My knee twists, and I trip over my feet. “I said I don’t dance,” I say through gritted teeth. Jerking away from him, I shove my way toward the kitchen to get another drink.
I pour a cup of juice mixed with vodka and sip the eye-watering liquid as I watch the crowd, my thoughts of dancing and dresses gradually fading away after taking a few hits off a joint someone hands to me. I sit back and focus on the people around me. Usually at parties, there’s at least one person I know from school, but everyone is older here, and even with a cloudy head, I feel oddly out of place. It doesn’t really make sense, considering I’m not chatty, anyway. And anyone that really knows me—really knows my family—always wants the juicy tidbits of what happened. So, I should be grateful that I’m surrounded by unfamiliar people, yet I feel lonely, like an outcast, out of place.
I don’t belong anywhere.
I frown at the drink in my hand. My escape from myself tonight has turned into a disaster.
“What’s with the pouty face?” Miller appears in front of me, his eyes so bleary he’s barely able to focus.
I discard my cup in the trash. “I think I’m ready to go.”
“No way. Not yet.” He entwines our fingers together, pressing his clammy palm against mine. “Let’s go somewhere and talk.”
Talking is the last thing I want to do, but before I can respond, he steers me out of the kitchen and down a dimly lit hall. The alcohol spills through my veins, and I stumble into a dizzy spell. The stained brown walls and faded orange carpet grow blurry. My body feels detached from my mind, as if I’m floating, and I have no choice but to grip onto Miller; otherwise, I’ll fall down.
The deeper we go into the cabin, the danker the air becomes, and the more I plummet into a state of vertigo where I can’t tell what’s up or down, if I’m supposed to be here—if I want to be here.
I’m so confused all the time.
When he leads me into a bedroom and slowly closes the door, a chill slithers up my spine.
Something doesn’t feel right.
The lock clicks.
Does anything anymore?
I collapse onto a bed and my heavy body bounces against the hard mattress as I gaze at the ceiling beams. After I get my bearings, I prop up on my elbows and dazedly focus on Miller.
He grins, and I hate it. Hate him. Hate myself so much I can barely stand it.
I just wish I could call my mom and dad, ask them to come get me and bring me home. I could curl up in a ball and forget the last six months ever existed. Wish this wasn’t my life. Wish I hadn’t messed everything up.
Tears burn at my eyes.
Goddammit! Stop thinking so much.
Just be Mysterious Annabella and relax . . .
Maybe it’s the pungent scent of the air or how heavy my body feels, or Miller’s gaze boring into me, but I can’t seem to chill out. Even the alcohol swishing around inside me is doing nothing to calm my nerves.
“I’m thinking we should pick things up from where we left off the other day,” Millers murmurs with his arms crossed over his chest. His bloodshot eyes deliberately drink me in as he bites his bottom lip. “Yeah, I’m definitely thinkin’ that’s what we should do.”
My stomach drops. The other day? The other day when I promised him we could have sex? I try to relax, ask myself, why not? Just get it over with it, it doesn’t matter. Nothing does. Nothing you thought existed ever did.
The way I pictured my first time creeps up on me; I was always with someone I loved and who loved me just as much, and I was definitely sober since Delusional, Naively-Believed-In-Happily-Ever-After’s Annabella never felt the urge to drink or get high. No matter how angry I get with myself, no matter how lost I feel, I still want that moment to be how I once dreamed it would be. That’s the thing with dreams. I can run away from them, try to shove them aside, but deep down, I still want everything I dreamt of—that life I created in my head.
Blood roars in my eardrums. “I’m not sure I want to do that anymore.”
His eyes flare with rage. “Why not?”
I feed him a lie. “Because you ran off and left me.”
He grimaces. “I apologized for that.”
“Yeah, you did.” I roll off the bed and stare out the window, trying to disregard his withering stare. “But I’m not in the mood right now.”
“Why did your brother pick you up from the police station?” he asks. “It’s been bothering me for the last few days because it doesn’t make any sense. You’re under eighteen, right? Why weren’t your parents there?”
I feel so drowsy, so disconnected from my body. “My parents sometimes work the night shift.”
The floorboards creak under his weight as he stalks closer. “Where?”
“What do you mean where?”
“Where. Do. Your. Parents. Work?” He stops just behind me and firmly grasps me by the hips.
“At a place,” I reply as his body heat suffocates me. My feet hold my weight but unsteadily, and I regret getting so trashed I can barely grasp onto reality.
“Stop bullshitting me, Anna.” He yanks on my shoulders and forces me to face him. “Tell me the truth,” he demands, no longer looking happy high, but angry high. When I say nothing, he shoves me into the wall. “You know, I’m starting to wonder if everything you’ve said is one big fucking lie. If you’re one big fucking lie.” When I say nothing, he shakes his head, fuming mad. “I should’ve known this was how you were going to be when I first met you. You were so desperate to be someone else. Figures you were just another rich girl trying to escape her perfect life.”
