I cover my head with the pillow. “I can’t do it, Loki. Don’t make me do it.”
He snatches the pillow, tosses it on the floor, then flips on the lights and tugs open the blinds, blinding me with sunlight. “I’ve been talking to Laretta, and we both kind of agree that I’ve been too easy on you. You need discipline and something to focus on, and the store’s a great place to start. It’ll keep you busy and hopefully keep you out of trouble until you can figure out what you want to do with your life.”
What I want to do with my life? I used to have some answers. Dancing. Being happy. Going to college. Eventually getting married. When I looked into my future, I saw so much happiness and sunlight. Now all I can see is an empty path that leads to nothing.
I glare at him. “Why were you talking to the neighbors about me?”
“Because I need someone to talk to.” He looks so lonely, so very unlike the old Loki I used to know. We’ve all changed so much. Does everyone else see an empty path like I do now? Or are they stronger than me? “And Laretta’s nice. Plus, she used to be really good friends with Mom. Besides, she went through something similar with her son.” He rounds the foot of the bed. “You remember Steve, right?”
“Vaguely,” I say through a yawn, stretching my arms above my head. “But I’m not like him.”
“You’re going to be if you keep going down the road you’re headed on.”
“You’re overreacting.” But really, Loki could be right. I could be like Steve. I don’t know myself enough to validly argue that point, but I still try because I really, really can’t go to my dad’s store. “I’m not even close to being like Steve yet. So what if I got busted for breaking and entering. I haven’t done anything major yet, so chill out.”
“Haven’t done anything major yet?” he laughs sharply. “You were arrested for the third time the other night, and you’re only seventeen. You have your second court hearing on Thursday.” He shakes his head in bafflement. “Take a look around you. You’re ruining your life.”
My guilt builds, vining and gnawing inside my stomach. No matter how hard I fight it, I can’t seem to make it vanish. “It could be worse. I could be doing drugs.”
“Could be worse?” He throws his hands into the air exasperatedly. “No one can even recognize you anymore. I wouldn’t even be surprised if you are doing drugs.” He pauses, waiting for me to protest. I should just lie to him—I do it all the time—but the words won’t come out of my mouth. His shoulders sag. “You’re going to the store with me, and you’re going to start going to physical therapy again. I’m not going to let you waste your life away, so get your ass up and get dressed in something that won’t scare the customers away.” He storms out of my room.
Anger, guilt, and frustration explode to the surface. I haven’t been to my father’s store since the accident. Too many memories live there in the shelves and books that fill the building, and if I relive them, I might lose it. All that guilt I fight to feel—everything I fight to feel—might become too much.
I pound my fist into the pillow until I compose myself. Dragging my butt out of bed, I hobble over to the window and peer down at the grass and sidewalk below. How bad would it hurt if I tried to jump out? Probably not as bad as when my leg was crushed by the car.
I unlatch the window, glide it open, and stick my head out.
“What are you doing?” someone asks.
I raise my gaze and find Luca standing on the strip of grass behind the fence line. He’s sporting a plaid shirt, jeans, and his glasses, and looks adorable in that cute, nerdy sort of way.
I remember when I used to dream about a cute guy showing up below my window and tossing pebbles at the glass. I’d sneak down and kiss him, and we’d keep kissing all the way until the sun rose. But like my dreams of dancing on stage, that dream was shelved six months ago.
“Looking out the window.” I sit down on the windowsill. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
He crosses his arms on top of the fence. “It looked like you were thinking about jumping.”
“That’d be a pretty stupid thing to do since the fall would probably break my leg.” I pretend the idea is appalling, when only moments ago I was contemplating it.
“I don’t know . . . It depends on why you were jumping. I mean, if it was for a good reason, like say to escape something, then yeah, I’d say that was totally justifiable. Everybody needs to escape sometimes, right? And the fall isn’t that far. You might fuck up your ankle or something, but nothing too major.”
I don’t like that he’s looking at me with insinuation, as if he understands me. Whether he’s found out about the accident or not, he doesn’t get me.
“I’m not trying to escape anything,” I feel the need to say.
“I never said you were.” His knowing smile bugs me.
“Why are you watching me?” I ask indignantly.
“I wasn’t watching you,” he replies, unfazed by my feistiness. “I was actually just talking to your sister and was about to head in when I saw you staring at the ground, thinking about jumping.” He smiles when I glare at him. “I’m just kidding. I promise I don’t think you’re going to jump. I just have a weird sense of humor.”
I don’t know what to make of him, know I shouldn’t make anything of him at all, but I find myself asking, “Which of my sisters were you talking to?”
“I have no idea. She never said her name, but she did look a lot like you. You seem really happy in comparison to her.”
I wrestle back a grin, sucking my bottom lip between my teeth. “That was probably Alexis.”
