Seven Ways to Lose Your Heart

by Tiffany Truitt

  “Not. So. Fast. It’s been, like, a whole eight hours since we’ve had a dare.”

  “Oh, heck, no. There’s no dare that could come from this place that I would be comfortable with,” I argue. On the shelf under the doll heads is a collection of old Scientology books. I shudder.

  “When will you just trust that I’m not trying to trick you into something you don’t want to do? I asked you to Sound of Music it and tell the mountains how you felt about your boyfriend—”

  “Ex-boyfriend,” I interrupt.

  “That’s right. Ex-boyfriend. I didn’t dare you to break up with him. I just dared you to do some yelling. Afterward was your choice. And then last night, I just dared you to move a little closer. You decided you wanted to cuddle.”

  My mouth drops open. “That’s not how I remember it going down.”

  “Stop stalling once again, Annabel Lee, and let me propose my dare.”

  “Ugh. Fine. But if it involves anything with banjos or animal carcasses, I’m done with the dares,” I warn.

  “For dare number three, I get to choose any outfit from over there”—he points to a few racks of clothes in the back that look mostly made up of camo—“and you have to wear it.”

  I shrug. “Okay. No big deal. As long as I get to thoroughly search them for any sign of bugs, we’re good.” Clearly, he has failed to notice how very little I care about looking fashionable.

  “I wasn’t done. And then you have to get someone’s number while in it,” he finishes with a devilish grin and a waggle of the eyebrows.

  “You want me to get some guy’s number?” I ask, feeling a bit perplexed. I’m not understanding what game Kennedy is playing here. If last night was any kind of indication as to what he wanted, I wouldn’t think he would dare me to go flirt with another man.

  Had I totally misread everything? Was he playing me fast and loose like he did all the other girls? No wonder I had trust issues.

  Kennedy reaches down and gently pulls on a strand of hair that’s come loose from my ponytail. “That is the dare if you’re brave enough to accept it. If not, say good-bye to the Emporia News.”

  “Tell me, did you come up with this dare because you didn’t think I would have the balls to do it, or because you don’t think I could complete it if I’m wearing a ridiculous outfit?” I tuck the loose strand of hair back into place.

  “I came up with it because I think you need to get back on the horse,” he replies, hooking a finger around one of the loops of my jeans and pulling me close.

  My heartbeat quickens a little, but I refuse to let him get the best of me. “Oh, you want me to get back on the horse and ride it, huh?” I lean in to him. Toe to toe, so close that if we were any nearer to each other we would give the old man watching behind the counter a real show. “Trust me when I say this, Kennedy, no matter what crazy getup you put me in, I can and will get any man I desire. Game on, buddy.”

  “Is that so, Le Chat?” he whispers, tugging again on my pant loop.

  “I’m not sure if you remember or not, but I really love to win,” I say, hoping my voice sounds more confident than I feel. I do love to win, but when it comes to seduction, I consider myself a real novice.

  The only real love affair I’ve had was with Jason. I’ve only been with one man. Kennedy could probably fill out multiple one-night stand bingo cards.

  “Well, good! It’s settled,” he says. He abruptly pulls away from me. “I can’t wait to see what kind of game you spit.”

  “Yeah, me too,” I mumble under my breath as I follow Kennedy toward the racks of clothes.

  By the time Kennedy is done with me, I look like Rainbow Brite and G.I. Joe had a baby. I’m wearing a camo T-shirt that’s two sizes too big, acid-washed skinny jeans, and a multicolor tutu.

  “You know, for this dare to be fair, we have to be someplace where people actually exist. Because for the past two hours, you’re the only boy I’ve seen, and I wouldn’t want to ruin our asexual friendship by trying to…what did you call it? Spit my game at you,” I say, tapping my fingers furiously against the passenger-side window.

  As the end of the day nears, I’m less and less certain that I can actually pull this off. If I were wearing a little black dress and had my hair done, maybe I could find some desperate guy and get it done without need of any real skill or game, as Kennedy called it. But wearing this, combined with my complete and utter lack of game? Well, the whole thing is starting to feel a bit impossible.

