Seven Ways to Lose Your Heart (6 page)

Annabel pulls the camera down and rests it against her hip. Her hips are also a bit nice to look at now that I examine them. “I spend hours every day talking to a seventy-year-old woman. You pick up a few things.”

“She’s sick?” I ask, remembering the rumor that Annabel didn’t go off to college because she had to help take care of an ailing family member, cringing inwardly that I had to hear about it from the town gossips and not from her. Even though my interaction with Grams was brief, the woman seemed like she was a real ballbuster herself, and it was a shame she wouldn’t be around much longer. The world needed more ballbusters.

Annabel quickly moves the camera back up, covering her face. “So, how did you find this place?” she asks again, avoiding my question. I get it. I do. I haven’t earned her trust, and who was I to blame her for her evasions of truth? Wasn’t I doing the same thing?

No one tells the truth.

But maybe we should.

I scratch at the back of my head, not really knowing how to say it or where to start. “My dad,” I say quietly. Her eyes go wide at the mention of him, but she quickly recovers. Annabel never once asked me about my dad. Probably because she already knew he walked out on us; everyone in town knew that. I think it was more than that. She just knew it was always the thing I couldn’t talk about.

“Your dad brought you here?” she asks, shifting to my left. Changing the angle at which she will totally dismantle me.

“No, my dad owned the store. The businessman. He was my dad,” I quickly explain, hoping that the faster I say it, the less it will hurt. The worst symbolic Band-Aid rip in history.

The clicking of the shutter pauses.

“Got word he had moved out here,” I continue, “so I came. Didn’t even recognize me. I kept coming around, and he just thought I was some kid who was super into music. And then one day the store closed, and he was gone. And this was all that was left,” I say.

Click.

Click.

Click.

“What are you doing?” I almost stutter, finding my throat suddenly thick with all the shit that thoughts of my father brought up.

“Ssh,” she whispers as she continues to take my picture.

“Stop,” I demand.

She doesn’t.

“Stop.”

“I
dare
you to stand still.”

At the mention of a dare, my heart skips a beat. I’m overwhelmed with Bizarro World goodness, so I let her go to work. Even though I feel like she is slowly stripping off my clothes, and not in a sexy sex way, I don’t tell her to stop again.

I accept the dare.

When she’s finally finished, we’re both breathing a little harder.

“I couldn’t stop,” she explains. “The look on your face…I had to capture it. I’m sorry. It was terrible of me. I just couldn’t stop,” she says, quickly wiping a tear from her cheek. When had she started crying? I’ve never, ever seen Annabel Lee cry.

I clear my throat. “It’s all right,” I reply. “Want to get out of here?” I turn to place the camera back in my bag.

“Maybe one more record?” she asks quietly in between sniffles. I couldn’t say no to the desperation in that voice if I wanted to, so I don’t.

“Yes, Annabel, we can listen to another one.”

Chapter Eight

Annabel

Everything inside me is moving, buzzing, tingling. I can’t remember the last time I’ve stayed up this late, yet I’m not even a bit sleepy.

I want to break into the photo lab.

It’s literally the craziest thought that has ever crossed my mind since before the accident, but the want to do it—no, the
need
to do it—is so strong inside me that I can hardly sit still. After the accident, everything became about control and plans and safety nets…because life is one big chaotic clusterfuck, and I will never let it take me by surprise again. Kennedy senses the battle going on between reason and ridiculousness. He keeps sneaking peeks at me from the corner of his eye as he drives. He probably thinks I’m nuts. The irony is it’s the first moment of clarity I’ve felt in months.

I need to see the pictures. I know it broke every rule of decorum, my crazy picture-snapping fit, but I got lost in the moment. I recognized that expression because I live that look every day.

“You okay over there, Ansel Adams?” Kennedy asks me.

