Seven Ways to Lose Your Heart

by Tiffany Truitt

About an hour into our drive, I’m finding it less and less likely that I’m going to get murdered, rolled up in a ton of weed, and smoked. The Hot Van Damners, as they affectionately call themselves, are less scary Dateline material and more a hodgepodge of twentysomethings from all walks of life: college student, construction worker, aspiring fashion designer, computer programmer, caretaker, gardener. Gone are all my misconceptions about the types of people who ride in vans traveling to music festivals all summer. Not that the van didn’t reek of weed or I didn’t spy a few flower garland headbands, but these people are hardworking and intelligent. They’re just looking for a good time, a release. And as I settle against Kennedy, his arm around my shoulders, my head against his chest, all of us singing everything from Paul Simon to Sir Mix-A-Lot, I get it.

  “See. Nothing to worry about, Le Chat,” Kennedy whispers into my ear, his lips grazing the skin right underneath.

  I’m about to unwillingly concede when the car starts to slow down. By my calculations, we’re still about an hour out from the festival grounds. I turn and raise an eyebrow at Kennedy. “I meant what I said about if I get murdered, I’m haunting you.”

  “I’ll see what’s going on,” he promises, giving me a quick kiss on the top of the head before navigating to the front of the van.

  “You two are adorbs,” says a young woman named Natalie who’s seated behind me. “How long have you been together?”

  “Um,” I begin. I’m not quite sure how to answer the question. While things certainly got intimate, there’d been no formal discussion about if we were together together. And even if our hooking up meant that, a few days didn’t seem like a suitable answer because even when we were apart for all those years, we were connected.

  “We’re making a quick pit stop,” Kennedy says, saving me from having to answer. “And before you ask, I told them about how you wanted to see Chvrches, and they promised to get us there in time. It’s just this little tradition they do before the festival,” he explains as the van door slides open.

  “Oh, yeah, Miracle Lake is the shit. You have to join us,” Natalie pipes in, giving my shoulder a squeeze as she and the two girls seated with her make their way out of the van.

  “If we sacrifice a lamb to some festival god, I’m going to be really upset,” I warn as Kennedy offers me his hand.

  Our feet have barely touched the ground before clothes start disappearing left and right. Natalie lets out a loud whoop as she rips off her shirt. Ben, our driver, is already pulling off his pants in the two seconds it takes my eyes to move from Natalie to him. Bras and boxers litter the ground like confetti. The laughter and yelps and cheers reach a deafening level as one by one the group jumps into the lake.

  Skinny-dipping.

  I look up at Kennedy, crossing my arms. “Man, you were really serious when you dared me to skinny-dip back in Belltown.”

  “What? I…you think…I didn’t know this was going to happen,” Kennedy stammers, his face beet red. His eyes are laser-focused on mine.

  “Of course I don’t think you planned this. I was teasing.”

  “Come on in, you two! The showers costs like fifteen bucks on the festival grounds. Might as well get cleaned while you can,” Natalie calls out.

  Kennedy’s eyes briefly shoot over toward the sound of Natalie’s voice. His face goes atomic red hot when he looks back at me. Could it be possible that Kennedy Harrison is embarrassed?

  “Yeah, come on in and get cleaned before we all get very, very dirty,” singsongs a girl whose name I think is Hannah.

  “Why don’t we just go back in the van and wait?” Kennedy offers.

  “I’m fine right here. The scenery is amazing,” I reply, placing a special emphasis on the word “scenery” and nodding toward the shenanigans going on in the lake.

  “Yeah, sure. It’s great,” he replies, scratching at the back of his head, his eyes still focused on my face.

  I sigh. “What’s going on, Kennedy? You’re acting like you’ve never seen a pair of tits before.”

  “What? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You don’t know what I’m talking about? Fine.” Without another word, I yank off my tank top.

  “What…what are you doing?”

  “Skinny-dipping,” I say after a deep breath, my fingers grazing my scars as I go to work unclasping my bra. Kennedy swallows hard as he takes me in. Even though I know my scars are out there for the world to see, something about his reaction and the way he looks at me makes me feel a little less anxious about it. I chuck my bra at his face.

