Seven Ways to Lose Your Heart (17 page)

In a matter of seconds, Kennedy’s lips are against mine. “You’re fucking beautiful, Annabel Lee. I just didn’t know how it was now. You know, between us. We never talked about where we stood after last night.”

“You think because we hooked up, you can never look at a pair of boobs again?” I ask, furrowing my brow.

Not that there is ever a great time to have this conversation, but I’m feeling pretty stupid doing so in my current situation. Completely and utterly naked in every way possible.

“It wasn’t just a hookup for me,” he says, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

“Not for me, either,” I admit.

Kennedy takes my face in his hands. “I’ve never really been a relationship guy, and I just didn’t know if that’s what this was. And if it was, then, I don’t know, maybe you were the type of girl who would get mad about something like this.”

“Are you asking me out, Kennedy Harrison?” I ask, fighting a grin.

“I mean, no. I mean not that I don’t want to. I just don’t want you to feel pressured. I mean you just got out—”

I place my hand over his mouth. “Kennedy, I double-dog dare you to ask me out, stop being a pussy, take off your damn clothes, and go skinny-dipping with me.”

There are a billion-trillion reasons for us to keep this whole thing casual, but still high off the euphoria of last night, I don’t want to talk myself out of it. Maybe that double-dog dare isn’t just for Kennedy.

“Annabel Lee…that’s like from the Poe poem, right?” Natalie asks as she detangles Hannah’s hair, whose head rests in her lap, with her fingers.

I nod as I start to pull my pants back on. “Yeah, my brother picked it out, actually. My parents both studied literature before heading to law school. So when we were growing up, there were always books lying around. It was my brother’s favorite poem, and when he heard he was going to have a baby sister, he demanded that I be named Annabel Lee.”

“That’s a pretty dark and dramatic poem. Had to have been a real awesome kid to dig it. Let me guess, he now runs a coffee shop in some hip town, holding open mic poetry slams,” says Hannah.

“I leave for two minutes, and Hannah is already reading? She went to one astrology lecture, and she thinks she can read people’s pasts and futures,” Ben explains, as he returns from the van with a tote bag.

I swallow. “He died,” I reply, grabbing for my bra. “Car accident. I was in it with him.”

“Is that where you got the scars?” Natalie asks. Kennedy’s hands squeeze my shoulders. He’s ready to step in front of the speeding train for me, but I don’t need him to. The way Natalie asks is the same way you would ask someone if they got highlights. There’s no pity. Just a question. Like the scars are just another part of me that were always meant to be there. And maybe they are.

I nod.

“You should paint them,” Ben suggests, pulling out a plethora of neon-colored body paints from his bag.

“OMG! You totally should. I have this cute tank bra you could wear around. I mean, you have killer breasts. Those girls need to be shown off. And Ben here does some crazy sick body work.”

“Body work?” I ask.

“I’ll paint your back,” Kennedy says from behind me. “Just give me some direction,” he says to Ben. Clearly this whole process isn’t entirely new to Kennedy.

“Watch and learn, bro,” Ben replies, grabbing Hannah’s hand and pulling her into a sitting position in front of him. He starts to draw a series of intricate patterns and shapes across her back and breasts and stomach. Still completely unclothed, Hannah’s body becomes a canvas, and neither Kennedy nor I can stop watching. It isn’t sexual. It’s expression and freedom.

While I certainly don’t plan on walking around the festival in nothing but my bra, I hand Kennedy a paintbrush. I like the idea of recognizing that the body, even one scarred like mine, can be art. Even if no one else sees it, I’ll know the beauty it possesses.

Kennedy clears his throat. “I can’t promise this is going to be any good.”

“Considering no one is going to see it…except maybe you tonight, I don’t mind. I want you to do it.”

Kennedy leans forward and kisses my shoulder. The coldness of the paint on my rough skin makes me shudder. While he works, Kennedy and I barely speak. I have no idea what he’s painting, but the whole process feels better than I expected it to. How long had it been since someone had touched them like this? Had I ever really let anyone explore them? Seems funny to ask someone to be with me in that way, but expect him to avoid an entire section of my body. If Kennedy is put off by the ugliness of the scars, I can’t tell.

