Seven Ways to Lose Your Heart

by Tiffany Truitt

  For some reason, I suddenly find it hard to swallow. I nod numbly as Jason pulls me toward his friends. He doesn’t get ten feet before Kennedy yells out, “Holy shit! Annabel Lee? Is that you?”

  “Who’s that? Some friend of yours from high school?” Jason asks.

  I clear my throat. “No. No, that’s, um, Kennedy Harrison.”

  Jason swallows and swallows hard. He clenches his jaw, giving a curt nod in Kennedy’s direction. He knows all about Kennedy. When Jason first came around back in the hospital, I spent a ton of time reminding him who he wasn’t. He wasn’t my partner in crime, so he had no right visiting my room. He wasn’t my best friend, so he had no right looking like he felt empathy for me when they tried to change the bandages. He had no right to any part of me because it all belonged to Kennedy Harrison. The boy who didn’t visit me. Not even once.

  I told Jason that Kennedy was in my photography class, but I never told him about any of the other stuff. I don’t know why I didn’t, and now I wouldn’t even know where to begin. “He seems awfully friendly, all things considered,” Jason says through clenched teeth. It’s odd seeing him so tense, so aggressive. It’s not really Jason’s thing. He’s a pretty laid-back guy.

  But he did always protect me. Always. He just didn’t know he no longer had to protect me from Kennedy. Hell, maybe he does. I don’t know anymore. Up is down and down is up, and old is new and new is old. As Kennedy begins to walk toward us, every muscle in my body tenses. I don’t quite know how to maneuver a meeting of my two worlds: the old and the new. Maybe the worlds aren’t completely in two different universes anymore.

  “What brings a girl like Annabel Lee out to slum it at the lake?” Kennedy asks with a grin, a slight slur to his words. His eyes are bloodshot and dazed. This is Belltown’s Kennedy: all wild and drugged and free of responsibility. This wasn’t the Kennedy who talked about writing or analyzed my photos like they actually had meaning.

  Something about his state really pisses me off. I pull my shoulders back, placing a hand on my hip. “As if I think I’m too good for it? Or are you just implying I’m too uptight to have a good time?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.

  Kennedy pales slightly and kicks at the ground. “Um, no, I mean, I wasn’t implying that. It’s just good to see you out here.” His eyes dart over to Jason, and he takes a deep breath. “Going to introduce me to you friend?”

  Jason slips an arm around my waist, and I briefly wonder if one of them is going to suggest a drag race for my attention. I shift so I’m out of his grasp. I don’t appreciate feeling like I’m property. I’m not sure if that’s even what Jason intended, but for some reason, standing between the two of them, I feel all sorts of lines being drawn. “Kennedy, this is Jason. Jason, Kennedy,” I reply curtly.

  “Ah…the boyfriend? Jason, is it? Sorry, for some reason, that name is so hard to remember,” Kennedy replies, zoning in a very, very pointed look at me.

  Jason shrugs. “I’m not surprised. From what I understand, you have a real hard time remembering things…you know, like who your friends are and what friendship means. Or, you know, where the hospital is located.”

  Now it’s Kennedy’s turn to do the whole clenched-jaw, macho-man thing, and I can’t stand another second of it. I’m about to tell both of them where they can go when a girl’s voice calls out for Jason.

  “Did you hear that? Someone’s calling for you, Joe,” Kennedy replies, a special emphasis on the name.

  I look up at Jason, who has gone a bit red in the face. “That’s Megan from the firm,” he says, nodding toward the group of friends he’d pointed out when we first arrived. Megan waves excitedly at us, and the redness of Jason’s face spreads to the tips of his ears.

  Jason quickly recovers before I have time to ask him if that was the girl’s voice I heard the other night in the background when I called. He reaches down and takes my hand. “Come on, let’s go,” he says, pulling me toward his friends.

  “Actually, while you’re here, I was wondering if we could talk about our final project for class,” Kennedy proposes.

  “Our final project?” I ask.

  “Yeah! You know, the final, final project? I got my camera in the truck. Now would be the perfect time to get some of those lighting techniques down. Don’t you agree? Unless you think you can’t do it? But I sure as hell dare you to give it a shot.”