“Fine, but I would be better without the nicknames,” I mumble. Not only am I anxious, but I am mortified by my behavior. Kennedy was having a moment, and I totally took advantage of it. I didn’t want to add “parasite” to the long list of names people called me behind my back. It wasn’t always that way. The nicknames. It was hard for me to adjust once I returned to school. Everyone there, well, their lives kept going all those months I was gone. Before the accident, people were too scared to give me crap. They were afraid I would dare Kennedy to switch out their Gatorade with cow piss. But I wasn’t the same girl after the accident. I kept mostly to myself, and like with most things people in this town didn’t understand, my otherness didn’t garner sympathy; it only got contempt. Freak. Weirdo. Those were the ones that rolled off me with ease. But the people who whispered that they wished God had saved my brother instead of me…those left scars worse than any on my back.

Besides, I was nowhere near the talent that was Ansel Adams. I was just a freak with a camera who happened to take one interesting picture once. I would be better off sticking to the plan: go to college, study history, and work at a museum someday. Far, far away from Belltown. I had forgotten who I was for a second back at the record store. I got swept up in whatever emotion had filled the room.

Always stick to the plan.

“And I thought we had finally agreed to officially change your name to Le Chat,” he teases, breaking me from my brooding.

I can’t help but crack a smile. “Only when we’re alone. If you ever call me that in public, I swear I’ll—”

“Rip my balls off, wrap them, and send them to me for Christmas? Don’t worry, I get it.” He laughs. “But I am surprised to hear you want to hang out with me alone again. I knew my charm would eventually wear you down.” My face flashes red, and I can feel the heat radiate down my neck to the tips of my fingers.

“What’s got you all crazy over there?” Kennedy asks.

I bite on my bottom lip and look up at him. I have two options here: I can tell him my cray-cray thought or I can make up some lie about worrying I won’t get enough sleep in order to be functional tomorrow…er, today.

“Annabel!” he exclaims with an air of mock shock. “Could you actually really be desperate to spend another night alone with me? Did I hit the proverbial sexual tension nail on its head, and by head I mean—”

“I want to break into the lab and develop these pictures,” I nearly yell. Because the only thing I’m desperate for is for him to stop that particular line of teasing. It does something weird to my stomach, and it makes me feel like I should call Jason again. Like I should promise to watch any of those old classic law movies he’s always begging me to see with him. Like I should offer to watch a whole marathon of them.

The car begins to slow down as Kennedy pulls his foot from the gas pedal. No doubt in shock. He turns his head to look at me, and his eyes go wide. I’m biting on my bottom lip so hard, I’m sure I’m going to bite straight through. Kennedy swallows and quickly turns his eyes back to the road. The car begins to accelerate. “One night with me and you’re ready to turn into a real badass lawbreaker,” he muses.

“I used to school you on how to be a real badass lawbreaker.”

“I remember,” he says quietly.

“You think I’m nuts. Don’t you?” I ask, looking out my window.

“I think you’re an artist,” he replies quietly.

That weirdness with my stomach is back. I pull tightly on my seat belt because suddenly my hands feel all jittery and trembling. “So, are we going to do it?”

“You know the three magic words,” he replies, all hints of seriousness gone.

I roll my eyes. “Really?”

Kennedy presses his lips together and nods.

I sigh. “Fine…I dare you.”

“Yes! I need a little breaking and entering in my life,” Kennedy replies.

“If you’re uncomfortable with it, we don’t have to do it.” I’m getting a little nervous about the idea of committing a crime myself. This isn’t elementary school, where the worst that can happen is we end up in the principal’s office.

“Hell yeah, we’re going to do it. I brought you out here tonight to inspire me, so if my muse wants to break some laws, then we are going to break some laws. Now, are you sure about this?”

I gulp and nod. “Heck yes, I am,” I reply a little shakily. “I’ll be the Bonnie to your Clyde.”

“And you said you didn’t want nicknames.” Kennedy gives me a grin and a wink.

