There’s a black lace bra under that pink T-shirt. I never would have guessed Annabel Lee owned anything black or lacy, but I’m finding it a bit impossible to form complete sentences…or stand up for that matter.
“Oh my gosh! I am so sorry,” Annabel yelps, moving to get up and help the waitress clean the ice and water from the table and floor.
“Don’t even worry about it, sunshine. You just sit yourself right back down, and I’ll go get you a towel from the back to dry off,” the waitress replies good-naturedly. If I’m not mistaken, I’m pretty sure she actually winks at me before heading to the kitchen.
“Look at you,” I say, throwing my arms back and resting them on the booth, “making such a mess.”
“Always so many jokes.” She grabs a napkin from the dispenser sitting on the table and begins to furiously wipe at her shirt in an attempt to dry it. “That was so mortifying.”
“Annabel Lee, I can think of a lot of ways to describe this moment in time, but mortifying is most definitely not one of them,” I say, staring her down.
Annabel furrows her brow, following the direction of my gaze. Not only can you see that intriguing little lacy black bra, but now one of her hands is cupping her breast in her wild attempt at fixing the problem. “OMG! You’re the worst,” she squeals, throwing the wadded-up napkin at my face.
Despite all those years I didn’t play Little League, I manage to catch the napkin in my hand. I toss it back at her, hitting her squarely in the nose.
“You’re really pushing it, Kennedy Harrison,” she warns. She grabs my glass of water, hinting that if need be, she’d be happy to see if I was wearing a lacy black bra under my T-shirt as well.
“Don’t make me separate you two,” the waitress warns with a laugh as she tosses Annabel a towel.
“We are so sorry,” Annabel says, grabbing the towel and pressing it against her chest.
“Don’t mention it. Now, where you two kids headed?” the waitress asks.
“I’m taking this girl to her first music festival.” I beam, feeling pretty proud that I actually managed to get her here with me.
“Oh Lordy. You sure she’s ready?” she asks. She eyes Annabel, who’s still trying in vain to dry her T-shirt. “I used to tour around with the Grateful Dead. It was a wild time,” she says with a whistle.
“Holy shit! That’s rad. I bet you have the best stories,” I say.
“Oh, yeah, I guess I got a few pretty good ones.” She chuckles, a wistful look in her eye.
“Would you mind sitting down and telling us a few?” Annabel pipes in. “My friend’s a writer for a music blog, and I’m sure he would love to interview you.”
“Of course I would, but the lady’s working,” I reply.
Annabel makes a big deal about looking around. There’s only a handful of people left in the restaurant. It’s past seven, and we stopped in the kind of small town where most people are home and in bed before the sun goes down. The kind of town filled with coal miners and farmers.
“I’ll take care of your last couple tables. Seems like most of them are finishing up. Why don’t you sit down, take a break, and we’ll buy you dinner in exchange for a little story time,” Annabel offers.
“Really?” the waitress asks, sounding just as surprised as I am at Annabel’s proposition. Something about Annabel wearing an apron and filling coffee mugs doesn’t feel right.
“What? You don’t think I can do it?” Annabel asks, clearly reading my thoughts. “You do remember I keep an ailing grandmother, two parents, and demon twin toddlers fed daily without the complete and utter destruction of my house, right? I got this. You two sit down and talk,” she says. She gets up and offers the waitress her seat.
And so I interview the waitress. Whose name is Belinda, by the way. She’s crazy. One time her van ran out of gas, and not having money to fill the tank, she convinced this young kid to siphon the fuel out of his dad’s tractor by telling him she was part of a covert branch of the military sent around the country to blend in and spy on Russian sympathizers during the Cold War. All so she could make it to see Janis Joplin perform.
It’s amazing and perfect, and a great opening to my future article. The ability of music to connect all generations. All peoples. For the first time in a long while, I’m dying to write. Like it’s killing me to have to spend another hour in the car before we reach the hotel.
And I have Annabel to thank for that.