  My mouth falls open. Final project? Lighting techniques? None of that makes any sense to me, but that word, that all-magical word, something about the way he says “dare” means a whole lot. About a year into our friendship, I dared Jason to roof-jump between the bakery on Fifth and Mrs. Peterson’s bookshop, a small feat at best. He turned me down without hesitation, offering me all the logical reasons why I was insane for even suggesting it.

  I haven’t had a good dare in a really long time. Maybe it’s the prospect of our time together in class coming to an end, or the possibility of a final separation when I go off to school, or maybe it’s the nagging feeling that I have zero desire to meet Megan, but I want, no, have, to know what the dare is. I pull my hand from Jason’s. “Oh, shoot. The project. He’s right, Jason. I probably should take a few shots. Go hang out with your friends. I won’t be long.” Before he can reply, I reach up, grab his face, and kiss him right on the lips. Long enough for both Kennedy and Megan to see.

  I’ll draw my own darn lines.

  “Come onnnnnnn. Just tell me a little bit about him,” Kennedy begs, bumping his shoulder against mine as we walk deeper into the woods. While Kennedy did lie about the project, he wasn’t making up the part about having his camera in his truck. Slung over my shoulder, it’s starting to feel more and more like my own, considering how much I use it.

  “Whoa. Careful there, buddy, or I’m going to drop this,” I warn, wrapping my fingers tightly around the strap.

  “Ugh. You’re avoiding the question, Le Chat! Apparently, we’re avoiding all sorts of things. That boy toy of yours has no idea we hang out, does he? Why wouldn’t you tell him about your favorite friend?”

  “Wow, drugs and alcohol certainly don’t affect your self-esteem, do they? My favorite friend?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

  “Hey! I’m at the very least not your least favorite friend,” he teases, waggling his eyebrows.

  “I think maybe I only have two friends, so you might be.” I laugh.

  Kennedy’s grin falters. “Come on, you have tons of friends, Annabel.”

  “Actually,” I say, clearing my throat, “I don’t. No one wants to be friends with the burn victim with the dead brother.” I stop walking and bring the camera to my face, adjusting the lens. I can’t bear to look at him after the admission. Especially since I forgot to add the part about how I was mad at the world and pushed away everyone but Jason. Well, I tried to push him away, too, but he wouldn’t let me.

  Suddenly, Kennedy appears directly in front of the viewfinder, and the closeness of his face makes me yelp. He reaches up and takes the camera from my hands. “Annabel,” he says softly.

  For some reason, I feel tears prick my eyes.

  I reach forward and yank the camera from his hands. I pull it back up and snap a picture. “So, you mentioned a dare?” I ask, safely behind the camera.

  Kennedy stares me down for a moment without speaking a word. I continue to snap away. Running a hand through his hair, he looks around. “I was just trying to get you alone, so we could talk. I couldn’t believe you showed up here. I thought, maybe…I don’t know what I thought. But hell, if the girl wants a dare, then the girl gets a dare. Just like the good old times, right? ’Cause you know we’re all good, right?”

  Maybe his high is wearing off, because he looks exhausted and deflated, and there’s a note of bitterness in his voice. “We’re not far from the east end of the lake,” he continues. “A lot of kids like to skinny-dip, and I’m feeling like a dip. I dare you to join me.”

  My stomach tightens. “Is this a joke?”

  Kennedy furrows
his brow. “Um. No. It’s a dare. I know it’s been a while, but the whole point of a dare is that it’s supposed to be a little ridiculous. If you wanted to do it, I wouldn’t have to dare you,” he explains like he’s telling me the benefits of my flossing every day.

  Could he really be that dense? Of course he could. “Unbelievable. Like I could really do that? You’ve seen the scars. I’m not giving anyone a free ticket to the freak show.” I spin on my heels and begin marching back toward where Jason and his friends are waiting. With every step I take, the sound of laughter and music whispers to me through the air, mocking me.

  “Whoa! Shit, Annabel! Wait up. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking,” he explains, having to run to catch up with me.

