“I can’t do this right now, Kennedy,” she says, her voice breaking.
“I just wanted you to see me. I needed you to know I’m right here, Annabel. You can’t push me away. Not ever,” I promise.
“We’re just too different,” she says, wrapping her arms around herself, attempting to shut me out. “I shouldn’t have been at that festival. I should have been home. That was the plan. You can’t just go around doing whatever you want. There’s an order to things. There has to be an order. And I’m going to college soon, and that means this thing between us is going to be really hard. You would have to work for it. I would have to work for it. And I couldn’t take it, not now, if you didn’t want to. We’re just too different,” she repeats.
Of course she didn’t think I could handle it. A relationship like this, one long-distance, one with Annabel Lee, would take work, and I’d proven how careless I was at the festival.
I could do better. I would do better. I had it in me. I know I did. She was worth it. We were worth it.
“Don’t you see? That’s the best thing about us,” I say. “You’re right; we shouldn’t have to completely change to be with each other. We just have to work to be our best selves. Do I think you need to loosen up a little? Be more vocal about the things you feel? Yes. But that doesn’t mean I want you to change everything you are. I love everything you are.” I’m talking so fast now that my words are starting to run together. “And when it comes to us, I’m in, Annabel. I’m ready to do what it takes. No matter what. I won’t run again. I swear it.”
“Kennedy…” Her voice trails off.
I take two giant steps forward, placing my hands on her cheeks. “I know I need to take some things in life more seriously. I do. I need to believe in myself as much as you do. But you need to believe in yourself as much as I do, too. Sure, you’re complicated, but that doesn’t make you unlovable.”
Annabel’s bottom lip quivers as her face crumples. I pull her into my arms and let her cry into my chest. “Grams isn’t the only one who loves you, Annabel Lee. Why do you think she worked so hard to put us together? Because she knew I loved you before I even did.”
Annabel cries harder, and I hold her tighter. “I just don’t know,” she finally admits when she’s able to pull it together.
“It’s okay not to know right now,” I say, kissing the top of her head. “I just need you to think about it. I dare you to think about it. About us,” I whisper.
Annabel nods. I reach down and interlock my fingers with hers. “You still want to stay here with me? Even though I’m not sure where we stand?” she asks.
“I want to stay with you as long as you’ll let me.”
I spend that entire day with Annabel. I go with her from the graveyard to the small gathering held at her house after. I make sure not to crowd her. I hover around the edges, only swooping in when I think she’s going to fall apart. And when I go to leave, I give her a small, quick kiss on the cheek and tell her to call me when she’s ready to talk.
She doesn’t let me reach the door before she calls out to me.
“What is it? What do you need?” I ask, ready to do whatever she demands.
“I have a dare for you.”
“A dare?” I ask, not sure I heard her correctly.
She nods, taking my hand and bringing it to rest over her heart. “I double-dog dare you to go write. Screw the internships if you don’t want them. It’s your life, and it’s not my job to run it. Go write whatever you want. Don’t write for your editor or for some submission requirement. Go write for yourself.”
And so I write. I write like I’ve never done before. For hours. For days. For nearly a week. What started out as a few pages of nothingness and everything became a novella. I wrote about how Annabel came into my life and showed me what it could be. I wrote about Bean’s Little Catherine and Drake. I told the story of how I lost myself in one girl, only to find I wasn’t myself without her.
…
One night, after the words started to blur together, I took a break and started to unpack my bags from the festival. Tucked inside my duffel was Annabel’s camera. I didn’t hesitate a damn moment. I walked to the community college, and using the skills Annabel taught me, broke into the photography lab.
Her pictures were fucking brilliant. Amazing shots of the bands, our van mates, the mountain, the bar, all our moments effortlessly memorialized.