  I wait for Kennedy to disrobe, but he keeps staring at me, his eyes cutting over to the group in the lake, and I can’t for the life of me figure out his hesitation. I roll my eyes and start to take off the rest of my clothes. It’s only when I’m naked as the day I was born that I realize what the problem could be. I clear my throat. “Is it because you don’t want them to see? My scars, that is,” I ask quietly, crossing my arms over my chest. Suddenly, I’m feeling pretty stupid. And exposed.

  In a matter of seconds, Kennedy’s lips are against mine. “You’re fucking beautiful, Annabel Lee. I just didn’t know how it was now. You know, between us. We never talked about where we stood after last night.”

  “You think because we hooked up, you can never look at a pair of boobs again?” I ask, furrowing my brow.

  Not that there is ever a great time to have this conversation, but I’m feeling pretty stupid doing so in my current situation. Completely and utterly naked in every way possible.

  “It wasn’t just a hookup for me,” he says, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

  “Not for me, either,” I admit.

  Kennedy takes my face in his hands. “I’ve never really been a relationship guy, and I just didn’t know if that’s what this was. And if it was, then, I don’t know, maybe you were the type of girl who would get mad about something like this.”

  “Are you asking me out, Kennedy Harrison?” I ask, fighting a grin.

  “I mean, no. I mean not that I don’t want to. I just don’t want you to feel pressured. I mean you just got out—”

  I place my hand over his mouth. “Kennedy, I double-dog dare you to ask me out, stop being a pussy, take off your damn clothes, and go skinny-dipping with me.”

  There are a billion-trillion reasons for us to keep this whole thing casual, but still high off the euphoria of last night, I don’t want to talk myself out of it. Maybe that double-dog dare isn’t just for Kennedy.

  “Annabel Lee…that’s like from the Poe poem, right?” Natalie asks as she detangles Hannah’s hair, whose head rests in her lap, with her fingers.

  I nod as I start to pull my pants back on. “Yeah, my brother picked it out, actually. My parents both studied literature before heading to law school. So when we were growing up, there were always books lying around. It was my brother’s favorite poem, and when he heard he was going to have a baby sister, he demanded that I be named Annabel Lee.”

  “That’s a pretty dark and dramatic poem. Had to have been a real awesome kid to dig it. Let me guess, he now runs a coffee shop in some hip town, holding open mic poetry slams,” says Hannah.

  “I leave for two minutes, and Hannah is already reading? She went to one astrology lecture, and she thinks she can read people’s pasts and futures,” Ben explains, as he returns from the van with a tote bag.

  I swallow. “He died,” I reply, grabbing for my bra. “Car accident. I was in it with him.”

  “Is that where you got the scars?” Natalie asks. Kennedy’s hands squeeze my shoulders. He’s ready to step in front of the speeding train for me, but I don’t need him to. The way Natalie asks is the same way you would ask someone if they got highlights. There’s no pity. Just a question. Like the scars are just another part of me that were always meant to be there. And maybe they are.

  I nod.

  “You should paint them,” Ben suggests, pulling out a plethora of neon-colored body paints from his ba
g.

  “OMG! You totally should. I have this cute tank bra you could wear around. I mean, you have killer breasts. Those girls need to be shown off. And Ben here does some crazy sick body work.”

  “Body work?” I ask.

  “I’ll paint your back,” Kennedy says from behind me. “Just give me some direction,” he says to Ben. Clearly this whole process isn’t entirely new to Kennedy.

  “Watch and learn, bro,” Ben replies, grabbing Hannah’s hand and pulling her into a sitting position in front of him. He starts to draw a series of intricate patterns and shapes across her back and breasts and stomach. Still completely unclothed, Hannah’s body becomes a canvas, and neither Kennedy nor I can stop watching. It isn’t sexual. It’s expression and freedom.