As I’m waiting for my back to finish drying before I put on my shirt, Ben snaps a picture on his phone so I can see. It’s definitely no Monet, but the meaning behind it is priceless. Covering my back is a variety of symbols that represent us, our story: the book Mrs. Peterson had us read, worms, a camera, a pair of running shoes, a music note, a heart, and the word “dare.”

It’s us. Everything we were and everything we are. Maybe it’s not about forgetting the past, because it won’t go away no matter how much we might want it to. It isn’t pretty or easy, but it made us who we are today. The scars would always be there. Both those left by the accident and the ones left by our separation, but I didn’t die in that car, and neither did our future.

I reach up and take Kennedy’s hand in mine. He smiles at me. That smile that I’ve known forever.

…

By the time we get to the music festival, I know everything there is to know about EDM and which acts are the ones to see. While most of my planned-out schedule is made up of folk bands and indie rock, Kennedy seems legit excited about the prospect of “dancing your balls off,” as one of the passengers called it.

I am also now well versed in the art of designing flags to represent your music festival clan. Yes, it appears a lot of them travel in makeshift families to multiple festivals a year, rallying behind a banner of their making. The flag goes with them wherever they venture during the festival, a beacon calling for all wayward members to return home. It makes a kind of sense. No doubt, with such a large group traveling together, a large flag would be an easy way to find your people.

By the time we reach the campgrounds, I have a new respect for the craft and the people we traveled with. At first glance, I assumed they were a bunch of drug-loving miscreants with no care other than to dance till they couldn’t dance anymore. But in our hour drive, they talked of everything from classic lit to politics. As we departed, we promised to meet up with them for the White Panda show.

By the time we finish setting up our tent, I realize just how massive this music festival thing is. There are people everywhere. The tents that border ours are so close that I contemplate how in the Hades I’m going to keep quiet later when Kennedy’s hands touch my body. Staying quiet isn’t something I’ve yet been able to do when our bodies meet.

Everywhere I look, people are dancing and chatting or playing drinking games. There’s music and yelling. There’s laughing and horseplay. Flags sporadically decorate the tents around us. Little communities nestled in this newly built colony of music lovers. Faintly in the background, I can hear the bands warming up.

Everyone is so well dressed, like they stepped right out of
Nylon
magazine. So trendy and hip, and here I sit wearing jean shorts and a green tank top. When did cute little hats become all the rage? Girls walk by wearing sundresses and boots and large sunglasses while others stroll around in nothing but bikinis.

I simply do not belong here.

“You ready to go see your band? I think if we leave now, we can make it,” Kennedy says from behind me.

I gulp and nod. If this is what it’s like outside, how am I going to feel once we’re inside? Perhaps sensing my discomfort, Kennedy places my camera in my hands. “Stop having so much fun, we have work to do,” he chides, playfully.

I can’t help but crack a smile. I sling my camera around my shoulder as I start to follow after him, “Oh, wait! Let me grab—”

“Your schedule,” he interrupts, holding up the paper. “Two steps ahead of you.”

“So nice to be known so well.” I grin.

“I can’t wait to show you how well I know you later,” he teases, planting a kiss right on my lips in front of everyone.

Kennedy hands me the schedule, and I pore over it as we walk toward the entrance. I don’t want to miss anything, so I spend the time making sure I haven’t left anything out. It’s only then that I realize that taking into account the number of acts we want to see, we’ll only have a short break before dinner back at the tent and returning to meet our travel mates at White Panda.

“Hey, Kennedy. Maybe we should go ahead and send in your submission for the Milton internship before we head in,” I suggest. Kennedy was storing his laptop and all of our other valuables in the Hot Van Damners’ van. I didn’t entirely trust that our travel mates wouldn’t get lost in a haze of weed and Molly and forget where the tent was. I didn’t want being locked out of the van to be used as an excuse for not getting the submission in.

“We’ll do it before White Panda tonight. I don’t want you to miss your show. Chvrches is going to go on soon.”

“It’ll only take a few minutes. I won’t freak if I miss a song or two,” I offer. “I just don’t want something to happen, and you miss getting it in.”

Kennedy turns on his heel to face me. “Just stop worrying for the next couple of hours.”

I furrow my brow. “That’s like asking me not to breathe.”