And then I returned to writing. Every day I didn’t hear from Annabel, I wrote harder and faster, laying out everything I was feeling on the inside for the world to see. Once it felt done, I printed out the pages, bound them together, and sent them to Annabel. I included some of her pictures in my story. I mean it wasn’t Jack Kerouac, but it was one hell of a travel narrative. It was about us, so of course it was awesome. On the first page, I hand-wrote a tiny inscription:
I dare you to love me, Annabel Lee.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Annabel
I’ve never sat still. Not really. At least not until the accident temporarily forced me to. Once I was all healed up, my body that is, I didn’t pause for a second. It was always about what was next. The next test I needed to ace in school. The next club I needed to become president of. Because if I stopped worrying about what was next, I worried there wouldn’t be a next.
Now I fear it.
There’s no grandmother to check on this morning. Mom has suddenly felt the need to busy herself with keeping the twins from killing each other or burning down the house, my bags are packed for school, and there’s nothing for me to do but wait. I’ve never been very good at that, so I sleep. I nap all day. I manage to come out for the occasional meal, mostly because Mom demands it, and then I fall right back into my bed.
I think about asking Mom when her need to parent had returned. Or pulling out my camera to take some pictures. Maybe go for a run. But every time I try to do something, I just feel extremely tired. My limbs are so heavy and so weighed down that I can’t manage it. Anything really.
I don’t know what’s next, and the fear of that scares the shit out of me. It’s paralyzing. And the one person I want to talk to about it is the one person I can’t. Because when it comes to unknown futures, ours is the biggest mystery of all.
I barely hear the noise through my perpetual drowsiness. A sporadic tap against my window. I sluggishly pull myself to a sitting position, squinting in the darkness. Another tap. Someone is throwing rocks at my window. I fall back into bed, pinching the bridge of my nose. Maybe if I don’t acknowledge it, they will go away.
Who throws rocks at windows besides the male protagonist of a Nicholas Sparks book? Kennedy. Kennedy Harrison would throw rocks at a window. My stomach tightens, and for the first time in days, I want to get out of bed. Tears prick at my eyes. Seeing Kennedy is the last thing I need, or maybe it’s the thing I need the most. I’m not sure anymore.
Fuck it. At least if I see him, I can tell him to go away. He promised to give me space. I manage to pull myself out of bed and trudge over to the window. I take a deep breath, bracing myself for all the things I know I’m going to feel seeing Kennedy. Except it’s not Kennedy. From below, Jason looks at me, smiles, and holds up a stack of board games.
Ten minutes later, Jason is sitting on my bed. Having made him wait outside long enough to throw on some jeans and a T-shirt and brush my teeth, he makes no comments about the general disarray of my usually pristine room. Half-full cups lying all around. Plates littering the floor in desperate need of some alone time with a good dishwasher. He doesn’t even speak. He goes to work setting up Operation, and we play without saying a word.
There’s comfort in this. Ease. The familiarity of it all soothes my nerves. But only for a while. My hands keep slipping as I go to work removing the bones, and the buzzing sets my teeth on edge. Jason reaches over and gently takes the prongs from my hand. “I think we should play something else,” he suggests, clearly noting my frazzled state.
I clear my throat and tuck
a loose strand of hair behind my ear. When was the last time I took a shower? “What? You giving up so soon? I was just about to kick your ass.”
“Of course you were,” he says with a good-natured smile. “You always kicked my ass. Why would today be any different?”
“Because everything is different,” I whisper. Before I know it, tears are streaming down my face. “Grandma is gone. I’m leaving for school. Things with us…”
Jason reaches forward and takes my hand in his. “Things with us are fine.”
“I shouldn’t have broken up with you like that. I at least owed it to you to do it in person.”
“Don’t feel bad about that. We’re still good, Annabel. I’m here, aren’t I?”
I give his hand a squeeze. “You’ve always been here.”
It always came back to that. I wasn’t mad at Kennedy because I’d been so wrapped up in him, both figuratively and literally, because I had missed that call. No, that wasn’t it. I knew Grandma’s time was short when I left. We had talked about that. Made our peace. I wasn’t even really mad about the truck. Even if it was completely stupid and reckless. I was angry at what it implied. A recklessness. A carpe diem philosophy that was hard for me to swallow. The fear that one day that belief system would force me out of his life. That one day I would be too much work, and he would leave again.
