Seven Ways to Lose Your Heart

by Tiffany Truitt

  The foreman’s eyes go wide. “You quit?”

  Kennedy doesn’t answer. He’s said his piece and it’s clear he doesn’t feel like the man deserves another minute of his time. Kennedy stalks right past my car, so lost in his own thoughts that he fails to see me.

  A moment later, I get a text message. It’s from Kennedy asking if I can meet him later this evening instead. There’s no mention of the incident with the foreman.

  I contemplate going after him and seeing if he needs someone to talk to, but I know I would want to be alone, so I decide to give him some space. When I pull back into my driveway at home, I spot Grandma sitting on the steps of the front porch with a glass of iced tea in her hand.

  I think about backing out of the driveway, but Grandma raises an eyebrow at me. She’s ready to talk, and I’m ready to listen. Once the car is parked, I get out and take a seat next to Grandma. I wait for her to speak. She hasn’t really talked to me in nearly a week, so I figure I’ll let her steer the ship.

  “I heard Kennedy no longer has a job,” she finally says. My mouth drops open. “Do I need to remind you how small this town is? I heard it from Ms. Wilkins. Told me all about how that asshole disrespected that poor boy, and how you were sitting in your car watching it happen.”

  “What should I have done?” I ask, unable to miss the note of accusation in her voice.

  Grandma reaches over and grabs my hand in hers. “It doesn’t matter what you should have done. Now all you can worry about is what you should do.”

  “What can I do?” I ask. “Like you said, the guy’s a real asshole. I doubt he’s going to listen to me. Besides, even if I could get Kennedy’s job back, I don’t think he would take it. How could anyone go back and work for a man who speaks about you like that?”

  “I’m talking about the music festival,” Grandma replies.

  I sigh. “Look, if you really want me to consider going to school this fall, I certainly won’t be missing my last few weeks at home to go to some music festival.”

  “Because you think I’m going to die at any second, and you want to be there for me?” Grandma asks before taking a long swig of her iced tea.

  I bite down on my bottom lip and start pulling on the grass growing up between the cracks of the sidewalk near my feet.

  “Look, Annabel Lee, you didn’t go to school last year when things were real bad. And I didn’t stop you because, well, I wanted you around. I wasn’t ready to give you up. I was being selfish—”

  “No, Grandma, you weren’t—”

  Grandma hits me on the back of the head. “Don’t interrupt an old, dying lady when she is speaking. I was. After Stephen died, I clutched too tightly to you.”

  I can’t help but crack a smile. I’m going to miss her sass.

  “Honestly, I thought I would be gone by now,” she continues. “I could die tomorrow or six months from today. We just don’t know. What I am sure of is I won’t be getting better. I can’t keep you here waiting.”

  “But I want to be here with you,” I reply, squeezing her hand. My parents lost me when they had the twins. Kennedy gave me away, but Grandma kept me with her, and now she thinks I’m strong enough to be on my own.

  “I truly think you do, my girl. But I also think there are other reasons you don’t want to go to school and that music festival,” she replies. She hands me her glass of iced tea.

  It’s only when I’m holding it that I realize it’s not iced tea. The smell of whiskey almost overwhelms me. I raise an eyebrow and Grandma nods. I bring the glass to my lips and take a sip. At first, it feels like liquid fire down my throat, but a fuzzy warmth fills my chest.

  “I think you’re scared shitless about going out into the world,” she continues. I try to hand her back the glass, but she refuses to take it. Knowing Grandma is about to get real with me in the way only she and maybe Kennedy can, I take another sip. “You’ve succeeded at everything you’ve done in this town,” she continues. “Top of your class. President of any club you decided to join. Hell, most days you even run this house. I think you’re afraid that if you leave here, you won’t be able to control everything.”

  I want to tell her she’s wrong, but all I can do instead is sip on the whiskey.

  “One of the best things about being an old, dying lady is you get to say whatever the heck is on your mind.”

  “Come on, you’ve always said what was on your mind. Even before you were sick,” I say as I hold up the glass in a toast to the woman who has been the single biggest influence on my life.