He holds out his hand expectantly, and despite all the misgivings that are now screaming inside me, I take it.

Chapter Eighteen

Annabel

For most of the day, my fears feel rather ridiculous. Every single one of them. The crowd is much more varied than I originally expected it to be. All sorts of people make up the masses, and I wonder if it’s true what Kennedy is always going on about: the ability of music to connect all peoples.

I tried to take pictures during the set by Chvrches, but Kennedy snatched my press pass from me and forbade it. Instead, he said I should just sit back and enjoy it. He wrapped an arm around my shoulders, and together we bounced and swayed to the beat. We laughed and kissed and sang, and I wondered if I’d ever in my whole life felt so at peace.

Later in the day, we both get to work. I take pictures of everything: the bands, the people, the decor. Everything that helps make the festival. Kennedy’s at home here. There’s such an ease about him around these people. He drops a music reference or tells a festival story, and soon everyone is laughing and hustling us around.

Hand in hand, we move from show to show. Some we just sit back and enjoy, while others we both go to work. Once they see our press passes, security ushers us into the small gated holding pen between the front row and the edge of the stage. And if Kennedy is all charm in the crowds, he’s all work once he’s entered the press section. While everyone around him types furiously on their phones, he pulls out a small tattered notebook, furiously jotting down his thoughts about this song or that guitar riff. Seeing him this focused, this dedicated, it does something to me, but I wouldn’t think of distracting him from his work. I pull my camera in front of my face and join him.

Feeling satisfied that we both got enough material for the day to please his editor, Kennedy and I take a break from the music to wander around the rows of tents selling handmade crafts and wares. Called Capitalistic Crap in the most tongue-in-cheek way possible by the organizers, the merchants sell everything from clothes to flags to “tobacco” pipes that clearly aren’t made for tobacco. As Kennedy goes to work inspecting said pipes, I wander over to a vendor selling a variety of festival garb.

The dresses have grown on me throughout the day. It’s not about being fashion forward for most of the girls out here. It’s about whatever makes them comfortable. Sure, there are those girls who walk around topless in nothing but body paint or think it’s a good idea to wear three-inch heels to trek through festival grounds, but most of the girls are here for the music. As I finger through the dresses, one catches my eye. Made from a lightweight white linen and covered with a dark blue floral print, the dress would fall just above my knee. It’s the back that really gets me. Cut so low it would lie right above my backside.

I want the dress.

Even though I don’t own anything like it. Even though everyone will see my scars. I want it. I slip the seller a twenty and walk back to Kennedy, holding the dress in my hand.

“Whatcha got there?” he asks, taking the dress from me and holding it up. He lets out a low whistle. “You’d look amazing in this.”

I bite down on my bottom lip. “You think?”

“I know. Now, put it on.”

“Right now?”

“It’s what you bought it for, wasn’t it? Come on, I dar—”

“You dare me?” I interrupt, raising an eyebrow, wondering if he’s really going to use his final dare now.

Kennedy chuckles and shakes his head. “I don’t need to dare you to do something like this. You dared me to skinny-dip earlier today, remember? If you want to put on this dress, you don’t need me to dare you to do it. Nor do you need me to tell you how beautiful you would look wearing it. You’re the bravest girl I know. You don’t need me to remind you of that anymore.”

He was right. I could do this if I wanted to. I eye the row of porta-potties with lines half a mile long. Without a second thought, I yank off my tank top and pull off my shorts right in the middle of the festival grounds. With the exception of Kennedy, whose laugh rings in my ears, if anyone reacts to my disrobing, I don’t hear it. I slip the dress on and look up at Kennedy, grinning.

He snakes an arm around my waist and pulls me close. “As much as I love that dress, I’m going to enjoy taking it off you later,” he growls.

I giggle, which is an entirely new ability since agreeing to date Kennedy. I bend down to pick up my tank top and shorts and toss them into a trash can. “Old Annabel has a million tank tops and shorts at home,” I say to Kennedy’s two very raised eyebrows. It’s not like I’m planning on changing my entire wardrobe or my entire being, for that matter, but I do feel a little different. Bravery. Kennedy was right. I feel brave enough to do whatever I want to do.