“That’s what this is about? You’re pissed off because you think I’m rich.” My semi-intoxicated mind can barely make sense of what he’s saying.
“No, I’m pissed off because you’re a little rich brat who’s going to get off free because mommy and daddy can pay for the best lawyers while my ass is going to rot in jail.” His face reddens as he reaches for me.
I skitter out of the way, but put too much weight onto my bad leg. The room spins as my knee buckles, and my hip bashes against the windowsill. I cry out in pain and Miller grinds to a halt. The pain is good. The pain thins the fog in my head, helps me clutch onto reality more.
“And that’s another thing,” he continues, getting more riled up. “What the hell is wrong with your leg? The whole time I’ve known you, you’ve walked around with a limp. You said it was from a horse, but there’s this guy I know that said you were in some sort of car accident.”
I rub my hand over my face, knowing that the solitude I had with Miller is gone. The angry guy standing in front of me is too demanding and needy to be my escape anymore, even if he is high.
Putting most of my weight on my good leg, I step forward. He doesn’t budge, and my shoulder bumps into his chest.
“Move out of my way.” My voice wobbles, my cracks showing, the old Anna slipping through, and I loathe it—loathe her for being so weak.
His gaze lingers on my chest. “This is such bull,” he says, snatching hold of my arm. “Five months and I didn’t even get laid. What. A. Waste.” He shakes his head in disgust.
“You’re hurting me,” I cry out, bending my arm to try and pull away.
He looks down at his hand on my arm, and for a moment, his fingers constrict. When I wince, he pushes me down on the bed.
I shut down, let a door slam shut in my mind, as he covers my body with his and starts kissing my neck. I tell myself I can do this—that I won’t panic—but when his hands dip down my pants, anger, hurt, and shame obliterate the numbness.
“Stop! I fucking said no!” I press my hand to his face and shove him back.
He glares down at me as I breathe raggedly then slides off me. “Get the hell out of here. I’m too strung out to deal with your drama.”
Fixing my shirt, I squeeze by him and out of the room, only breathing again when I make it to the kitchen. I grab a beer and fumble to pop off the cap. The fresh air somewhat helps clear my foggy mind. I
start down the driveway, taking a few swallows, trying to compose myself. But reality is seeping in as I realize just how bad the situation could have been if Miller hadn’t stopped. Goosebumps dot my arms, even though I’m wearing a jacket, and tears pool in my eyes, threatening to pour out. But I suck them back, pull my shit together, and wander deeper into the night, trying to figure out how I’m going to get home. I could call Loki or maybe try getting home on foot. More than likely, the second choice will end with me on the side of the road in unbearable pain. Still, out of the two, the latter seems the most enticing—calling Loki means facing stuff I can’t face, especially after what just happened.
Cece would probably come get me, but calling her means talking during the drive home. Right now, I just need a ride, without complications or potential meltdowns.
My boots scuff against the dirt as I glance down at the palm of my hand. It’s too dark to see the number so I use the flashlight app on my phone. Luca doesn’t know me that well, so hopefully he won’t drill me with questions.
It takes me a few tries to punch in his digits correctly, but I finally dial his number. My finger hovers over the talk button for a minute or two before I actually push it. It’s only ten o’clock, but when the phone rings four times, I wonder if maybe he’s in bed.
He answers right as I’m about to hang up. “Hello?”
“Um . . . Hey.”
“A . . . hey, too, whoever you are.”
I sit down on a large rock at the end of the driveway, set the barely touched beer down, and stretch out my legs. “Oh, yeah. This is Anna . . . from next door.”
“Oh, hey.” He goes from confused to upbeat. “Wow, I’m really surprised you called.”
“That makes two of us.” I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling queasy. “Did you really mean what you said? About calling if I needed anything?”
“I never would’ve given you my number if I didn’t mean it,” he tells me with a trace of amusement in his tone.
“Good. Because I need you to come pick me up.”
“Like, right now?”
I open my eyes as headlights shine on me, and I tense, worried it might be Miller. “Yeah, like right now.”
He pauses, and I hear a door close. “Where are you?”
I trap my breath in my chest as the car zooms by, kicking up a cloud of dirt. My gaze travels toward the silhouette on the hillside. The roof of the house isn’t visible anymore, but it’s there, hiding in the dark. “I’m out by the junkyard about a mile past an antique shop. There’s a sign, so you should be able to find it.”
“Wait? Why are you at a junkyard?”
“I’m not at the junkyard. I’m sitting out on a rock in front of a cabin near the junkyard.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine . . .” Am I, though? “I just need a ride home.”
“All right, I’ll be there in, like, thirty minutes,” he says easily. “Are you going to be okay until I get there?”
“Of course I’ll be okay.” I self-consciously touch my leg. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You tell me. You’re the one calling me in the middle of the night asking for me to drive out to a junkyard.” Silence fills the line. He sighs. “Okay, I’m on my way.”