  “Good thing we need dinner before heading to the hotel. I know the perfect little bar. I always stop here before the fest,” he says.

  When Kennedy said “little bar,” he wasn’t lying. Barely bigger than the mobile units they had to bring and set up behind the school when the Henderson family’s quadruplets started having children of their own, the bar, which someone thought would be funny to call Wrong Turn, is filled to the brim with pool tables, barstools, and people from all walks of life. Now it makes sense what Kennedy said about stopping here before he went to the festival. More than half of the people jammed into the small, smoky room seem to be the type who put going to music festivals as a top priority on their to-do list while people like me are busy trying to finally finish reading War and Peace.

  Despite my show of hubris earlier in the day, I’m even less certain now that I’m actually going to be able to pull this off. Even with the wild outfit, I’m definitely not like any of the people in here. If I had a dollar for every head of dreadlocks that’s passed us since we sauntered up to the bar, I’d at least be able to buy books for my first semester of school. And when did wearing glitter past the age of three become a thing? If a girl isn’t sporting the hippie look, she’s scantily clad in tiny shorts and some sort of bra/tank-top combo, skin covered in the Arts and Crafts section of Walmart.

  “You want something to drink?” Kennedy yells over the music, which has changed from what I can only describe as a jam band who probably never learned how to say multi-syllabic words to some sort of techno jam where the elusive beat refuses to drop.

  “Whiskey,” I call out.

  Kennedy clearly wasn’t expecting this response. With what I can only call magic, he manages to flag down a bartender and return with one shot of whiskey and one whiskey ginger. Clearly this isn’t the type of place that checks ID. Theoretically, this dive bar probably sees this volume of people only once a year before the festival, so it’s not surprising that suddenly everyone in the room is celebrating a birthday…or a few in some cases.

  Kennedy slides a drink my way. I furrow my brow and hold up the glass. “What’s this?” I ask, taking a sniff of the concoction.

  “Whiskey ginger.”

  “I thought I said I wanted a whiskey.”

  “Well, yeah, you did. I just assumed you wanted it cut with something.”

  I snatch the shot glass from his hand and throw it back. It burns all the way down, but if my grandmother taught me anything sitting on that porch, it’s sometimes all you need is a little liquid courage. Kennedy’s eyes go wide.

  He reaches for the whiskey ginger, but I snatch it up before he can. “Since you offered…” I tease before chugging it.

  “Holy shit balls, Annabel Lee.” Kennedy laughs. “Shall I get you another one…while I get one for myself? Since you drank, you know, both of them.”

  “I mean, if you’re getting one, you might as well get two,” I reply, feeling the warmth from the whiskey run over my skin. “While you do that, I’m going to go piss.” I point toward what is either a bathroom or broom closet, but since I doubt this place actually has any brooms, I’m guessing bathroom.

  “And, yes, I said piss. You can say that to your asexual buddy,” I add. Without another word and a simple flip of the hair, I leave Kennedy at the bar. I don’t look back to see if my little jab had any impact.

  Once in the bathroom, I get to work fixing my other problem. The dare. There’s no way I’m going to pick anyone up wearing this getup. At least not in its present
state. I dig in my purse for my Leatherman—Grandma insisted I take one with me on the trip. I doubt she imagined this particular moment when she suggested I might need it, but useful all the same. I go to work cutting off the bottom half of my much-too-large camo shirt and making a small tear at the collar, so I’m able to rip it a bit and show some cleavage. Usually, I would be totally against this sort of behavior. Demeaning myself to get a boy’s attention? Yeah. Right. But this is war, and I’m not going to lose to Kennedy. This is a high-stakes game we’re playing. Backing out of a dare meant Kennedy would drop one of the internships. Losing a dare meant mortification. The Horsey Back. There was mention of having to wear a T-shirt with a picture of me wearing this outfit on it during my freshman orientation if I didn’t win. And we never, never backed away from the consequences of a Horsey Back. Some promises would always be sacred.

