash cans, to some of my music friends, and they loved it. One band was even interested in having it for the cover of their new album. Then I showed my editor some of the stuff from the record store, and he went really bonkers. We need pictures for the articles I’m going to write. And since you’re new talent, you would be cheap talent—”

  “Oh, honey, don’t ever call a girl cheap if you want her to go somewhere with ya,” Grams chimes in.

  “Oh, shit. I mean shoot. That’s not what I meant. You would get compensated for your work. It’s just since we’re still a bit unestablished, it would be less than what a professional photographer would get paid. And since the blog is small… But if it’s the money, I’ll give you my cut. I just need you to go, Annabel.”

  “I couldn’t possibly, and you know that, Kennedy,” Annabel admonishes.

  “Right. She doesn’t want to go because she thinks I’m going to drop dead at any moment,” says Grams.

  “That’s not true,” Annabel counters, her own face growing red.

  “You’re right. That’s not entirely true,” Grams amends. “That’s only part of the reason. She’s also scar
ed shitless to do anything that isn’t part of her plan. You know…college. House. Divorce. Mediocrity. Do you know how frustrating it is to watch a girl waste her life, all while I’ve got barely any life in me left to live?”

  Before I can open my mouth to respond, Annabel runs out of the room and up the stairs. If I’m not mistaken, I think I saw tears in her eyes. “You should go after her, son. I know she thinks I’m being harsh on her, but she needs someone to give her a good kick in the ass. Maybe you can help me do it.”

  I nod. I start to leave the room but stop, turning back to face Grams. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re pretty rad, but that girl up there loves you. And while I get what you’re doing, you’re breaking her heart.”

  “Quite ballsy, telling off an old dying woman. I like you, Kennedy. More than I should, considering you broke that girl’s heart before my dying had the chance. Now, I guess you’ll have to fix it when I go,” Grams says, reaching out and giving my hand a squeeze.

  I knock on Annabel’s bedroom door before realizing it hasn’t been shut all the way.

  There stands Annabel Lee in nothing more than her shorts and sports bra. Light blue to be precise. Holy amazeballs, sports bras are tight. And that cleavage…

  “You shouldn’t have done that! You teamed up with her against me, and you put me in a position where I had no hope of winning,” she charges. Either she isn’t aware that I’m ogling her in her bra, or she’s so super pissed at me that she doesn’t care.

  Annabel’s eyes are on her face, not her tits. Her eyes are on her face, not her tits. Look at Annabel’s eyes!

  “It’s not always about winning,” I reply, hoping my voice doesn’t come off as high as it sounds in my own ears. ’Cause it sounds like I’m back in fourth grade sneaking a peek at my first pair of tits in a nudie mag I dared Annabel to steal from Stephen.

  “Stop! Don’t sit there and act like this is some sort of game. She’s dying!” Annabel yells, her voice breaking painfully at the end of her sentence.

  I take a step toward her. “I know it’s not a game. She is dying, but there’s nothing you can do about that. Nothing. It sucks. Big-time. I know you like to fix things, but you ain’t ever going to be able to fix that.”

  Annabel’s chin starts to tremble. I reach out a hand to grab her and pull her close, but she turns her back to me. “Just go, Kennedy,” she says in between sniffles. Suddenly, all the air is sucked from the room. Her back. Fuck. Fuck that’s bad. How did I leave her to deal with that on her own? What scars did she have that I couldn’t see?

  “Fuck no,” I reply. I swallow hard and take two steps toward her. She spins around and glares at me.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You said we would go take some pictures, so let’s go.” There’s no way I’m going to let this girl sit in her room and cry all afternoon. If she’s the artist I think she is, this is magic time. The time to channel all the dark inner muck and make something beautiful. Or hell, make something ugly.

  Just make something.

  “I don’t feel like it,” she retorts, crossing her arms to match mine.

  “Well, I don’t care. So I’ll just sit right here until you’re ready to go,” I reply, moving to her bed. I’m not running again.

  “Do not sit on my bed,” she warns.

  “Why not?”

  “Because…because that’s not appropriate.”

  “Last time I checked, we were both asexual beings, so something like sitting on a bed doesn’t really have any hidden meanings,” I counter. “Besides, I’ve sat on your bed before. I’ve even slept over at your house. No biggie,” I say, hoping I’m managing to sound calmer than I feel. I stare her down and take a seat. It’s only now, leaning back on my elbows sitting on Annabel Lee’s bed, that I take a real good look at her room. Talk about the minimal look. There’re a few posters featuring the Smithsonian, but besides that nothing but beige, beige, beige. Beige desk chair. Beige curtains. Beige comforter and pillows. Perfectly organized and perfectly cleaned. Perfectly new Annabel.

  “Ugh. Could you be any more annoying?” Annabel asks, clearly exasperated with me.

  I sit up and shrug. “I don’t know. I guess I could try.”

