Seven Ways to Lose Your Heart (8 page)

How can a girl who makes me feel like she’ll punch me any second be so frightened about what I’ll think of her house? It’s like if she isn’t writing the lyrics to the song, she refuses to sing it.

She bites on her lip and stares up at me.

Seriously. She should not be allowed to do that.

“Fine. Yeah. Let’s do it. But if you end up in a booby trap made out of Twizzlers, yo-yo string, and Legos, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she replies, taking my hand.

Annabel Lee was not lying. I drove by her house after the accident, but I never really took the time to notice the complete chaos of her front yard. Toys. Are. Everywhere. I imagine this is what the inside of my brain looks like. Hard to believe this is the same home where I used to have to take my shoes off before getting three feet in the front door, or where coasters were used even when drinking from a paper cup. Apparently, the accident changed a lot of things in this family. I reach down and pick up a can of Silly String.

“Don’t even think about it,” Annabel warns.

“I wouldn’t
dare
,” I reply. I sneak it into my back pocket when she turns around. This will, no doubt, come in handy later.

“I’ll be two minutes…five if I get attacked by the devil twins,” Annabel yells over her shoulder as she starts moving toward the danger zone. I wonder if the arrival of the twins was hard for her after the loss of her brother. I wish I had been there to ask.

“I’ll be right here waiting.”

“If I’m not back in five minutes…”

“I’ll come in and rescue you,” I offer.

“No, you run. Run as fast as you can,” she replies rather melodramatically. It takes a beat before I realize she’s making a joke. Old Annabel/New Annabel. She flips back and forth between the two so fast it’s giving me whiplash.

The rest happens in slow motion. Seriously. Like imagine every war movie ever made…the music swelling, the lens flare, the drawn-out screams of agony. All I see is a flash of red whiz past the corner of my eye. Next thing I know, Annabel is tumbling to the ground, a pint-size munchkin attached to her legs.

“Attaaaaaaaacccccck!” he screams.

And then an overturned Little Tikes car flips over and a second gremlin appears. He starts to beeline it toward Annabel with hands caked in mud. Remembering that I promised to save her, I’m left with only one option. I yank the can of Silly String from my back pocket, give it a quick shake, and spray the motha-fucking hell out of it. If there is one thing I’ve learned from war movies, it’s that the element of surprise beats numbers any day. Redheaded demon number two falls to the ground, scrambling to get the string off his face while demon number one turns his attention to me. The little monster’s gonna charge me straight on.

Before he can get close, Annabel latches onto his belt loop and pulls him down to the ground. And she pulls out the oldest big sister trick in the book—she starts to tickle him. Demon number two runs toward Annabel giggling, and she reaches up to catch him before he plows directly into her. They may have won the battle, thrown her off with their surprise attack, but there is no way she isn’t going to win this war. I mean, this is Annabel Lee we’re talking about.

Soon, it’s a giant, loud, tickling mess of fun, and I can’t help but chuckle. As crazy as she said it was, and it certainly does seem to be exactly that, it’s clear Annabel loves it. Loves them.

“What the hell is all that noise?’ a voice booms from the front door.

“Grandma!” the twins scream in unison.

And with that, Annabel is free from her attackers.

“Slow down, boys. Remember, you can’t be so rough with Grandma,” Annabel warns, climbing to her feet. There’s a sense of urgency to her voice, and I can tell she’s legit worried the two kids are going to hurt her grams.

“Don’t make me spray you again,” I call out, quite ready to do so if the need arises. Besides, it was kind of fun.

“If it isn’t the midnight caller,” Grams yells out to me, wrapping each of her arms around one of the boys, both of whom stare up at her like she’s the one who checks Santa Claus’s list…twice.

“Good morning, Grams,” I say with a small wave and a smile, hoping to dazzle the woman who taught Annabel all her spit and all her fire. The woman who had every right to kill me for breaking her granddaughter’s heart.

“I was just getting my camera, Grandma, and then we’re going to be heading out,” Annabel chimes in. But it becomes super apparent that Grams is working real hard at ignoring her. It kind of bums me out to see how sad this makes Annabel, but I also get where Grams is coming from. Annabel shouldn’t just stop living ’cause she’s dying. That isn’t what the whole thing is about.

