Seven Ways to Lose Your Heart Read Online Free PDF Page A

me.
    “Is there something particularly funny that you’d like to share?” I nearly growl.
    “Lots of things are funny about life. Where would you like me to start?”
    More words?
    A decade.
    It’s been a decade since we have spoken full sentences to each other. I was stunned to see him walk into my photography class that first day, and a bit nervous, if I’m being honest. But we’ve been sharing a class for months and nothing has changed. Except for today. Did fate happen to tweet that I was already having a crappy day? Because the more he talks to me, the more I think of life before the accident, and, well, that sucks.
    I clench my teeth and blow out air, unsure how to actually proceed here. Which Annabel does he want? The Intellect? The Do-Gooder? The Listener? The Bitch? Not that it matters, since he doesn’t know any of these versions of me. The girl he knew died in the accident.
    My silence only causes Kennedy to laugh harder.
    “I don’t have time for your philosophical bullshit today,” I snap as I drop my negatives into solution that will give them meaning.
    Apparently, I have decided to go with The Bitch.
    “Really? The way I figure it, you have exactly thirty minutes. It’s not like you can leave the room,” he reminds me, pointing to the red light that signals to us and the outside world that magic is happening inside the room. Magic that the smallest amount of foreign light could ruin.
    I’ve always loved that darn red light. Not in a creepy way. If F. Scott Fitzgerald can write a whole novel about a man reaching for a green light at the end of a pier, I can adore the red light of my darkroom without hesitation.
    “Now that we have this quality time together, let’s talk about what I find so funny,” he continues, apparently unfazed by my outburst. “Let’s start with this morning. I honk to wish you a pleasant and wonderful day and what do I get? Hmm?” Kennedy raises his middle finger and shakes it in my face. I smack it away. “Monkeys communicate better than you. At least they grunt.”
    My mouth falls open and a sort of croak-like noise issues from it. I’ve never heard the sound before, and I can only guess it’s everything in my being balking at the nerve of this kid. The most he has ever uttered to me since this class started was “Nice pic.” He couldn’t even take the time to say picture. Two syllables. Pic-ture.
    Whiplash. That’s what it reminds me of. This talking and joking. Pretending the last ten years didn’t exist. He doesn’t get to do that. If I can’t erase it, he can’t, either.
    I pull my shoulders back and death-glare him. “Says the boy who used a horn to say good morning. Most girls don’t enjoy being honked at, by the way.”
    “I didn’t know you wanted to be like most girls,” he retorts with a wink.
    What the what? Is Kennedy Harrison actually trying to flirt with me? Could he be so desperate for a little downstairs excitement he thought he would try to seduce the girl he abandoned when she needed him the most?
    Oh. Hades. No.
    I pull a hand to my hip and raise an eyebrow. “Did you work on a script before you came in here? I know carrying out conversations with actual human beings isn’t a top priority for you. But I gotta say, we’re getting a bit trite here. Next, you’ll expect me to cross my arms and stammer, mortified that you called me out on my pretense of not wanting to belong to the mass horde of postfeminists claiming their groveling and begging for a boyfriend is their battle cry of sexuality and free choice, but secretly hoping you didn’t know that all I really wanted was to be a part of the group all along? We’ll banter back and forth for about another five minutes, you’ll lean over to get something, and your arm or hand, or some other unwashed extremity, will graze my skin, and I’ll nearly swoon. Is that really what you want to happen here? Did you suddenly decide lurking wasn’t your favorite pastime anymore and you