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

indifference. He had ten years to say sorry. He never even tried.
    I quickly yank on a pair of jeans and throw on a Mountain Goats T-shirt. I pull out the rubber band that holds up my hair in a bun, which looks more Bride of Frankenstein than shabby chic, and run a brush through the tangled mess before placing it back into a tight, controlled ponytail. I can’t help but roll my eyes. This is a lot of work for what won’t take thirty seconds.
    Here’s your picture. I’m sorry I’m a giant klepto ass.
    Thanks.
    That’ll be the extent of it.
    Three minutes left.
    I pull out my phone and dial Jason’s number. Despite having talked to him a few hours ago, I feel the need to hear his voice. This whole thing with Kennedy doesn’t make sense, like being stuck in a snow globe that a caffeine-fueled kid keeps shaking and shaking and shaking. All those old feelings. All these new fears.
    I imagine this is what it’s like to have a split personality. One side of me screaming Who gives a fuck? He can suck it. Don’t go down there . The other side begging me to, needing me to. Nudging me with memories of what we used to be before.
    After several rings, Jason finally picks up. I think he says hello, but I can hardly hear him. It’s obvious from the noise, he’s at some sort of party or bar. Had he mentioned that to me earlier?
    “Jason? Can you hear me?” I ask, raising my voice.
    “Annabel?”
    “Yeah. It’s me. Hey, can you maybe find somewhere quiet to go for a few minutes? I just…I don’t know…I just need you.” He was my go-to. My rock. I needed him, and he would never run from that.
    “Annabel? Hey, I can’t hear you. Can I call—”
    “Jason! It’s our turn at beer pong!” calls out a shrill female voice.
    Suddenly, the phone and all the noise become muffled. And then Jason hangs up. In a matter of seconds, I get a text apologizing and promising that he’ll call me in the morning. I don’t have long to process what just happened because Kennedy’s headlights cut across the darkness of my room, and my stomach tightens.
    I take a deep breath.
    There’s no reason to feel like this. This is nothing. I’m just getting the picture back. We don’t have to talk about the accident or what happened or didn’t happen after.
    I give myself one final look in the mirror and then head downstairs. As my hand reaches for the doorknob, I have to shake it to stop the trembling.
    Get your shit together, Annabel Lee, because he isn’t going away. And his dumb self might get the bright idea to honk if you don’t get out there soon. It is his numero uno form of communication.
    As I step into the warm, moist air of the night, a storm whispering to us between the clouds, waiting, wanting to break free, I see Kennedy sitting in the car. Not outside it, picture in hand, as I expected him to be. My feet freeze halfway on the walkway between the door and his car. The shadows dance across his face, and it’s difficult to make out the expression on it. I can see his eyes, though. The same deep blue eyes that bored into my picture, pulling from it everything I saw and felt when I took it. Those eyes are staring me down now, daring me to take another step. I always loved those dares, or at least the old me did.
    I take a deep breath again. Kennedy leans across the console of his truck and pushes the passenger door open. “Well, what are you waiting for, Annabel Lee? Get in,” he demands, flashing me one of those grins used only by movie stars or bad boys your mother warns you about. With his stupid blond hair that looks messy and perfect all at once. He could always charm the lunch lady into giving him extra Jell-O. Now I’m sure he uses that grin to charm ladies into giving him a lot of things.
    “Um. I can’t,” I mumble.
    “You can’t or you won’t, Annabel Lee Sumter?” he asks, that grin of his still taunting me. I can see it in his eyes; he’s laughing at me. I’m about to say I won’t and demand he give me my