I couldn’t imagine being strong enough to survive that. I look at the boy sitting across from me, and I know this would be easier. A boy like him. But the tragedy is I wouldn’t feel the things I felt when I was around Kennedy. I wouldn’t feel like I was alive, and surviving that accident didn’t mean a damn thing if I didn’t feel that.
“Have I ever told you thank you for all that? You know, the whole being-there thing?” I ask quietly.
“Have I ever made you feel like you needed to?” he counters. “Knowing you, being in your life, has been my extreme honor.”
“You might just be the most perfect ex-boyfriend in the whole world.” I laugh, shaking my head.
“Ex-boyfriend. Not ex-friend. We can be friends, right?”
“What? And talk about things like that girl from your office?” I tease, raising an eyebrow.
“Sure. Right after we talk about Kennedy Harrison,” he argues, reaching up and tugging on a strand of my hair.
It wasn’t wrong to break up with Jason. He was a good guy, and he deserved to be happy. I owed it to him to let him go, let him find someone who made him feel all the things Kennedy made me feel. Things couldn’t always stay the same. They aren’t meant to. I had lived. I was alive. And that meant uncertainty. It was my job to see the beauty in that. I owed it to my brother and my grandmother.
“Maybe we can just be the type of friends who play board games and talk about everything but our love lives,” I suggest with a laugh.
And so we do. We talk about Grandma and school and the law firm, and even though it’s not exactly the same as it was before, it’s still good.
Later that night, for the first time in days, I find myself unable to sleep. Feeling restless, I creep down to Grandma’s room.
It still looks the same. Frozen in time as if she never left. She’s just off in some other room or at a doctor’s appointment. As much as I may want my life to stand as still as this room, it can’t.
Things change. That’s just the way of it. And change isn’t always bad. Jason and I had morphed into something different. It had been nice talking to him this afternoon, and I was grateful that we both agreed to try to still be there for each other. We would try. That’s all you could do. Try.
As I walk around Grandma’s room, touching everything, wondering how long it would be before the room no longer smelled of her vanilla perfume, I spot an envelope on her desk with my name scrawled across it. My breath catches in my throat, and I momentarily contemplate throwing it away without reading it. Reading it would make her death final. Thinking back on my relationship with Kennedy, I realize death is about the only thing that is final. I never imagined he would walk back into my life.
There was still hope. I tear open the envelope to find a few simple notes hastily written on the back of a Donald Trump flier. I can’t help but chuckle at the fake mustache Grandma drew over his face. Under his picture, these words:
Don’t be a fucking chicken, Annabel.
I spend the rest of the night sitting on my front porch, remembering when I was last out here with Grandma. As I stare at the rising sun, Grandma’s letter in my pocket, I don’t know what comes next. Life offers no guarantees. The only thing I know is what I want. I want to feel alive every second of every minute of every day. And there was only one boy who ever made me feel that.
When I finally make it back inside, my mother hands me a cup of coffee and a package from Kennedy.
Don’t be a fucking chicken, Annabel.
I tear the package open.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Kennedy
I still didn’t hear from her. Instead of wallowing, I threw myself into the internship submissions. I gave a virtual middle finger to their submission guidelines and turned in my novella instead of the required two thousand words.
I still didn’t hear from her.
I finished our story for the blog.
Still no word.
I grow so used to not seeing her, it takes my breath away when I do. I spot her leaning against my truck on my way to sign up for some fall courses at the community college. Annabel is waiting for me. She’s sporting a pair of blue leggings and a Diplo T-shirt. The sight of it gives me a bit of hope. If she’s wearing that shirt then it means she doesn’t completely connect our time together during that show to memories that pain her.