“Well, she seemed lovely,” he says flatly. “Especially when she told me she’d rather stab out her eye than talk to me.”
My mouth pleads to smile. But smiling seems so . . . wrong in the shambles of my life. No one else seems to smile, other than Zhara, but hers are fake. And my dad, the last smile he ever had was when he got in that car that rainy day, thinking his life was so great.
“Don’t take it personally,” I say to Luca. “She’s not much of a talker.”
“Yeah, I kind of got that.” He thoughtfully muses over something with his head tipped to the side, strands of his hair dangling in his eyes. “But you didn’t seem like much of a talker when I first met you either, and look at us now, sitting here, talking to each other like we’re almost friends.”
Another smile creeps up on me at his utter adorableness. Damn him. “We’re not talking because we’re almost friends. I just got distracted.”
“By what exactly? My good looks or my awesome personality?”
I bite down on my lip hard. No laughing, Annabella. “Are you like this all the time?”
He taps his finger against his lip. “You’ll have to be more specific. I’ve been told I’m a lot of things all the time.”
I flick my wrist, waving my hand in his direction. “All arrogant and sure of yourself.”
His mouth opens as he feigns shock. “You make me sound like a cocky douche bag.”
“Are you?”
“That all depends.”
“On what?”
“If you’re into cocky douche bags,” he says with a clever grin. I almost lose it, right then and there, a smile creeping up on my lips. Thankfully, for my sake, he ruins it. “I’m guessing no, though, since you don’t really look like the kind of girl who would be.”
Is that how he sees me? As some girl who’s into nice, sweet guys like him? That’s not who I am anymore. Or am I? I mean, I am sitting here talking to him, on the verge of smiling.
Panicking, I duck back inside my room. “I have to go.” And I slide the window shut before he can say anything else.
Desperate to run away from my thoughts, I crank up some music. “Habits (Stay High)” by Tove Lo comes on, but I immediately shut it off as the urge to dance pulsates through me. I crank up some From Autumn to Ashes and dig through my closet until I find the perfect outfit; a baggy black sweater, skin-tight black jeans, and black boots th
at lace up to my knees. I top off the outfit with a leather jacket and kohl eyeliner. I leave my hair the way it is, letting it run down my back in a tangled mess. I figure my appearance might be just enough over the top that it’ll get me out of going to the store on weekends.
The kitchen smells like a combo of vanilla air freshener and old trash, and I find myself longing for the days of burnt bacon and eggs.
Loki glances up from the toaster, takes one look at me, and jabs a finger in the direction the stairs. “No way. You’re not going into Dad’s store dressed like that.”
“Then I guess I’ll just have to stay home.” I get a Pop-Tart from the pantry.
“It’s supposed to get warm today. You’re going to sweat to death.”
“I’m sure I’ll live. I always do,” I say, and he freezes, his expression plummeting, and I feel like an asshole. “Can we just get going? If I sweat then I sweat, okay? That’s my problem.”
He grabs the car keys off the wall hook as he stuffs his wallet into his pocket. “Meet me in the car. I have to get a box out of the garage.”
One foot in front of the other. You can do this. You’ve made it through everything else. Sort of.
Like when I walked to the Victorian house, my legs have other ideas, and my feet remain glued to the floor. I think about the last time I was at my father’s store, and moving seems even more out of the question. My heart squeezes, and my leg begins to shake as my father’s face flashes through my mind. He always seemed so happy. He couldn’t have possibly known about the affair.
I yank open the cupboard above the sink, fumble for the bottle of pain pills I was prescribed for my leg, and pop two in my mouth. I swallow them down then hobble to the living room, trying to catch my breath. As I’m stepping over the threshold, my leg buckles. I stumble and fall face first onto the floor.
Pain throbs through my body as I start to push back to my feet, but something silver and sparkly catches my attention. Leaning in to get a better look, the pain in my leg abruptly vanishes, and the ache in my heart takes over.
Remnants from the glitter rainstorm are embedded into the cracks in the floorboards. Panicking, I try to dig them out, but my fingers won’t fit into the cracks. Tears sting my eyes.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Once you do, you won’t be able to stop.
I press my cheek to the cool hardwood floor, squeeze my eyes shut, and take a few measured breaths. The foggy memory of faint giggles surrounds me, and I can almost feel glitter showering across my skin.
The last perfect day, where everything seemed possible. . .
“Did you steal my shirt!” Alexis shouts at Zhara from upstairs, sounding as angry as she has for the last six months. “Seriously!”
My eyes snap open as the memories of happier days fizzle out.
“Why would I steal your shirt?” Zhara asks. “We don’t even have the same taste. And I would never just take your clothes without asking.”
“Oh, yes, because you’re perfect.” Alexis snorts a condescending laugh.
“Would you two knock it off!” Nikoli shouts. “I’m trying to watch the game.”
