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

are two things I hate, it’s new and weird. Kennedy places the earbuds inside my ears and presses play, his eyes never leaving mine in the process. I’m the one who has to look away.
    Kennedy kicks my foot with his, forcing me to look back up. He pushes the iPhone in front of me, and I take it in my hands. I stumble back and lean against the wall, Kennedy’s music drifting through my ears and slithering down to my center as he continues to work.
    It’s not the kind of music I expected him to listen to. As he develops the pictures, I’m treated to the likes of Air, Explosions in the Sky, and Balmoreha. You’d find every one of these groups on my iPhone. I wonder if he likes them for the same reasons I do. Does he see them as a collection of sounds? Wordless and open to interpretation? When I listen to them, I can find what’s hidden between the keys of the piano and the strings of the violin, the empty spaces of the synthesizer. There’s a beauty to discovering something no one else will search for because they don’t know it’s there to find.
    Most people would hate this stuff, preferring to listen to the same song that has been sung by a thousand different artists in a thousand different ways. The same story on repeat. I prefer the story that I make up in my head.
    I can’t help myself. I scroll through his music. I find everything in there from dubstep to classical, country to oldies. I mean everything . If it were possible to be a music hoarder, this guy would be it.
    When I manage to tear myself from Kennedy’s iPhone and look up to check on his progress, I nearly jump out of my skin when I find him staring right at me. My cheeks flash hot again, and I can’t help but feel like I’ve been caught riffling through his porn stash. And then I’m thinking about what kind of porn he likes.
    I yank the earbuds out and shove the iPhone toward him, nearly dropping the damn thing in the process. Kennedy reaches forward and takes it, fighting a grin the entire time.
    I really wish he would stop smiling at me like that. Like we were just some boy and girl with no history.
    If there is one thing that hasn’t changed in a decade, it’s that. He still smiles the same. He’s certainly perfected it—the whole dazzling grin thing to make girls all swoony. Maybe if he was a different boy and I was a different girl, I’d feel a little light-headed myself. But we are who we are. And if I’m feeling anything, it’s because I skipped breakfast.
    I clear my throat. “You about done? I could have helped, you know.” Except I couldn’t.
    “Yeah. About done. I really like this one,” he replies, pointing to the picture of the trash cans.
    “Trash cans? That was the first picture I took. I was just trying to make sure I had the right lens on,” I scoff, afraid he’s teasing me.
    “Do you always go on the defensive?” he asks. Simple. Direct.
    I try not to cringe at his words, and shrug. “Not always. But I also don’t accept compliments I don’t deserve.”
    “I wasn’t complimenting you. I said I like the picture,” he replies matter-of-factly.
    I should feel insulted, but I don’t, and I sort of hate that I appreciate his honesty. I don’t get that a lot. The truth. People always tell me what they think I want to hear. Once a victim, always a victim. Doesn’t matter that I’ve devoted all of my energy to proving I wasn’t. Top of my class. Early admission into UVA. People still tell me whatever they think would make my scars disappear. Their lies only remind me of them. I take a step closer to the photo. “What is it that you like about it?”
    “I like what it reveals. What it says about the town.”
    “What does it say about the town?”
    “You tell me,” he urges. And here goes the eye roll. Kennedy laughs. “What is it about that question that results in eye mocking?”
    “Eye mocking?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. If I raise it any more, I’ll look like Peter Falk from Grandma’s favorite