“How about you come in for some Mtn Dew Code Red? Isn’t that what all the boys drink? It’s what that Jason of hers does,” Grams suggests, gently shoving the twins into the house and motioning me in behind them.

“Sounds great!” I exclaim. I nearly run to the front door, so I can make it inside before Annabel can stop me. I’m super interested to see how the house has changed. “But I’ll just take some water or coffee.”

Thankful that she hasn’t pulled out a knife to stab me, I follow Grams into the kitchen. She’s moving at a turtle’s speed, but I know better than to move past her or, worse, offer her help. She would see it as an insult.

“I can’t believe you called her Grams,” Annabel whispers to me.

I shrug. “Always give the thing you fear a cute nickname to make it less scary, Le Chat.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I know.”

As I walk through the house, I notice just how different it is from the last time I visited. Gone is any kind of effort at organization or cleanliness. It’s not that it’s necessarily a mess;
my
apartment is a mess. It’s just that it looks lived-in. Whereas before, it looked like a house you see in a commercial for cleaning products. Empty walls are now covered in pictures of Annabel and Grams and the twins. Artwork, both drawn on paper and directly on the wall in some cases, decorates the home like confetti at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

And there are lots and lots of pictures of Stephen. Pictures of him as a baby, a toddler, a young adult, and then nothing. A timeline cut short by fate and all her vengeance.

I can’t look at his pictures too long, so I try to keep my eyes down as we enter the kitchen. I plop down on a stool next to an island in the middle of the kitchen, patting the empty seat next to me. With a sigh and quite the mighty glare, Annabel sits down. She starts biting on that bottom lip of hers, but not in the sexy, torturous way I’ve come to long for. She’s eagle-eyeing her grams as she moves about the kitchen making coffee. It’s clear that Annabel is scared to death of losing this woman, which I get, considering how much she’s lost already.

“How do you like your coffee?” Grams asks, interrupting my staring at Annabel. No doubt catching me staring at Annabel. But I can’t stop looking at her.

“Like I love my women, strong and black,” I quip without realizing what I’m saying. It’s an old joke, but not one entirely appropriate for either of the women I’m sitting with. “Not that I’m racist. I mean, I like all women. All shapes. All sizes. All skin tones. Super-big fan of the woman over here,” I start frantically mumbling.

Annabel’s eyes have gone record-size big. I turn to look at Grams, and she starts full-out laughing. Like almost a cackle.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Annabel asks, clearly miffed she’s not in on what we’re talking about.

“So, what exactly are your intentions with my granddaughter?” Grams asks. I gulp as she slides me a mug of coffee.

“Well, we’ve both established we’re asexual beings, so really, I’m just using her for inspiration. She’s letting me tag along as she takes some pictures, and I’m hoping it inspires me to get some writing done,” I explain in between sips. This answer is easier than the real one: I’m trying to make up for the awful way I treated Annabel after the accident, get my friend back, and try not to fall for her all at the same time.

“Asexual, huh?” Grams asks, clearly not believing any word of that line.

I gulp again.

“You think she’s good, huh?”

It takes me a minute to realize she’s referencing photography. “Oh, heck yes. She’s amazing. She’s got a real way for seeing what others don’t,” I reply, hoping my face isn’t as red as it feels.

“She’s never bothered showing me any of her work,” says Grams.

“Because I didn’t think it was worth showing. I never really thought much of it. Not till Kennedy—”

“And this is helping you write? Because construction might be good enough for some, but it ain’t good enough for you,” Grams says, cutting Annabel off.

I nearly choke on my coffee. How did she know I worked construction? How did she know I wrote? The only person I’d told about that is Annabel. And what could she possibly know about me to think I should be doing something better with my life? I could count on one hand the number of people who think I’m even capable of dressing myself without help. I didn’t spend much time with Grams even when Annabel and I were glued at the hip. She was always off at some town meeting or social event. Quite the mover and shaker and ball-breaker. So what gives?

“Don’t look so shocked, kid. You think I wouldn’t do some research about the boy who took my granddaughter joyriding in the middle of the night? Especially considering your past behavior toward her? The internet is a wonderful thing, Kennedy. I’ve read some of your stuff. It’s pretty good. I mean, I think the music you like is crap, but the actual writing…well, that’s pretty good.”

