Seven Ways to Lose Your Heart by Tiffany Truitt Read Free Book Online Page A

just sense it—she’s staring me down. I can tell by the way my forehead heats up, two eye-size circles burning straight through me. A million questions waiting to rain down on me. Yes, Grandma, the same Kennedy from before. The one who told you about the worms. The one who I expected to help me hold my world together after the accident. The one who finally destroyed it. And no, Grandma, I don’t know what any of this means.
    Hey. It’s Kennedy. What’s up?
    What the heck does that mean? What does he mean by “hey”? And “what’s up”? You can’t just text someone that. Especially someone you’ve never actually texted before. And how the heck did he even get my number in the first place? Did he ask around for it? Why would he do that?
    I shouldn’t respond. I certainly don’t owe him anything. But it’s almost like offering someone who’s been on a gluten-free diet for a decade a loaf of bread. It won’t hurt too bad if you just have one slice. Not one.
    Talking to him today, well, that had been something. Something different. I could answer the text. It wouldn’t mean we had to be best buds. In fact, I didn’t think that was possible, all things considered. I wasn’t duty bound to trust him or even forgive him.
    Those were things I couldn’t do even if I wanted to.
    I start typing a response. It starts out as a “hey” back, but that just feels stupid. Too casual. “Hey” is for people you’ve known forever, and while I’ve known him forever, I don’t know know him. Not in a “hey” type of way. Not this version of him. I delete the start of the message. “Hello. How goes it?” That sounds better. Except it doesn’t. It makes me sound like a seventy-year-old woman who crocheted sweater sets during the Vietnam War. And then he’s texting again:
    You still live on Brambleton, right? I’ll be outside your house in 15 mins. See you then.
    Wait. What?
    Let’s add a six-pack of beer to that loaf of bread.
    All gluten. All the time.
    I feel the heat from my cheeks flare up again, and this time I know I’m full-on glowing like Rudolph the freaking-Red-Nosed Reindeer. Grandma is watching every second of it. She, not so quietly, clears her throat, and another round of interrogations is about to begin, so I decide to beat her to the punch. “He accidently took one of my photos from class, and he’s stopping by to give it back. I’m gonna meet him downstairs, and then I’ll be right back up,” I spit out as quickly as I can.
    I spin on my heels and beeline it out of the room before she can make some smart-ass comment about the lateness of the hour or ask questions that I don’t know the answers to, because that’s what Grandma does best: makes me squirm. And while I love her for it, I couldn’t risk turning nuclear red before heading down to meet Kennedy.
    The picture. It’s the only explanation, and it still keeps me in the safe zone. I’ll go down, retrieve it, and I won’t have to worry about sorting through any uncomfortable murky feelings.
    One slice of bread.
    Even though he didn’t say that specifically, it’s the only explanation that makes logical sense. He did swipe my picture. I do want it back. That’s the only thing I can see either one of us wanting from the other. Sure, he could have simply waited until the next time class met, but, hey, Kennedy thinks honking a horn at females before the sun fully rises is an acceptable form of communication, so it’s safe to say he’s a pretty odd cookie.
    Smutty-doodles.
    Damn it, get it together!
    Twelve minutes. Calculating the time it took me to dodge Grandma and climb the stairs to my room, I have twelve minutes before Kennedy will be here. The last thing I’m going to do is give that boy the pleasure of seeing me in my holey, worn-out pajamas. While I’ve never been a girl particularly keen on fashion or looks in general, that boy does not get to see me sans bra. One moment in a darkroom doesn’t erase years of his