…
When we get to the hotel, Annabel’s quiet. Not in the kind of way girls sometimes get where you worry if you did something wrong, but you know they aren’t going to tell you, so you’re going to have to guess.
No, she’s quiet in the way that tells me she’s thinking. In a way that seems peaceful, like right after she gets done taking pictures, or the way she looks after going for a long run. She doesn’t comment on the dinginess of the hotel, or the fact that despite insisting I get two beds, there’s only one. She doesn’t even mention knocking over the water, or how I may have stepped across the line with the whole hand thing. Instead, she sits in the lumpy, worn brown-and-green plaid chair across from the bed and looks up at me.
“So, what are you waiting for?” she asks.
I raise an eyebrow.
“Must I do all the work on this trip?” She sighs, reaching down into my backpack that lays near her feet and pulling out my laptop. She hands it to me. “Get to work.”
I hesitate. I don’t want to be rude or insult her. It is our first night alone together. I mean like alone with stuff like beds involved, that is. Not that I’m banking on the fact that anything of that nature is going to happen, but wouldn’t I be the worst if I ditched hanging out to write?
“OMG. Just do it. I don’t need you to babysit,” she groans, reaching down into her bag and pulling out a book. “Besides, I didn’t wash dishes so we could sit around and watch scrambled porn,” she says. “Now, go. I have books to read. Stop distracting me,” she says with a wink.
“You sure?” I ask, dying to get to it.
“Totally sure,” she replies, a slow smile spreading across her face. “Seriously, Kennedy. Go write that woman’s story.”
In that moment, I’m not sure if I want to write or make out with Annabel Lee. It’s pretty much the only time in my life I’ve considered putting a girl before my writing. The crazy thing is she’s not asking me to make the choice, which, of course, makes me want to kiss her even more.
I write for hours. Seriously. I lose myself to the tapping of the keys and the hypnotic lull of the screen. When I finally break away, it’s after midnight. I look up and see Annabel has fallen asleep in the chair, and my heart cracks a little at how fucking adorable she looks. So curled in on herself. Book halfway in her hand and halfway to the floor. So vulnerable and open.
I contemplate if I should just let her sleep, but I know she will regret staying in that position in the morning. Especially when we have another day of driving ahead of us. “Annabel,” I say gently. She stirs. “Annabel, come to bed,” I say just a little bit louder.
Annabel’s eyes flutter open, and she smiles. “How did it go?” she asks in between yawns.
“You’re amazing,” I say.
“Of course it was amazing,” she replies. She doesn’t quite catch my words through her drowsiness. She stands up from the chair and stretches the tips of her fingers toward the ceiling. I glimpse a sliver of skin as her now-dry T-shirt rises up, and I find my throat suddenly parched.
“I thought you said there would be two beds,” she comments as she moves toward me.
“I was wondering when you were going to notice that.” I chuckle, scratching the back of my head.
“Oh, I noticed it the minute we walked in.”
“Of course you did.” I pull off the covers and shift over so she has room.
“Planned or unplanned?” she asks as she climbs in.
“Unplanned,” I reply. “Happy or disappointed?” I counter.
“Exhau
sted,” she says, avoiding the question.
“Fair enough,” I say. I reach over to turn off the lamp. Now that we’re drowned in darkness, I realize the situation we’re in. Alone on the road together, sharing a bed, and both totally single? I definitely want the girl. Like, crazy want her. She drives me wild in all the right ways. But she did just break up with her boyfriend, and even if he was a dickweed, that doesn’t mean she’s ready to jump into something with me. And then there’s the whole fact she’s leaving for school soon.
I sigh. Suddenly, I’m wired. Like every cell inside my body is wide-awake and ready to play. Taunting me with the idea that the thing I desire most in the world is mere inches from me, but so far away at the same time. I can’t even tell if Annabel is still awake. She’s so quiet and still beside me. It makes me wonder if I’m the only one who feels this constant tension between us, but then I remember the way she reacted when my hands danced with hers at the diner, and I know she feels something, too.