  “I guess that’s true, but now I can say whatever I want and people aren’t allowed to get mad at me,” she amends. “So you sit there and remember that when I say what I need to say.”

  I nod, bringing the glass of whiskey back to my lips.

  “Some of my best memories involved things happening that were out of my control. For example, when I was young, I just knew I was going to marry Michael Page. I pursued that boy till the cows came home, and that little dipshit didn’t want nothing to do with me. I was a mess. And your grandpa, who I never thought of as anything more than a friend, was right there by my side to pick up the pieces. I let him see me at my worst, and he didn’t run. There aren’t a lot of people like that in the world.”

  I nod, remembering how Kennedy told me he wasn’t going anywhere…even after the deplorable way I had acted. The thing was, I just didn’t know if I believed him.

  “You need to go to that music festival, Annabel. I could sit here and try to guilt you into it by telling you how much Kennedy’s going to need it, considering he’s no longer got a job. I mean, writing is all he has left. But mostly, you need to go for yourself, girl.”

  I’m not sure why, but my eyes fill with tears.

  “And you need to go because I can’t,” she continues. She takes the glass of whiskey from my hand and brings it to her mouth. After a long sip, she turns her attention back to me.

  “But what if…”

  “If I die while you’re gone?”

  I nod.

  “Then I die. At least you’ll be having a hell of a time. Which is what I want for you. Always. God saved you the day of that accident, and I don’t need you wasting the time he gave you.”

  The tears are free-flowing now. Grandma puts down the glass and pulls me into her arms. “It’s okay to cry, Annabel Lee. Right now, it’s okay to cry.”

  And so I do, and she does as well.

  Once all the crying is done, Grandma takes my hands and leads me back into the house. She shuffles over to the hallway table where we keep the mail and hands me a thick white envelope. “Now, about Kennedy. I got you some leverage.”

  I raise an eyebrow, having no idea what Grandma means. But knowing her, it’s got to be good.

  Chapter Eleven

  Kennedy

  Not even Bob Dylan is working.

  “Livid” is not the word to describe the mood I am currently drowning in. That fucking prick. That small-dicked assweed. I have done nothing but work my butt off for that man, and he thinks just because I don’t have the best reputation in town, he can treat me any way he wants? Fuck no. I’d rather eat ramen noodles for the rest of my life than put up with that.

  When I got home from work, I tried just about everything to shake off the crap mood I was in. First, I tried writing, but when I opened my email to see the available article topics, I found an email from my editor asking about the music festival. Which only reminded me that I wasn’t going, and that Annabel was probably jetting off to college soon. That just made me feel even worse, considering there wasn’t a damn thing settled between us. At first, all I wanted was to talk to her, but now I want so much more.

  I thought about calling up some of my buddies to get high, but that’s exactly what people like my boss expected of me, so I crossed it off my list. Then I tried listening to all my faves, but even the King of Folk himself wasn’t doing the trick.

  So when Annabel texted to see if she could come over and si
gn the cover art paperwork, I almost said no. I was feeling more Hulk than Captain America at the moment, and I didn’t want to rage out on her, since I felt like I could punch a wall. But then the thought of not seeing her felt worse, so I agreed.

  There’s a quiet knock on my bedroom door, and I’m still not sure I made the right choice. I had texted Annabel to just come on up when she got here. Mrs. Peterson always keeps a spare key under a stone bunny next to the door. Everyone in town knows about the key.

  Now that she’s here, I wish I would have taken a few seconds to clean up my room. Annabel’s room was hospital clean. Like mental hospital clean. And my room looks kinda like a tornado swept through a convenience store: empty pizza boxes, chip bags, and soda cans everywhere.

  “One second,” I call out, suddenly feeling panicked. I run around the room, throwing as much of the trash under my bed and in my closet as I can. I turn down Bob’s lamenting and open the door.