  The dare said I had to get a number wearing the outfit. It didn’t say I couldn’t alter the outfit. I roll up my acid-washed jeans as much as possible, so they look more like hipster leggings than relics of the eighties. It’s neither stylish nor completely modern, but considering the amount of body paint going on in this bar, I’m pretty sure as long as I’m showing some skin, I’m good to go. I pull out my ponytail holder, shake my hair loose, and give myself one last look in the mirror before heading out to battle.

  When I return to the bar, Kennedy nearly drops the glass he’s holding. His eyes go wide, and if I’m not mistaken, his cheeks have gone a little red. Next to him on the bar is a second cup, which I can only assume is for me. Before he has time to comment, I grab the drink and swallow it down. If my skin felt all warm and tingly before, it’s full-on blazing now. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” I tell him, making sure my hip brushes his as I walk by.

  Without having to look back, I can feel him watching me walk away. Which is exactly the way I want it.

  Altering my outfit was only step one of my plan to win this battle. Once, after watching the Ken Burns documentary on the Civil War, I became obsessed with reading books about war strategists. I learned that any good strategist not only comes up with a distraction in hopes of using the element of surprise to his advantage, but also must use surveillance in order to best pinpoint the weakest ground to attack. While Kennedy was going on and on about some band they were playing when we walked in, I was scoping out the play for my weak link.

  My victim? The one hipster boy beached on the Island of Misfit Toys. Sure, I expected there would be many hipsters at the music festival, but they were the types that would be hanging out in artsy coffee shops talking about the existential crisis the latest Mountain Goats album caused them, not hanging out in a place like this. No doubt, he was tagging along with the hippie/techno kids for a ride, or maybe he was just lost. Plaid shirt. Oversize glasses that he probably didn’t even have a prescription for. He was perfect.

  The boy sat awkwardly in the corner, cradling his can of PBR like it was the Elder Wand. I had watched as a few of the glitter glams tried to talk to him earlier in the night. It was obvious by the way he kept staring at them that he wasn’t interested. Maybe he was bored with all the usual hipster girls he knew and wanted to try something outside his world? No matter the reason, it wasn’t pretty. I felt bad for him until I saw the copy of The Fountainhead sticking out of his shirt pocket. And then I felt even worse for him because he suddenly became the launching point of my first attack. He wanted a hipster girl under a glam veneer, and that’s exactly the role I was going to play.

  “Drink every time Rand says bromide?” I call out over the music.

  The boy narrows his eyes at me, and I’m not sure if he doesn’t get the joke or he couldn’t hear me. It’s a great joke. Rand used the word “bromide” like every other page in that beast of a novel.

  The boy clutches at his chest where the book rests. “Oh! Right! I don’t think they have enough beer in this place.”

  “Right? If only someone would have bought that woman a thesaurus or something,” I say with the most girlish laugh I can manage.

  The boy smiles and brings his can of PBR to his lips. And then the can just sits there. Either he’s in a state of near-death dehydration or he is desperately thinking of something witty to say in return. I feel a bit bad for him again. “Have you finished it yet?” I ask.

  “No, just started.”

  Great. So…I can’t use that.

  “Going to the music festival?” It’s such an obvious question that I feel pretty stupid for asking it. It’s like asking what his major is. Or even worse—what’s his sign? But the boy is really giving me nothing to work with.

  “Yeah.”

  Yeah. Kim Kardashian is a better conversationalist. I glance over my shoulder to where Kennedy is standing at the bar. I can tell by the grin on his face that he infers all the way from there how not-great this whole thing is going.

  “How about that new Mountain Goats song?” I ask. Desperate times call for desperate measures. The last thing I want to do is get some hipster boy going about music. It’s not like when Kennedy talks about music. I think I could listen to him discuss music for hours. He sees the complexity in it. Hipsters do nothing but relate songs to themselves. When sometimes music is about much bigger things.

  The hipster boy sets his can down on top of the table next to him, and I know I’ve opened the floodgates.

  Thirty-five minutes later, I saunter over to Kennedy and slam my phone on the counter. “If you scroll down my contacts and look under S for Sad Hipster Boy, you’ll see his number. I made that dare my bitch.”