“Annabel,” I whisper.
“Hmm?”
“I have dare number two for you,” I say.
She’s quiet for a long moment, and I’m not sure if she’s fallen asleep or nervous about the nature of the dare itself.
“I promise it’s aboveboard,” I continue. “I would never ask you to do something that was less than gentlemanly of me,” I say in an attempt to alleviate her fears. If something happens between Annabel and me, it’s going to happen because we both want it to.
“What is it?”
“I dare you to come here,” I say.
“I thought you said—”
“Just come here, Annabel Lee.” I reach a hand through the blackness and pull her into my arms. If this is all I get the entire trip, it will be enough. At first Annabel tenses up, and I’m not sure if even this small moment is something she wants to happen between us.
Now that my eyes have adjusted and she’s closer to me, I can faintly make out the luminescent tone of her skin and face. Her eyes lock onto mine, and I don’t want to close them for even a second when she’s staring at me like that. I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and allow my hand to run down her neck and her back. I don’t pause for even a second as I make contact with her scars. They don’t scare me. They’re part of her. Her body relaxes into mine.
I let my fingers dance at the hem of her shirt, hesitantly allowing them to touch the skin there. Her eyes close as she shifts closer to me. My hands grab on to her hips and I pull her on me. Not all the way on top of me because promise or not, I don’t think I would be able to control myself. I’m already close to completely losing it. Her chest presses against mine as one of her legs lies across my lower body. I can feel her excitement through her pink shirt, and I wonder when in the world she took off her bra? Was I that lost in my writing that I didn’t even notice a hot girl taking off her bra? Surely she must have gone into the bathroom? But what if she hadn’t, and I had missed it? I am a total idiot.
For the love of Kanye, it takes every ounce of willpower not to reach my hand up.
I feel her pelvic bone lightly press against mine, and I know I’m a goner at any second.
We love to walk that line.
I can feel her breathing pick up, and I know that she’s ready, too. But maybe she’ll regret it in the morning. Maybe she’ll blame her choice later on exhaustion or the dare, and I wouldn’t be able to deal with that.
She has to be the one to make the move. It can’t be me. She has to drag me across the line. Not that I would fight it by any means, but it has to be her. I couldn’t bear it if I became something she regretted. I just got her back in my life. I’m not going to let my dick ruin that.
I stop caressing her and wrap my arms around her waist, holding her close. This has to be enough for now. “Good night, Le Chat.”
“I really hate you sometimes,” she moans, laying her head on my chest. There’s a brief surge of accomplishment that runs through me as she admits this is just as excruciating for her.
“I know, Annabel. I know.”
As much as I want her, and by Kanye I do, it can’t just be about this. I’ve been with a lot of girls. That part always came easy for me, but I want more with Annabel Lee, and I have to earn her trust back first.
Because I haven’t. Not all the way.
Chapter Fourteen
Annabel
“Wow! This is like really good,” I say when I finish reading Kennedy’s first submission to his editor.
“Why do you sound so surprised?” he teases.
“Please! I’m not surprised in the least. Do you honestly think I would agree to become life coach to someone less than brilliant?”
“So, that’s what you are to me? My life coach?” he asks, turning his attention momentarily from the road and staring me down.
“Tricky. Tricky,” I reply, shifting in my seat. “I take it there’s something you wish to talk about?” I’m not sure if I’m ready discuss what happened or didn’t happen last night.
Kennedy shrugs. “I don’t have anything pressing to discuss if you don’t.”
I furrow my brow, knowing full well the game he’s playing here. It became very clear during the stunt on the cliff that Kennedy thinks I have a hard time expressing myself, and he means to push me to do so the entire trip.
The thing is, I’m not really sure what I’m feeling. I want to trust Kennedy, I do. But there are so many red flags. The drinking and the smoking and the girls. The fact that he’s only applying for the internships because I’m making him. He rarely takes anything seriously. Besides, the last thing I’m looking for is to get all wrapped up in someone before heading to school, and yet, I find myself unable to stop thinking about what it would be like if I did let myself go there.