I smile up at him and settle back into my seat as he drives into town. For some reason, knowing I’m about to break a rule suddenly feels really, and I mean
really
, good. And I haven’t felt this particular high in a very long time.

“There’s no way this is going to work,” Kennedy whispers from behind me. It takes all my might to suppress the shudder that threatens to overtake me as his breath tickles the back of my neck.

In that moment, I swear to cancel my subscription to
Cosmo
.

“Of course it is,” I reply, going to work on the lock with the bobby pin. Belltown, being the small Podunk town that it is, doesn’t see the need for high-tech security systems, so most buildings have simple locks and bolts.

“I have so many questions, Annabel. Starting with why do you have a bundle of bobby pins in your pocket? And how the hell do you know how to pick a lock?”

“Because I always like to be prepared,” I answer, “and because my grandma is a very interesting lady who has taught me very interesting things.” And with that, the door opens.

“I think I may be in love with your grandma,” Kennedy deadpans.

I roll my eyes and grab the fabric of his shirt near his abdomen, yanking him into the building. “Let’s do this before I lose my nerve.”

We walk in silence down the dark and empty hallway toward the lab. I should be nervous, petrified, but I’m not. I can’t remember the last time I felt so excited, so ready for what was next.

The silence continues as we go to work setting up the materials we’ll need to develop the film. There’s a beautiful synchronicity to our movements. We move together without the need for words, each one knowing what the other is doing, what the other is wanting, without having to speak it. This was the way it always had been when we executed our dares.

“You ready?” Kennedy asks quietly as he hands me the film.

Suddenly, all the nerves I’d been suppressing rush over me, and I feel a bit like I’m going to throw up all over the darkroom. Which wouldn’t be convenient at all considering I broke in here, and then someone could test my puke for DNA, and I would end up in jail…all my dreams of getting out of this town and working for the Smithsonian dashed forever. I was already off schedule according to my life plan, a ten-page document I started working on when I got home from the hospital.

“You still with me, Bonnie?” Kennedy asks, touching my arm.

I nod.

“Still want to do this?”

“I’m afraid,” I admit before I can stop myself. Kennedy blinks furiously for a few moments. Looking at me like I was speaking another language. Old Annabel didn’t know words like “afraid”; this Annabel knew all about them.

“Of what?” he finally asks.

I bite on my lip and shake my head. I don’t know how to answer that question. I don’t know where to start.

“Of what?” he asks again.

“Mostly of disappointing you. These pictures being crap,” I answer.

Kennedy stares down at me, and I can’t read what he’s thinking. He narrows his eyes slightly and then turns away. He begins loading his camera with film.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Ssssh, be quiet,” he insists. He walks over to me, camera under his arm, and gently tugs on my hand. All I can think of as his skin touches mine is that I hope my hand isn’t as sweaty as it feels.

He pulls me out of the darkroom, shutting the door behind us in order to protect my film. He raises the camera to his eyes and begins to snap away.

“What are you doing?” I ask, nervously tucking a strand of loose hair behind my ear. He doesn’t answer. Instead, he keeps clicking away. I feel like every inch of my skin begins to itch as his camera moves over my body. But then there is something melodic about the way he snaps his pictures. The beats between the clicks. The way he glides from one position to another in the room. It lulls me into an almost hypnotic trance, and all the nerves go away. I no longer feel like a victim trapped under his gaze, but I do feel something.

It takes me a moment to realize the snapping has stopped. Kennedy is staring straight at me, his camera frozen in the air. I should look away, but I get lost gazing at him. I don’t quite know how to read what’s behind his eyes anymore. Not like I used to be able to do.

Kennedy is the first to break our stare-down. He clears his throat and holds up his camera. “Shall we go make some art, Le Chat?”

I nod, a little numb.