  While I certainly don’t plan on walking around the festival in nothing but my bra, I hand Kennedy a paintbrush. I like the idea of recognizing that the body, even one scarred like mine, can be art. Even if no one else sees it, I’ll know the beauty it possesses.

  Kennedy clears his throat. “I can’t promise this is going to be any good.”

  “Considering no one is going to see it…except maybe you tonight, I don’t mind. I want you to do it.”

  Kennedy leans forward and kisses my shoulder. The coldness of the paint on my rough skin makes me shudder. While he works, Kennedy and I barely speak. I have no idea what he’s painting, but the whole process feels better than I expected it to. How long had it been since someone had touched them like this? Had I ever really let anyone explore them? Seems funny to ask someone to be with me in that way, but expect him to avoid an entire section of my body. If Kennedy is put off by the ugliness of the scars, I can’t tell.

  As I’m waiting for my back to finish drying before I put on my shirt, Ben snaps a picture on his phone so I can see. It’s definitely no Monet, but the meaning behind it is priceless. Covering my back is a variety of symbols that represent us, our story: the book Mrs. Peterson had us read, worms, a camera, a pair of running shoes, a music note, a heart, and the word “dare.”

  It’s us. Everything we were and everything we are. Maybe it’s not about forgetting the past, because it won’t go away no matter how much we might want it to. It isn’t pretty or easy, but it made us who we are today. The scars would always be there. Both those left by the accident and the ones left by our separation, but I didn’t die in that car, and neither did our future.

  I reach up and take Kennedy’s hand in mine. He smiles at me. That smile that I’ve known forever.

  …

  By the time we get to the music festival, I know everything there is to know about EDM and which acts are the ones to see. While most of my planned-out schedule is made up of folk bands and indie rock, Kennedy seems legit excited about the prospect of “dancing your balls off,” as one of the passengers called it.

  I am also now well versed in the art of designing flags to represent your music festival clan. Yes, it appears a lot of them travel in makeshift families to multiple festivals a year, rallying behind a banner of their making. The flag goes with them wherever they venture during the festival, a beacon calling for all wayward members to return home. It makes a kind of sense. No doubt, with such a large group traveling together, a large flag would be an easy way to find your people.

  By the time we reach the campgrounds, I have a new respect for the craft and the people we traveled with. At first glance, I assumed they were a bunch of drug-loving miscreants with no care other than to dance till they couldn’t dance anymore. But in our hour drive, they talked of everything from classic lit to politics. As we departed, we promised to meet up with them for the White Panda show.

  By the time we finish setting up our tent, I realize just how massive this music festival thing is. There are people everywhere. The tents that border ours are so close that I contemplate how in the Hades I’m going to keep quiet later when Kennedy’s hands touch my body. Staying quiet isn’t something I’ve yet been able to do when our bodies meet.

  Everywhere I look, people are dancing and chatting or playing drinking games. There’s music and yelling. There’s laughing and horseplay. Flags sporadically decorate the tents around us. Little communities nestled in this newly built colony of music lovers. Faintly in the background, I can hear the bands warming up.

  Everyone is so well dressed, like they stepped right out of Nylon magazine. So trendy and hip, and here I sit wearing jean shorts and a green tank top. When did cute little hats become all the rage? Girls walk by wearing sundresses and boots and large sunglasses while others stroll around in nothing but bikinis.

  I simply do not belong here.

  “You ready to go see your band? I think if we leave now, we can make it,” Kennedy says from behind me.

  I gulp and nod. If this is what it’s like outside, how am I going to feel once we’re inside? Perhaps sensing my discomfort, Kennedy places my camera in my hands. “Stop having so much fun, we have work to do,” he chides, playfully.

  I can’t help but crack a smile. I sling my camera around my shoulder as I start to follow after him, “Oh, wait! Let me grab—”

  “Your schedule,” he interrupts, holding up the paper. “Two steps ahead of you.”

  “So nice to be known so well.” I grin.

  “I can’t wait to show you how well I know you later,” he teases, planting a kiss right on my lips in front of everyone.