I yawn, wishing I were home so I could pass out. “Okay, see you in a bit, I guess.”
“Okay, Anna, see you in a bit.” Humor touches his tone as if he finds my attitude funny.
I hang up and lie down on the rock with my phone clutched in my hand. My heart rate calms as I gaze up at the stars, listening to crickets chirp, and trying to ignore the foul odor drifting from the junkyard.
Memories of my family camping under the night sky sneak up on me. My dad would tell us stories of ghosts, monsters, and aliens—he always had a crazy imagination. My mom used to tell me that I shared my dad’s crazy imagination and that one day it would take me somewhere amazing. I used to believe her, but now I can’t figure out what the truth is or ever was, just like I can’t figure out who I’m supposed to be.
Growing restless, I slide off the rock and dust off the dirt from the back of my jeans. I pace the end of the driveway, biting on my fingernails. Tonight could have been worse. How did I end up here? How did I become this person? Why do I feel so confused? So empty?
My gaze flicks to the hillside. It all started there.
I want to know what lies inside—what happened that day—but at the same time, I don’t want to know. I want to run toward the house, but I can’t. I want. I can’t. Want. Can’t.
Too many questions flood my mind as I wander down the side of the desolate road, taking lazy steps. As the cabin—and Miller—grows further away, my heart rate settles. I quicken my pace, and my leg muscles groan in protest. But I keep moving until I’m at the end of the dirt driveway that leads to the two-story house by the antique shop. The lights are off, and in the darkness, it looks so harmless, just a house and store.
The air is still except for the crunching of the gravel beneath my boots as I stagger over a few potholes and trip over a couple of rocks. I make it to the front porch steps, farther than I’ve ever gotten before. My gaze bores a hole in the door. What’s on the other side of it? Who was that man? What did my mom really do while she was here on my birthday? Was she really having an affair?
I inch up the rickety stairs until I’m standing on the wrap around porch. I cup my hands around my eyes and press my face to the window. I can’t see anything other than the outline of furniture, but I’m filled consuming rage.
It all started here. The lies. The secrets. The destruction.
Anger erupts through me, like hot lava about to explode. Backing down the stairs, I scoop up a rock and chuck it as hard as I can at the window with so much hatred inside me it’s terrifying. Shards of broken glass fly everywhere, and I feel myself shatter right along with it.
Chapter Ten
Guessing Games, Old School Rock, and Life-Saving Ink
I stand there, stunned at the damage I’ve caused. Then a dog starts howling from inside the house and an upstairs light flips on. My phone rings, breaking my shock into smithereens.
Fumbling to shut off the ringer, I hurry away from the house. My leg muscles kink as I dive behind a tree right as the front foot door swings open and light beams across the yard.
“Who’s out there?” a man hollers. “Whoever you are, you’re in deep shit.”
I align my back to the trunk of the tree and hold my breath. Shoes scuff against the dirt, growing closer to me. I almost walk out from my hiding spot, just to see if he is the man from that day.
“I’m calling the police!” he shouts, then slams the door.
Balling my hands into fists, I stab my nails into my palms and take off through the dry field toward the road. When I reach the road, I travel the path along the fence line just in case the cops show up.
My leg just about gives out several times as I trip through the dark, unsure of where to go. I have the heartbreaking urge to be home, curled up in a ball, like I used to do when I got sick. My mom would bring me soup and have a romance movie marathon with me. I felt so loved and taken care of . . .
I hunch over and dry heave until all the alcohol I drank earlier comes back up. As I’m wiping my mouth clean with the back of my hand, my phone rings again, and I dig it out of my pocket.
“Yeah,” I answer with a cough.
“Hey, where are you? I’m parked in front of the cabin near the junkyard, but I can’t see you anywhere . . . You aren't inside, are you?” Luca asks with apprehension.
“No, I’m walking on the side of the road . . . near the antique shop about a mile back.” I press my hand to my damp forehead and breathe in and out through my nose as my stomach gurgles again.
“Okay . . .” He sounds perplexed, but doesn’t ask questions. It makes me like him just a tiny bit more. “I’m headed there now.” I move to hang up when he adds, “Stay on the phone with me until I get there.”
“Why? You’re not t
hat far away.”
“Yeah, but you seem like a wanderer.”
“I’m not.” The dry grass kisses my legs as I start hiking down the side of the road again.
“All right. I guess you’d know better than I would,” he says over the humming of an engine.
“Yeah, I would.” But I’m not sure I’m right.
Music gently flows through the receiver.
“Are you listening to the classic rock station?” I ask, unable to help myself.
“Of course. I’m old school, remember? What else would I listen to?”
My dad used to listen to that station all the time when he was at the store. He was always humming tunes by singers and bands like Journey, Lynryd Skynryd, and even Johnny Cash. Sometimes, when I shut my eyes, I can still hear him humming . . .
The Illusion of Annabella Page 12