  “Yeah, I think that’s a regular reoccurring problem,” I mumble, not slowing down my stride even a bit.

  “Please walk a little slower. It’s hard to keep up. I may have had a few drinks earlier.”

  “Define a few. Also, you reek of pot.”

  “Come on, don’t be mad. Let’s take our time getting back, snap a few pictures along the way. We only have one session left in the darkroom,” he reminds me.

  I sigh, slowing down my pace. “Fine. But no more talk about dares, and if you puke, I’m totally taking a picture of you.” I was foolish to think we could just go back to dares. There isn’t any going back.

  We walk in silence for a while before Kennedy finally speaks. “What’s the boy toy like?”

  “That’s the question you choose to start with?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. Did the kid have a death wish? He shrugs. “Why do you care so much?” I ask.

  “You’re an interesting girl, and I’m curious to see what kind of man you spend your time with,” he answers, taking the camera from my hands and snapping a few pictures himself.

  I don’t know why, but my face feels hot. “Well, I spend time with you, and you’re a complete weirdo. Does that answer your question?”

  “Right. You spend asexual time with me. I’d like to know—”

  “I hope you aren’t asking me to discuss my sex life,” I reply, cutting him off. “A lady doesn’t speak of such things.”

  “I wasn’t going to say anything about sex. I was just wondering what kind of man breaks through that wall,” he replies quietly.

  “I don’t know. He’s just a guy. N-normal,” I stammer. My hands feel all jittery again. I snatch the camera back, knuckles going white.

  “No normal guy would ever be good enough for you,” he says.

  “He’s fine. We’re fine.”

  “Yeah, I guess that sounds about right. ‘Fine’ seems like the perfect word for you two.”

  I stop dead in my tracks and spin around to face him. “Why does that sound like judgment? Are you going out of your way to piss me off tonight?”

  Kennedy shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe. It might do us both a little good if you got a little mad. Maybe then we can actually talk about something.” When I don’t answer, Kennedy sighs and kicks at the ground.

  He stares at me silently for a moment before whispering, “Go with me to the music festival, Annabel.”

  “You know I can’t,” I whisper back.

  “All I know is that you won’t.”

  …

  This makes three nights that I haven’t been able to sleep. I keep checking my phone to see if Kennedy has texted me, but of course, he hasn’t. What reason would he have to do so?

  Yesterday morning, a set of luggage appeared in my room. I’m not sure who put it there. Possibly Grandma or possibly my parents. A passive-aggressive push toward starting school. Orientation is a few weeks away, and on paper I’m ready. Mom and Dad have paid my tuition. I’ve signed up for classes, using my AP credits to comp out of most freshman classes and diving headfirst into my major: history. I even signed up for a photography class.

  I just can’t bring myself to start packing. And it’s not just Grandma being sick. The insane number of times I’ve checked my phone in the last couple of hours proves that. As if sensing my inner turmoil, my phone bings, alerting me that I have a text message. I practically fly out of bed and grab the phone from the dresser.

  It’s a message from Kennedy.

  I bite down on my bottom lip and open the message. It’s the picture that first brought us together. The one of the trash cans. Laid over it is the logo of the band he said was interested in using it for their cover art. Underneath the picture is a simple message:

  So, you ready to be a paid working photographer? I think it looks pretty badass. But it’s not up to me. I need a yes or no.

  I shuffle over to my bed, cradling the phone in my hands. Plopping down, I try to decipher any hidden meaning between his words. Is this merely a business correspondence? Does he just feel bad for me? Is he using the picture as an excuse to talk to me? Why is he texting me so late at night? Is he having a hard time sleeping for the same reason as I am?

  Yes, I text him back.

  I’ll need you to sign some paperwork.

  My stomach flutters a bit reading his text. If he needs me to sign some paperwork, does that mean he needs to see me? Do I want to see him? I glance over at the suitcases that sit in the middle of my room, staring at me and judging me. Of course I want to see him again.

  Ok.

  Can you stop by the construction site around noon?

  He could have easily emailed it over to me. I knew that.