As we go to work developing the film, I start to hum the Bean’s Little Catherine song we discovered earlier in the night. Kennedy joins in, and I can’t help but take note of the fact that he actually has a good voice. Much deeper than I expected. I swear I can feel it rumble and move about my chest. The vibrations running through my veins to the tips of my fingers. Dancing across my ribs along the way.

The pictures slowly start to come to life in between our notes, and I nearly lose my ability to breathe as they do.

“They’re beautiful,” Kennedy whispers beside me. And they are. His and mine. In both the pictures that I took and the ones he did, there is a certain rawness. The film doesn’t cage in the emotions like a painting in a museum you can’t touch. Instead, the pictures almost overwhelm the viewer with the emotions. And while I have to admit mine showcase a greater technical skill, thematically, Kennedy’s are rather impressive as well.

“It’s embarrassing, my picture,” I admit, pulling it from the solution and hanging it up.

“I didn’t think I was that bad at photography,” Kennedy deflects, going to work on pulling the rest of the pictures out and hanging them to dry.

“You know that’s not what I mean. Seeing myself like that. It makes me feel uncomfortable,” I continue.

“Annabel Lee, there is nothing about you in that picture that is even a bit embarrassing. You’re mesmerizing.”

In all my life, no one has ever used the word “mesmerizing” to describe me. “Are you high?” I joke, feeling a bit uneasy with the compliment. Not because I doubt his sincerity but because I don’t know how to respond. The more time I spend with Kennedy, the less sure I am about how to conduct myself. He says things I’ve never heard, and when I’m with him I want to do things I haven’t thought of doing in a long time. Wild things. Things nowhere in my plan.

Things I shouldn’t want to do with a boy who hurt me like Kennedy did. I keep getting swept away, forgetting about that dark time. Letting the ease of our banter pull me under, drowning me in forgetfulness and nostalgia all at once. Breaking into photo labs, late-night drives, laughing with Kennedy…this is what my life should have been, would have been, if it hadn’t been for the accident.

And maybe for one night, I can let myself pretend we are
those
Kennedy and Annabel. Not the broken Kennedy and Annabel we became.

“Very funny,” Kennedy says, interrupting my thoughts. “And no, never when I’m working. Now, let’s talk about your photos. The way you caught the light,” he says, pointing to my favorite picture, “is really fucking fantastic. I wanted to kill you when you were taking these, but now I’m stoked you did. You got it. The whole damn moment. And when I saw you standing there looking at me, afraid, I got it, too. That’s why I started taking your picture. I understood what you were going for. Art is about being buck-ass naked. You recognized that in the record store.”

“
Buck-Ass Naked
will definitely be the name of my first art exhibit,” I joke, feeling the warmth return to my cheeks as I look at him and speak the words “ass” and “naked.”

“It really should, Le Chat. Have you ever actually thought about that? Opening an exhibit?” Kennedy asks as he goes to work cleaning up our mess.

“Um. No. Not really my thing. I just take pictures for fun.”

“As someone who has witnessed you work, I wouldn’t call it fun. Powerful? Hell yes. Intense? Hot damn. Fun is a selfie stick in a convalescent home. Seriously, you should consider it.”

Kennedy thought I was some sort of artistic genius when the truth was I didn’t even pull my camera from its bag unless there was an assignment to complete. The plan was to major in history. I only took photography because it would fill the art course I needed, finding it ridiculous that schools still made students fulfill an art requirement when they didn’t even like art. A time-saver. That was all it was supposed to be.

But when I took pictures, I lost track of time. And if there was one thing I learned from life, it’s that every second counts. I have too many responsibilities to tend to and too many goals to reach to give in to the magic that taking photos created. There wasn’t enough time to waste time. You just didn’t know when a drunk driver would hit you dead-on. Or when the car you were driving in would catch fire minutes after the accident. Your brother passed out next to you. His seat belt stuck. You desperately trying to get him out. Having to climb over his body as the flames licked at your back. You just didn’t know when the stuff you thought only happened in cheesy movies would actually happen to you.