Right now all I know for sure is that I hope tonight’s hotel has two beds, so I don’t have to make any more difficult decisions. The smart choice would be to keep things completely platonic between us, but I’m not sure I’m able to think straight when I’m lying with him like that.
“Were you able to talk to Grams today?” he asks, changing the subject. I’m not sure if Kennedy does it to spare me or to emphasize that unless I bring up what’s going on with us, he certainly isn’t going to. Always running when things get difficult.
“Yeah, she sounded like she was having a good day. She said Mom managed to get the twins off to day care without anyone losing a limb, and that the house is still standing. Sounds like they actually might make it through the week.”
“Feeling a little better about going off to school, then?” he asks.
Another question I don’t know how to answer. Even if I’m not sure whether I want Kennedy and me to move past the friend zone, I do know, without any kind of doubt, that I’ll miss our time together when I go to college. So now the concept of school doesn’t just involve leaving my family but leaving him as well.
“Let’s see if they make it through the week first,” I answer. “How many hours of driving we got left today?” I ask, doing a bit of subject-changing myself.
“Another two. There’s this small town outside of Delaware. We’ll stop there for the night. Drive a couple hours in the morning, and then we’ll be setting up our tent before noon.”
Right. I forgot. Living in a tent for three days. Great.
“I figure we wouldn’t push it these two driving days. It’s gonna be quite the party at the festival. Best if we relax while we can.”
I swallow. Quite the party? I hadn’t really contemplated what a three-day music festival entailed. Reading over Kennedy’s article with the waitress really opened my eyes. Sure, I’d read about Woodstock before, but that all seemed so removed from my plane of existence. I think modern-day music festivals involve more than flower garlands and fringe. What if Kennedy found me totally lame when we got there? I wasn’t the dancing type or drinking type or drug type. I was the girl happy with her camera and maybe a good book.
I wasn’t a festival girl.
�
�I need to piss,” Kennedy declares, breaking my train of thought.
“Thanks for letting me know,” I reply.
“We’re just asexual buddies, right? That’s something I share with all my asexual buddies,” he counters.
“Oh, so you have a lot of asexual buddies, do you?” I ask, crossing my arms.
“Aww, don’t get jealous, Le Chat, none of them are quite as special as you are,” he says. He taps me under the chin.
I laugh and grab at his hand.
“Whoa there! If you wanted me to hold that hand of yours again, all you had to do was ask.”
“I’m good.” I drop his hand. If he wants to play this proverbial round of gender-reversed Lysistrata, then so be it. Two can play this game. And when I play, I play to win. Always.
“Oh, I bet you are,” he replies with a smirk.
Challenge accepted.
Kennedy pulls into the parking lot of a dilapidated gas station with what appears to be a general store. “Where the Hades are we exactly?”
“What? You’ve never been to Middle of Nowhere, Virginia?”
“Nope,” I reply, nervously eyeing my surroundings.
“I think it would be a good idea if you come in the store with me,” he says. I spot a pair of gentlemen in overalls spitting tobacco and staring at us like we’re made out of moonshine and deer jerky.
“Don’t need to ask me twice,” I say, unclicking my seat belt.
Inside the store is a collection of the most random items I’ve ever seen housed under one roof. Everything from pink plastic lawn flamingos to re-creations of Picasso paintings. It’s like the owner of the store went to every yard sale held within fifty miles for the past fifty years, bought everything he laid his eyes on, and placed it all in this store. It only takes me the three minutes Kennedy spends in the bathroom to realize I’ve entered Oz.
“This place is rad, huh?” Kennedy asks, coming up behind me.
“Assuming you’re done relieving yourself, can we go now?” I ask. I feel a little uncomfortable about the row of decapitated doll heads that stare at me from behind Kennedy.
Seven Ways to Lose Your Heart Page 13