  Sure.

  I go to sleep with a smile on my face.

  It’s a miracle I’m able to escape the house with matching clothes on, as this morning was a particularly intense freak show. It all started with the twins. Not cool with the fact that I decided to grab a shower before feeding them, they took it upon themselves to attempt to make pancakes. I thought they would be all right with Grandma for ten minutes. She had been having a few really good days and, judging by the number of insults she hurled at the politicians on C-SPAN, I thought she was in full feisty-mode, able to handle anything…including the Wonder Twins. When I came downstairs, there was milk all over the floor, flour covering every inch of the counter, and a fully lit burner with a smoking piece of bread stuck directly on it. Grandma was asleep in the chair.

  After making sure Grandma was all right and cleaning up the twins’ mess and sending them off to preschool, the last thing I wanted to do was hang around the house. I tried talking to Grandma, but she kept falling asleep midsentence, and it was killing me. So when Mom and Dad finally emerged from their room, I bolted.

  While I was supposed to meet Kennedy at noon, I showed up to the construction site a tad bit earlier. The construction company Kennedy worked for mostly did renovations. As the town didn’t really see a lot of newcomers, there wasn’t a need for many new homes or buildings. Instead, the construction company spent most of its time on fixing the crumbling buildings that had stood for generations and generations.

  Today, Kennedy was helping to add a new wing to the hospital. A large portion of the town’s population was getting older, so there was an increased need for space there.

  Sitting in my car outside the construction site, I try to kill some time playing on my phone. But the last thing I wanted was to see pictures of Jason’s work retreat. Every time he texted me, I now felt guilty because it wasn’t the person I really wanted to hear from. I couldn’t break his heart. I had zero proof that anything was going on with him and the girl from work. Zero. And until I asked him, until I tried to see what the hell was going on with us, I couldn’t purposely break his heart when he made sure never to break mine. What kind of cruel world was this? A world where I pined for a boy who would most definitely break my heart. He would run. I would go to college, things would get complicated, and he would bolt. It’s what he did best. I couldn’t give up the stability of being with Jason for that.

  I pull down the visor and check out my appearance in the mirror. I’ve certainly looked better. My hair’s curling like a mad scientist’s because I didn’t take the time to tame it. I’m n
ot wearing any makeup. I’m definitely not going to be winning any beauty pageants, but why should that matter? I’m just here to sign some paperwork.

  But of course, it does matter. I start digging in my purse, praying to God that I have some lip gloss down in its hidden depths, when I hear a commotion from behind me.

  “I need you to work extra hours,” a deep voice bellows.

  “Yeah, and I need you to pay me for the hours I do work,” answers back a voice I have become very familiar with. I glance up and spot Kennedy and the foreman going at it.

  Holy goodness! Gone are the usual jeans and obscure band T-shirt Kennedy wears. Replaced with cargo pants and wifebeater. I always remember cringing at the concept of a man wearing one, but he makes even questionable fashion choices look good.

  “I said I’ll pay you, and I will,” the man counters.

  “When? You’re like two months behind.”

  “Look, you’re lucky you even have a job.”

  “Excuse me?” Kennedy asks, balling his hands into fists.

  “Don’t make me say it, kid.”

  “First, I’m not a kid. Second, if you have something to say, then I guess I have something to hear.”

  “Fine! This is the only option you got. This job. You know no one else will give you one. You’re a loser. A burnout. More interested in smoking pot than actually doing something with your life. You never took school seriously. In fact, I can’t think of anything you have taken seriously except maybe screwing girls. So maybe you should be a bit more thankful,” the foreman spits out.

  One of the worst things about living in a small town is that everyone knows everything about you. Or they think they do. None of that is Kennedy. Sure, it was how I used to view him, but he isn’t that guy. I don’t think he’s ever been that guy.

  I twist all the way around in my seat. I’m pretty sure Kennedy’s going to punch his boss in the face. At least, that’s what I’m hoping he’s going to do because if he doesn’t want to, I’ll be happy to do it for him.

  Kennedy takes a deep breath, clenching and unclenching his fist. “I quit,” he replies.