“Wow. Thanks,” I reply.

“So what’s next? You can’t just write for that blog forever. You planning on going to school?”

Annabel lets out a heavy sigh, and I’m not sure if it’s to remind us that she’s in the room or because she’s no longer a part of the conversation. Either way, she gets up and attempts to scrub the mud off her tank top from her tussle with the twins.

“Well, actually, a new opportunity has landed in my lap,” I reply. I eye Annabel to see if she’s paying attention. I had rather hoped to broach this subject with her in a different way, but maybe what I really needed to be successful was Grams’s help. Maybe the only way to take down a ballbuster was with an even bigger ballbuster?

“The blog I write for wants to send me to the Infinite Festival in Delaware. It’s a three-day music festival. All kinds of music, too, so a little something for everyone. They want me to cover it, and they think they could get some major sites to run our stories. Good for our blog and good for me,” I continue.

Annabel doesn’t turn to look at me while I’m speaking, but I notice that despite the water running, her hands are still. I’ve got her attention.

“Good for you how?” Grams asks.

“Well, if I can get published on these bigger sites, it might open some doors.”

“Well, hell, you’ve got to do it,” she replies.

I take a deep breath. Here goes. “There’s a little catch,” I say, scratching the back of my head. “I need Annabel to go.”

“
Como
, say what?” Annabel asks, spinning around. Not even cognizant of the fact that half her tank top is now plastered to her stomach, outlining a hell of a body, which I shouldn’t even be looking at right now because it is so not the time for that.

“Go pack your bags, Annabel,” Grams commands.

“Hold on a second,” Annabel replies. “First of all, Grandma, you haven’t talked to me in days, so I won’t be taking orders from you. Second, what are you talking about, Kennedy?”

“Look, I didn’t even get the chance to tell you the other night, but I showed your picture, the one of the trash cans, to some of my music friends, and they loved it. One band was even interested in having it for the cover of their new album. Then I showed my editor some of the stuff from the record store, and he went really bonkers. We need pictures for the articles I’m going to write. And since you’re new talent, you would be cheap talent—”

“Oh, honey, don’t ever call a girl cheap if you want her to go somewhere with ya,” Grams chimes in.

“Oh, shit. I mean shoot. That’s not what I meant. You would get compensated for your work. It’s just since we’re still a bit unestablished, it would be less than what a professional photographer would get paid. And since the blog is small… But if it’s the money, I’ll give you my cut. I just need you to go, Annabel.”

“I couldn’t possibly, and you know that, Kennedy,” Annabel admonishes.

“Right. She doesn’t want to go because she thinks I’m going to drop dead at any moment,” says Grams.

“That’s not true,” Annabel counters, her own face growing red.

“You’re right. That’s not entirely true,” Grams amends. “That’s only part of the reason. She’s also scared shitless to do anything that isn’t part of her plan. You know…college. House. Divorce. Mediocrity. Do you know how frustrating it is to watch a girl waste her life, all while I’ve got barely any life in me left to live?”

Before I can open my mouth to respond, Annabel runs out of the room and up the stairs. If I’m not mistaken, I think I saw tears in her eyes. “You should go after her, son. I know she thinks I’m being harsh on her, but she needs someone to give her a good kick in the ass. Maybe you can help me do it.”

I nod. I start to leave the room but stop, turning back to face Grams. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re pretty rad, but that girl up there loves you. And while I get what you’re doing, you’re breaking her heart.”

“Quite ballsy, telling off an old dying woman. I like you, Kennedy. More than I should, considering you broke that girl’s heart before my dying had the chance. Now, I guess you’ll have to fix it when I go,” Grams says, reaching out and giving my hand a squeeze.

I knock on Annabel’s bedroom door before realizing it hasn’t been shut all the way.

There stands Annabel Lee in nothing more than her shorts and sports bra. Light blue to be precise. Holy amazeballs, sports bras are tight. And that cleavage…

“You shouldn’t have done that! You teamed up with her against me, and you put me in a position where I had no hope of winning,” she charges. Either she isn’t aware that I’m ogling her in her bra, or she’s so super pissed at me that she doesn’t care.