  Kennedy chooses to ignore my moment of triumph and leans close to me. “What did you do to the beautiful outfit I put together for you, Le Chat?”

  I place my hands on my hips, sticking my chest out a bit. “Oh, you noticed? I just made a few improvements.”

  Considering where Kennedy’s eyes go, I can tell he thinks it’s an improvement as well. “And did Sad Hipster Boy like it?”

  I shrug, feigning disinterest. “I think so. I’m supposed to meet up with him for some show tomorrow afternoon, so I guess he liked what he saw.”

  “Oh? So you’re going to meet up with him, then?”

  “I guess. I don’t see any reason why I shouldn’t. Do you?”

  Kennedy clears his throat, scratching at the back of his head. He hesitates before answering me, and I would give away my official copy of the Oxford English Dictionary to know what he’s really thinking. “Nope, can’t see any reason why you shouldn’t. You are a free woman now. You can spend your time with whoever you want, doing whatever you want.”

  “Yeah, I guess I can. Thanks for getting me back on that proverbial horse. You’re the greatest asexual friend a girl could ask for,” I say, patting him on the chest.

  Kennedy snatches my hand and holds it in his own. He doesn’t say anything. Instead, his eyes search mine. For a second, the shortest second of all time, I think he’s actually going to kiss me.

  But he doesn’t. He pulls me close and whispers a word I’ve been afraid of hearing my whole life. “Karaoke.”

  “What the what?” I ask, a feeling of uneasiness settling in the pit of my stomach. I’m not entirely sure if it’s a result of the complete and utter terror I’m currently experiencing or the alcohol finally catching up with me.

  “Dare number four, Annabel Lee. I dare you to get your ass up there and sing me a song.”

  And then I let go every cursey word I’ve ever heard. Even the German ones Grandma taught me. I am going to owe the Cursey Word Jar a lot of money by the time I get back from this trip.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Kennedy

  I’m not really a violent person. Seriously. My propensity for blood and guts is limited to video games and episodes of The Walking Dead. But when I saw Annabel flirting with that poser, there was a part of me that wanted to take those glasses and shove them down his throat.

  Which is how I know things are way worse than I thought they were. I’m not saying I’ve
never experienced feelings of jealousy. Despite many years of trying to subscribe to the Jedi philosophy, I’ve had my share of angst in regard to members of the opposite sex. But never like that. I feel a great deal more for the girl next to me than even I realized.

  I only came up with that stupid dare to make a point. Remind her that she’s single now, and if she wanted me, I was right here waiting for her. I didn’t actually think she would go through with it. Sure, the ghost of old daredevil Annabel was out and about, but that didn’t mean New Annabel had been destroyed. Nor did I want her to be. The things I felt for her were for the woman she had become, not the girl she used to be. And this Annabel isn’t the type of girl who goes after guys; she’s the type of girl who waits for men brave enough to go after her.

  When she came out of that bathroom, her shirt torn in all the right places, I nearly lost my shit. Seriously, I thought about carrying her right out of the bar, taking her to our hotel, and locking the door for the next three days. Who cared about the musical festival? I wanted that girl.

  I gently press my hand over Annabel’s mouth to stop the slew of obscenities spilling out of it. It’s hard as hell to ignore what the feel of her lips against my skin does to my lower extremities. “Annabel Lee, what would your grandmother say if she heard you cussing like that?”

  Annabel scowls, pulling my hand from her mouth. “I think she’d be pretty proud, considering she’s the one who taught me most of those words.”

  “Touché. Now, do you accept my dare or not?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

  “Isn’t there some kind of rule about more than one dare in a day?”

  “I don’t believe that was discussed.”

  She takes a deep breath and pulls herself up so she’s standing as straight as she possibly can.

  Her battle stance.

  “Dare accepted,” she replies, staring me down. “And just so we’re clear…when I use one of my double-dog dares, it’s going to be so good, it will make all the other little dares you used cry themselves to sleep at night.”