  “Please. Don’t. Let me get my camera, so we can go and get this over with.” Annabel walks over to her dresser, catching her appearance in the mirror. “Oh. My. God!” she exclaims, finally realizing that she’s in nothing but her sports bra. Her eyes go wide and shoot over to me on the bed. “Get out!” she screams. She attempts to cover herself with her arms.

  “It’s a sports bra. And one you’ve been standing in for the past five minutes. Throw on a shirt and let’s go,” I reply.

  “I said get out!”

  “If I wanted to ogle your goodies, I so would have done it by now. But like I said, asexual—”

  “Get out! Get out! Get out!”

  Annabel doesn’t wait for me to move. She storms over to the bed, grabs my arms, and pulls me up. The haste in which she does so makes me fall forward…accidentally causing me to graze her boob with my left hand.

  “Get out!” she shrieks.

  This is going to be a fun afternoon.

  Chapter Ten

  Annabel

  “I’m up for another one if you are,” I offer, nestling further into Jason’s arms. Even though I’ve had more I objects and you’re out of orders to last me a lifetime, I’d watch fifty more law-inspired movies if it meant I got to stay right here.

  Here is safe. Here is what I know. Here there’s no sick grandmother or looming college departure to make me panic. I know exactly how this night will go. We have had this night a million times.

  Here I don’t have to think about Kennedy. Or at least I shouldn’t be thinking about him.

  I’ve never been tempted to try drugs. Not once. If anything, I fully subscribe to that whole your body is a temple belief. You know, considering mine almost shut down on me all those years ago. But being with Kennedy, I imagine that’s what drugs are like. I shouldn’t want to spend time with him. He isn’t good for me. He’ll hurt me. And even knowing this, despite knowing this, I still want our time together.

  I reach for Jason’s hand and intertwine his fingers with mine, holding on as tightly as I can. “So, how about it?”

  “Actually, I thought we could, maybe, do something different tonight.”

  I shift so I’m sitting up. “Something different?” I ask, furrowing my brow. “What’s wrong with what we’re doing?”

  Whatever he reads on my face causes Jason to pull me into his arms. “Nothing is wrong with this, Annabel,” he says quietly before kissing the top of my head.

  And so we sit in silence for a while, neither one of us making the move to play another movie. Even though anyone looking in on us would see the same old Annabel and Jason, it just doesn’t feel the same. I sigh. “Okay, let’s do something different.”

  “You sure you want to?” Jason asks as he puts his car into park.

  “Yeah, why not?” I reply with a lazy shrug. At least I hope it comes across as lazy, nonchalant, like I’m used to being social and fun and carefree. Hoping I don’t look like I’m trying to button a pair of pants that are way too small.

  I understand Jason’s question. Never in our entire relationship has he asked me to go to the lake. Not once. On hot summer days and nights, the lake was the happening place to be. From teenagers to adults trying to recapture their youth, people crowded the shores, setting out blankets and coolers. At night, the beach balls and rafts were replaced with tiki torches and flashlights. All manner of scandalous frivolity supposedly took place here, which never quite made it onto my list of things to do on a Saturday night.

  Kennedy had mentioned it during our trek around town taking pictures after the mortifying bra incident. Of course, now that I think about it, he probably brought it up less as an invitation to come out and more as a way to not talk about the other thing. He had seen my back with all of its scars, ugly reminders of a
past neither one of us seemed quite ready to talk about.

  Jason opens the passenger door and holds out his hand. I plaster on the biggest grin I can muster and place my hand in his. “Come on, Annabel, time to go walk amongst the plebeians,” he teases. Jason always speaks like this, and I know it’s never meant in a condescending way; he’s just one of the smartest people I’ve ever met. Smarter than me, definitely, and I spent the first couple months of my recovery reading any and every National Geographic magazine I could get my hands on. Where I have to work for it, Jason is naturally the smartest person in any room he walks into. It’s part of what made him so attractive in the first place. Never impulsive. Always practical. That’s exactly what I needed back then.

  As Jason and I maneuver around the masses of people stationed near the lake, a few of the partygoers call out my name. No doubt some acquaintances from high school. I halfheartedly wave, but if I’m being truthful, I’m looking for one person. Ever since his visit to my house, I’ve had this nagging sensation that Kennedy was feeling sorry for me. He witnessed the fight with my grandmother and saw my back, and that would be enough for anyone to think I was some sort of victim of fate, but I am definitely not. At least not anymore. I am in control of my life now, and I need him to see that. I’m still standing. I can be social if I want to. I am in a healthy relationship. The accident tried to mess me up, but I won.

  I squeeze Jason’s hand to make sure he’s still with me. He leans down and kisses the top of my head. “Hey, I see a few of the other interns from the firm. Let’s go say hey. Maybe score us a few beers.”

  I’m about to respond when I hear Kennedy’s bellow of a laugh from behind me. I turn to see him bent over, howling at something. In one hand he holds a red Solo cup. The other is draped over some blonde’s shoulders. I can’t help but notice how his fingers rest directly above her breast. Like a soft breeze could blow and he’d be feeling her up in front of everyone.