As we continue to amble through the festival hand in hand, I can’t wait to tell Grandma that she was right about going on this trip. The minute I manage to find cell service, I call home. When I finally talk to her, she tells me that of course she was right, and then cusses me out for wasting my time talking to an old woman. She even uses a few German curse words, so I know she’s feeling all right.

Once I hang up, I spot several girls doing what can only be described as interpretive dance meets Hula-Hooping. I open my mouth to comment, but Kennedy places a finger over my lips. “Just watch before you mock.” I furrow my brow and cross my arms. I had agreed to skinny-dipping and tent camping and even body painting, but I didn’t exactly feel I was ever going to see a grown woman Hula-Hooping without a good joke on deck.

Three minutes later, and once again, Kennedy has me entirely rethinking everything I thought about the world…or at least everything I’ve ever thought about grown women Hula-Hooping. It’s hypnotizing. Like some tribal dance meant to evoke an ancient god of want and need and lust. Their bodies shift and bend in ways that would make any yoga teacher proud as the hoop travels.

Kennedy hands me my camera and I take the opportunity to get some killer shots. One of the girls finally catches us staring. She stops the flow of her Hula-Hoop and nods toward me before rolling it my way. I catch the hoop as it hits my toes. “What does she want me to do with this?” I whisper to Kennedy.

“Try it,” he replies, nudging his shoulder into mine. “Think karaoke, skinny-dipping, dress,” he reminds me, noting my hesitation.

“Here, I’ll show you,” the girl who rolled me the hoop pipes up.

For the next five minutes, I get a crash course on the basics of Hula-Hooping. She shows me moves with names like the front walkover-cartwheel combo, the chest roll head toss, and the whip. She’s a very patient teacher, not even hinting at a laugh even though most of my attempts at the tricks involve the hoop hitting me in the head or having to chase it down before it rolls off into the crowd. Kennedy, on the other hand, finds it all very amusing, even choosing to take a few pictures.

I’m too busy having fun to really care. “You have to try this,” I manage to get out despite being crazy out of breath.

“You need an inhaler or some water over there?” Kennedy teases.

“It’s way harder than it looks.” I laugh before the hoop knocks me in the head for the tenth time.

“Oh, you’re making it look plenty hard. Don’t you worry,” he says with a grin.

“I have another one if he wants to try,” the girl offers.

“Is that so? I think he def wants to try,” I reply, matching Kennedy’s grin.

“Oh, no. Not for me,” he sputters.

“How would you know if you never tried? Maybe you have some secret latent Hula-Hooping talent that you just don’t know about it yet. Think about all those festivals you’ve attended. All those missed opportunities to discover your superpower. I mean, I’ve seen how you can move that body,” I tease with a wink.

Despite being the same boy who sang Drake in front of an entire bar without any hesitation, Kennedy actually blushes. The girl giggles behind us. Kennedy clears his throat. “Hey, if you want to use one of those double dares, I’ll be happy to do it.”

“Waste my double dare on something like this? We’re way past that now. What was it you said earlier? Something about being brave. Just think karaoke and skinny-dipping,” I say, throwing back his own words at him. I grab his hand and start pulling him toward the Hula Hoops. I’m smiling so hard, my cheeks are beginning to hurt. “Just think about the dress and taking it off me later,” I whisper so the girl doesn’t hear us.

“You don’t fight fair, Annabel Lee,” Kennedy groans.

An hour later, we’re both proud owners of our very first Hula Hoops.

By the time we head back for dinner, I’m at a real loss for where the time went. The only way I could even mark the passage of time was the later in the day it got, the wilder the masses became. The effects of controlled substances and the beating sun were a powerful combination indeed.

As we walk back, Kennedy having decided it would be fun to give me a piggyback ride, we’re still both laughing over the guy we saw streak by naked halfway through the Yeah Yeah Yeahs set. Grandma was doing well, and I was having a blast. Maybe Kennedy was right. Maybe I should spend less time worrying about what could go wrong and focus on all the ways life can go so right.

“I’m gonna start the grill. Do you want cheese on your hamburger?” Kennedy asks.

“Sounds good. I’m just going to check on my grandma again,” I reply. Except as I go to call, I realize I don’t have service. The reception inside the festival was hit or miss, but Kennedy seemed to have better luck since the trip started, so I decide to ask if I can use his phone. “Kennedy?” I call out. “Do you have service?” I ask, hoping that like when we came out of the mountains, his phone would have service even when mine did not.