  For a girl who spends more time studying than going to the mall, Annabel always has this way of looking effortlessly cute. Like now, she’s wearing a Daughters of the American Revolution shirt with jeans, and her hair’s tied to the side with a blue-and-white polka-dot ribbon. I take note that this is the third time she’s worn a shirt with something to do with history.

  Her cheeks redden a little when she sees me, and I half wonder if my fly is down or something. But her eyes are, like, laser-locked onto me, so there’s no way to check without her noticing. “What’s up, Le Chat?” I try to say casually, but my voice sounds all epileptic.

  Annabel shrugs. “Not much,” she replies. She plays with a loose string on the hem of her shirt.

  “You going to come in or just stand there awkwardly in the doorway?” I tease, trying to break the heavy tension between us.

  “Are you going to invite me in or just stand there awkwardly in your room?” she counters.

  I grin. “Nicely done. Come on in,” I reply.

  “So, is this where all the magic happens?” she asks as she walks into my bedroom. I raise an eyebrow and her cheeks go from pink to atomic red. “I mean like writing. W-writing magic,” she stammers.

  “I saw your eyes dart over to my bed when you walked in,” I reply smugly.

  “You wish,” she counters, rolling her eyes. “Now, I believe we have some business to conduct.”

  “I’m ready for the business when you are,” I say, crossing my room and taking a seat on the bed. It’s easier for me like this. The joking. It’s better than telling her I don’t want her to leave. That I’d give anything to escape with her for a few days and listen to music. To get lost with her.

  “What happened to being asexual beings?” Annabel reminds me.

  I clear my throat and pop up from the bed. “You’re right. Whatever was I thinking?” I reply, taking on an air of mock seriousness. “Let’s get this paperwork signed, young lady,” I continue. I pantomime straightening a tie as I walk over to my desk to get the documents she needs. “Now, you’ll need to sign here and here,” I say, handing her a pen.

  “You can’t honestly expect me to sign without reading it?” Annabel asks.

  “Of course not. How very foolish of me,” I reply. I move back over to my bed and plop down. Knowing Annabel, she’ll read every word. Twice.

  About a half hour later, Annabel signs the paperwork. “Seems pretty legit,” she says.

  “Congratulations, you’re officially a paid photographer,” I reply, taking the papers from her and offering her a fist bump.

  Annabel bites on her bottom lip and shakes her head, fist bumping me back.

  “Shall we celebrate? I think Mrs. Peterson has a five-dollar bottle of wine behind the counter. She says she’s saving it for the day a famous author walks in.”

  “Maybe you’ll be that famous author one day.”

  Now I’m the one all red in the face. “Doubtful,” I reply, scratching the back of my neck.

  “Fine. Play the modesty card. I’ll pass on the wine, since our business isn’t done,” Annabel replies. She crosses her arms and leans against my desk.

  “Is that so?”

  “I have a proposition for you.” She’s all seriousness, and I’m not entirely sure I shouldn’t be afraid right now. “I will go to the music festival with you—”

  “Holy shit, Annabel! That’s literally like the best news I’ve had all day,” I nearly shout, jumping off the bed. “Seriously, this is—”

  “Wait.” Annabel halts me only seconds before I hug her. “I’ll go on one condition.”

  My stomach drops. Deal-making with Annabel Lee sounds about as much fun as deal-making with Mussolini. There’s no way I’m walking away from this negotiation as the winner. I swallow. “All right. Hit me with it.” Annabel starts digging in her purse. “There’s no need to pull out a gun, Le Chat. I said I would listen to your proposition.”

  “Very funny,” she replies, taking out an envelope and handing it to me.

  “The Broadchurch internship,” I read aloud. I look up at Annabel. “What’s this?” I ask, feeling very much like I’m being set up. I’ve been in this position before. I can’t count how many times the guidance counselor yanked me into her office senior year to lament the fact that I wasn’t going to college, or the number of times Mrs. Peterson slipped college brochures under my door.

  “It’s part of my deal. You apply for this, and I’ll go to the music festival with you.”

  “No deal,” I reply, throwing the envelope on my desk. “School is not my thing.”