I open my mouth to tell her all of the millions of things I’ve been dying to say since our prolonged silence, but nothing comes out. I can’t pretend things are okay, because I am not fine without her. I can’t attempt a joke or play around like seeing her isn’t a punch in the gut…because what if this is the last time I get to see her?
“Before you say anything, I’d like to speak,” Annabel finally pipes up.
I wasn’t planning on saying anything. Mostly because I was too afraid I’d fall to my knees and beg her to give us a shot. Like a real putz.
Annabel twists her hands until they’re all red and blotchy. “I don’t know how to do this,” she admits.
“Just say whatever it is that you feel, Annabel,” I urge softly.
Annabel nods. “Okay. What I feel. I can do that.” She continues her self-directed pep talk.
“You can,” I add, hoping to boost her courage.
“I love you,” she says.
“Annabel—”
“I love you, but I’m so scared of losing you again,” she continues, cutting me off. Of course I was foolish to think it would be as simple as all that. “I always weigh every choice in my life by the concept of risk versus reward. The risks are monumental. There are so many reasons why this could fail. I’m neurotic and could push you away. The distance could become burdensome. I could lose myself in my studies, and you’d be left feeling neglected. This. Us. I can’t control it. And that’s the biggest risk of all.”
I swallow hard and look away from her. At any moment, she’s going to say the words I’ve been dreading for more than a week.
“But the reward, Kennedy. The reward is I get to go another day loving you.”
I look up and find her eyes. Those sweet, sweet eyes.
“And maybe it will be a short-lived reward. But it’s not one I’m willing to pass up—”
I don’t wait to hear any more. I run over and sweep her up in my arms, pulling her to me for a deep, long, lingering kiss. “I’m so sorry,” she cries between our kisses.
“Don’t,” I murmur against her lips. “I don’t mind a little fighting when the making up is so damn good.”
Annabel melts into me, and I wonder what Mrs. Peterson would think if we went for it right in the middle of the street. “Have you heard anyt
hing about the internships?” she asks, when we manage to separate for a moment. Mostly because we need to breathe and all. “Your story was amazing, Kennedy. After I read it, I wanted to come to you, but I was so overwhelmed by the things you wrote about us. I was shamed by how you’ve always believed in us when I doubted.”
“If my story was any good, it was because I had a great partner. I always believed in us, but it took you to believe in myself.” I kiss her again. Because I can. I kiss her until our lips are swollen. “I haven’t heard about the internships yet. I’ve been too nervous to check my email. Should hear from the Richmond Times-Dispatch today.”
If there was one I wanted, it was the Richmond Times-Dispatch. It would place me less than an hour from Annabel, and it was a supercool scene. Annabel jolts back. “Well, what are you waiting for? Open your damn email!” she exclaims.
“And if I don’t get it?”
“You’re still the best risk I’ll ever take.” She beams.
I pull out my phone and scroll through my emails. Right after the one from my editor telling me he loved my story is one from the Richmond Times-Dispatch. I take a deep breath and open it.
“Holy shit,” I say, slowly. I have to read it twice to believe. “I got it! Annabel! I fucking got it!”
Annabel squeals and jumps into my arms. I spin her around as I cover every inch of her face with kisses. “God, I’m the luckiest son of a bitch in the entire universe,” I say as I sit her back down on the ground.
“Luck has nothing to do with it. That was all you, Kennedy Harrison,” Annabel counters, punching me in the arm.
“No, Annabel Lee. Anything that has to do with you is totally destiny.”
She shakes her head and laughs. “Agree to disagree?”
“Always.”
Epilogue
“At some point, we’re going to have to stop kissing in the middle of the road,” Annabel mumbles against my lips.
“Why? Are you not enjoying it?” I ask, gently tugging on her hair, so I can get to her neck. Annabel giggles, pinching my ass hard until I stop. “What? It’s not like a car’s going to come anytime soon. It’s ten p.m. on a Tuesday night in Belltown.”
Seven Ways to Lose Your Heart Page 20