Kennedy pulls out his phone and frowns. “No. Looks like I don’t.”

“Oh, yeah, man. We’re in a real dead zone. Something about a cell tower being down. There’s a few places inside the fest, but otherwise it’s no communication,” our neighbor informs us, overhearing our conversation.

I can feel the blood drain from my face. “I can’t not have cell phone service.” What if something happens in the middle of the night while we are sleeping?

“It’s going to be—”

“Don’t tell me it’s going to be okay,” I say, cutting him off. “I have to be able to reach home. I told my mom I would call her again tonight to check in. How am I supposed to call and check in when I can’t call anyone?” I ask, feeling the panic rising inside me.

“Take a deep breath,” he says, grabbing my shoulders. “Get your phone, and we’ll head back into the festival and find a hot spot. Just give me a second to put out the grill.”

“I’ll take care of it, man,” pipes up our neighbor, clearly cognitive of the fact that I am about to have a full-on anxiety attack.

“Annabel, you talked to her today. She was fine. Everything is going to be fine. I promise,” Kennedy says.

I nod, feeling a little bit numb. A million thoughts are zipping and zapping through my mind. Some of them have to do with my grandma, while others have to do with how embarrassed I should feel about the scene I caused. But sometimes I can’t help it; once the panic sets in, the need for control is overwhelming. It’s been like this ever since the accident. When I was about twelve, Mom and Dad tried to convince me to see a therapist, but that just didn’t fit into my schedule. I didn’t have time to wallow in what I lost. That wasn’t the girl I wanted to be.

Kennedy grabs my hand, and we start walking back toward the festival. “Wait,” I say, a thought dawning on me. “What about your Milton submission?”

Kennedy shrugs. “No biggie,” he says.

I stop and pull on his hand so he’ll stop, too. “No biggie?”

“Yeah. Who cares? It’s just one submission. Let’s go,” he says, yanking on my arm.

It takes us a good hour to find a spot on the festival grounds where either one of us manages to get a few solid bars. Once I reach Mom and make sure Grandma is all right, Kennedy suggests grabbing something at one of the food trucks instead of heading back to the campsite. He’s all about making sure we meet with our travel mates to see White Panda.

That
he seems to care about. Not making sure his tire doesn’t go flat. Not getting in his Milton submission. No, those things are inconsequential in Kennedy Harrison’s life, which seems more and more like one giant excuse to have a good time.

I’m pretty quiet as Kennedy drags me from show to show. If he notices, he doesn’t say much. Having ditched my camera in the van when I went to check my phone, I don’t even have that to distract me from the doubts that keep nagging at me. Thoughts like what it would be like to share a life with a boy who has no ambitions when you have so many. Wouldn’t he just grow to resent me when I chose to study for midterms while he wanted to drive all night to New York to see Modest Mouse play at the Bowery? In some ways our differences are what make us so great, but we couldn’t go on ignoring the fact that the differences matter.

Or at least I can’t.

When it comes time to meet up for White Panda, the last thing I want to do is pretend I’m all down for shaking my groove thing to music heavy in bass but low on actual content. “I think I’m just going to go back to the tent. I have a headache,” I lie. I watch as the war wages in Kennedy’s eyes. “Go and meet up with those kids. I’ll be fine. I promise. I’ll warm up the tent for us,” I say, trying to force a smile.

“Are you sure it’s just a headache, Annabel? You’ve been pretty quiet for a while now. I thought maybe you were just dealing with all the stuff with your grandma, but now I feel like maybe I’m missing something here.”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, kicking at the dirt beneath me. It’s easier to look there than at the boy in front of me. “I just have a headache.”

“Come on, Le Chat. What’s wrong?” he begs. “You’re upset about something. What did I do? Clearly this is about me.”

“Can’t we just talk about this later? Go enjoy your show.”

“Fuck the show. I want to talk about this now.”

I take a deep breath. “I told you to send that submission before we went inside the festival.”

“Is that what you’re mad about? Doesn’t matter if I attempted to send it then or now, Annabel, as the internet still would have been down,” he counters.