  “Well, if you took two minutes to actually open it and read it, you would see that it’s not a school application,” Annabel snaps. She grabs the envelope off the desk. “It’s an internship at the Richmond Times-Dispatch for the Arts and Entertainment section.”

  “Come on, Annabel. Another thing I don’t like? Wasting my time. Why would I want to apply for that? You really think they’re going to take someone who doesn’t have a degree in journalism?” I scoff. The last thing I need today is someone reminding me, again, of all my shortcomings. Besides, if I didn’t get it…failing in front of Annabel Lee wasn’t an option.

  “Um, yeah, I do. The entry form clearly says that a college degree isn’t required. They’re looking for new talent, and they don’t care where that talent comes from as long as it’s talent.”

  “That’s just something they say to appear hip. The only person they’re going to hire for that internship is some yuppie grad student who has family ties to the company. That’s how this shit works.”

  “You’re scared you’re not good enough,” Annabel charges.

  “Excuse me?”

  “That’s why you don’t try. That’s why you keep writing for a music blog with such a small readership. You sit there and talk about how important writing is to you, but here comes a chance to actually make something of yourself, and you won’t even try.”

  “Please don’t lecture me, Annabel. I’m not in the mood.” My head’s starting to hurt, and the urge to call my friends and disappear for a few hours has become stronger.

  “No way. You don’t get to walk into my life and shake it all up, making me reevaluate all of these things, and then sit there afraid of taking chances yourself!” She takes a deep breath. “You keep making me remember what life was before. Who I was back then. Maybe it’s time you remember who you were, too. Stop being so scared of putting yourself out there.”

  “I’m not afraid,” I argue, pinching the bridge of my nose and closing my eyes. The pounding is getting worse. She isn’t going to let this go.

  Annabel grabs my hands and forces me to look at her. “You’re afraid to go for it because if you don’t get it, you think that makes everyone in this town right. I heard what your boss said to you today.”

  Oh. Shit. If I didn’t feel terrible about the whole damn thing before, I certainly do now. There was Annabel Lee, who’s probably never been yelled at her whole adult life or failed at anything, watching me get reamed by a total prick. No wo
nder she was here talking about internships; she probably thought of me as nothing more than a charity case. Another problem she needed to fix.

  “Please just drop it,” I say.

  “All you have to do is fill out the application, submit some sample pieces, and you could spend the next year of your life writing in Richmond.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to go spend the next year of my life in Richmond.”

  “Or maybe you don’t want to see who you can be outside of this place.”

  “And you do?” I ask.

  “I’m not saying I’m not scared. I’m trying. I offered to go to the festival, and I started packing for college today,” she replies.

  For a moment, I feel like all the air has been sucked out of the room. “So, you’re going, then? To school?”

  Annabel nods.

  We both just sit there and stare at each other. And I know what I have to say next. “All right, Annabel Lee. You win. I’ll apply.” I agree not because I think I have a chance in hell of getting the internship, but because I know I’ll probably never get this time with her again.

  Annabel’s whole face lights up, and I know I’ve made the right choice. “I found a few more internships that you also qualify for. Not as fancy at this one, but still worth trying.”

  “Whoa, girl! I agreed to one. You can’t change the deal on me,” I reply.

  “We never shook on it, and what’s the difference between applying for one and applying for five?”

  God, this girl is an overachiever.

  “There’s a big difference. If you get to change the deal, then so do I,” I counter.

  Fear flashes in Annabel’s eyes, and that’s why I have to up the ante. She’s about to go off to college. The real world. She’s been so lost in all her responsibilities and studies that I doubt she completely understands what that even means. She’s not ready. You always read about those kids who never had a drink in high school who get alcohol poisoning at their first frat party. Annabel Lee Sumter hasn’t really lived at all.

  “I’ll fill out all the applications you want me to on one condition.” Annabel bites down on that bottom lip of hers, and I thank Kanye for the moment I saw that damn picture of the trash cans. “You have to complete seven dares in seven days. No back-outs. No talking your way out of it. You have to do them.”