Loki’s worn sneakers appear in my line of vision. “Shit, did you fall?”
“No.” I grip onto the end table for support as I get my balance.
“Then what happened?” He inspects me over from head to toe.
I dust a few fragments of glitter off my hands and they float back to the floor. “I just felt like laying down and stretching my legs out.”
He sighs heavily. “I have to tell Zhara we’re leaving. Go get in the car.” He trudges up the stairs, looking more defeated than normal.
I open my mouth to apologize, but I hesitate for too long, and before I know it, he’s disappeared upstairs. Turning away, I head outside. With each step, the medication slowly settles through my body.
By the time I make it to the car, I’ve slipped into a state of numbness, so far gone, I can barely feel anything anymore.
Chapter Eight
Memories Haunting Every Page
The pills help at first. I manage to get out of the car and into the store without too much procrastination. When Loki puts me in charge of stocking the shelves, I worry the shield will crack. But the medication keeps my anxiety subdued. I feel pretty okay as I sit down on the floor and sort through books with the scent of fresh new pages lingering in the air. I almost want to crack each book open and inhale the scent, just like I used to do when I worked for my dad. I stop myself, though, knowing I’ll be opening pages to a past that never really existed in the first place.
Eventually customers wander in from outside. Behind the antique cash register, Loki grows tense and keeps casting panicked glances in my direction. He pretty much shits a brick when a little boy points at me and starts crying.
“Go work back in the office,” Loki says, striding down the aisle toward me.
I glance up from the stack of books. “Why?”
“Because people are complaining about you. Did you know that little boy thought you were a ghost?" He crouches down in front of me and lowers his voice. “You can’t dress like this. Not while you’re here. It’s too unprofessional.”
I eye his faded grey t-shirt and dark jeans. “You’re not dressed any better, though.”
“This isn’t how I usually dress. I just forgot to do the laundry last night,” he says. “And it’s still better than what you have on. You look like those kids who are always hanging out back, smoking all the time, like they don’t have anything else better to do with their lives.”
“I am one of those kids who hang out back smoking.”
“You smoke?” His expression teeters between rage and shock.
“No, I was speaking metaphorically, Loki.” Gripping onto the lower shelf, I lift myself to my feet. “If I embarrass you, then I can just go home.”
He stares warily at my injured leg. “You’re not supposed to be walking on your leg that much, especially when you haven’t been to physical therapy in over three weeks. If you keep it up, you’re going to never get better.”
“We both know I’m never really going to get better,” I say then smash my lips together, wanting to retract my statement.
The tension in his eyes eases down a notch. “Anna, I know things have been hard for you, and I’m sure it doesn’t help that I’m always on your case about stuff, but physical therapy is important. If you don’t build up strength in your leg then you might end up walking with a cane or something, and I know you don’t want that.”
“It doesn’t matter to me,” I say, my fingers stabbing into the wooden shelf as I struggle to breathe evenly. “Just like your online classes. Sure you take them because you feel like you have to, but it doesn’t replace what you lost, right?”
It takes him a beat to answer. “Things might not be the same as they used to be and they probably won’t ever be again, but I’m not just going to give up on all of my dreams. I still want to do things with my life eventually. Maybe my future plans aren’t the same and I have to work twice as hard to get things done, but sometimes that’s just life.” He shakes his head, his eyes flooding with pity. “There’s so much more out there than you even realize right now. Beyond Honeyton. Even beyond dancing.”
It’s like he’s knocked the wind out of me. I can barely breathe. “I need some air.” I start down the aisle, but he snags the sleeve of my shirt.
He tows me back to him before letting me go, then he rakes his fingers through his hair. “Sorry, but after the shit you’ve been pulling, I’m not letting you out of my sight. Just go in the office and take a breather, okay?”
“There’s nothing to do in there.” I gripe, mainly because the idea of going into my dad’s office makes me feel like I’m going to vomit.
“You can hang out. Eat lunch. Stare out the window. I don’t really care, just as long as you stay where I can keep an eye on you.” Worry lines crease his face. “And no going out back,” he warns, then returns to the register.
> I glare at him as I weave through the shelves, past the lounge chair shaped like a bookshelf, and duck into the back section of the store, which used to be my father’s office.
The small, cluttered space causes memories to tumble over me of the last few times I spent here, helping my dad stock the shelves. My airway constricts, but I don’t gasp for air and bottle up the sadness. I trace my fingers over a framed picture on his desk of my dad and me in front of the store. He has his arm around me and we’re laughing about something. He looks so happy, and so do I.
I miss that. Miss him.
I sink down in the chair and let my eyelids drift shut. It’d be easier if I could just go to sleep or pass out, but with all the memories floating around the room, even with the pills I took, make that impossible.
The Illusion of Annabella Page 8