  Kennedy hands me the schedule, and I pore over it as we walk toward the entrance. I don’t want to miss anything, so I spend the time making sure I haven’t left anything out. It’s only then that I realize that taking into account the number of acts we want to see, we’ll only have a short break before dinner back at the tent and returning to meet our travel mates at White Panda.

  “Hey, Kennedy. Maybe we should go ahead and send in your submission for the Milton internship before we head in,” I suggest. Kennedy was storing his laptop and all of our other valuables in the Hot Van Damners’ van. I didn’t entirely trust that our travel mates wouldn’t get lost in a haze of weed and Molly and forget where the tent was. I didn’t want being locked out of the van to be used as an excuse for not getting the submission in.

  “We’ll do it before White Panda tonight. I don’t want you to miss your show. Chvrches is going to go on soon.”

  “It’ll only take a few minutes. I won’t freak if I miss a song or two,” I offer. “I just don’t want something to happen, and you miss getting it in.”

  Kennedy turns on his heel to face me. “Just stop worrying for the next couple of hours.”

  I furrow my brow. “That’s like asking me not to breathe.”

  He holds out his hand expectantly, and despite all the misgivings that are now screaming inside me, I take it.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Annabel

  For most of the day, my fears feel rather ridiculous. Every single one of them. The crowd is much more varied than I originally expected it to be. All sorts of people make up the masses, and I wonder if it’s true what Kennedy is always going on about: the ability of music to connect all peoples.

  I tried to take pictures during the set by Chvrches, but Kennedy snatched my press pass from me and forbade it. Instead, he said I should just sit back and enjoy it. He wrapped an arm around my shoulders, and together we bounced and swayed to the beat. We laughed and kissed and sang, and I wondered if I’d ever in my whole life felt so at peace.

  Later in the day, we both get to work. I take pictures of everything: the bands, the people, the decor. Everything that helps make the festival. Kennedy’s at home here. There’s such an ease about him around these people. He drops a music reference or tells a festival story, and soon everyone is laughing and hustling us around.

  Hand in hand, we move from show to show. Some we just sit back and enjoy, while others we both go to work. Once they see our press passes, security ushers us into the small gated holding pen between the front row and the edge of the stage. And if Kennedy is all charm in the crowds, he’s al
l work once he’s entered the press section. While everyone around him types furiously on their phones, he pulls out a small tattered notebook, furiously jotting down his thoughts about this song or that guitar riff. Seeing him this focused, this dedicated, it does something to me, but I wouldn’t think of distracting him from his work. I pull my camera in front of my face and join him.

  Feeling satisfied that we both got enough material for the day to please his editor, Kennedy and I take a break from the music to wander around the rows of tents selling handmade crafts and wares. Called Capitalistic Crap in the most tongue-in-cheek way possible by the organizers, the merchants sell everything from clothes to flags to “tobacco” pipes that clearly aren’t made for tobacco. As Kennedy goes to work inspecting said pipes, I wander over to a vendor selling a variety of festival garb.

  The dresses have grown on me throughout the day. It’s not about being fashion forward for most of the girls out here. It’s about whatever makes them comfortable. Sure, there are those girls who walk around topless in nothing but body paint or think it’s a good idea to wear three-inch heels to trek through festival grounds, but most of the girls are here for the music. As I finger through the dresses, one catches my eye. Made from a lightweight white linen and covered with a dark blue floral print, the dress would fall just above my knee. It’s the back that really gets me. Cut so low it would lie right above my backside.

  I want the dress.

  Even though I don’t own anything like it. Even though everyone will see my scars. I want it. I slip the seller a twenty and walk back to Kennedy, holding the dress in my hand.

  “Whatcha got there?” he asks, taking the dress from me and holding it up. He lets out a low whistle. “You’d look amazing in this.”

  I bite down on my bottom lip. “You think?”

  “I know. Now, put it on.”

  “Right now?”

  “It’s what you bought it for, wasn’t it? Come on, I dar—”

  “You dare me?” I interrupt, raising an eyebrow, wondering if he’s really going to use his final dare now.