The Illusion of Annabella (9 page)

The kitchen smells like a combo of vanilla air freshener and old trash, and I find myself longing for the days of burnt bacon and eggs.

Loki glances up from the toaster, takes one look at me, and jabs a finger in the direction the stairs. “No way. You’re not going into Dad’s store dressed like that.”

“Then I guess I’ll just have to stay home.” I get a Pop-Tart from the pantry.

“It’s supposed to get warm today. You’re going to sweat to death.”

“I’m sure I’ll live. I always do,” I say, and he freezes, his expression plummeting, and I feel like an asshole. “Can we just get going? If I sweat then I sweat, okay? That’s my problem.”

He grabs the car keys off the wall hook as he stuffs his wallet into his pocket. “Meet me in the car. I have to get a box out of the garage.”

One foot in front of the other. You can do this. You’ve made it through everything else. Sort of
.

Like when I walked to the Victorian house, my legs have other ideas, and my feet remain glued to the floor. I think about the last time I was at my father’s store, and moving seems even more out of the question. My heart squeezes, and my leg begins to shake as my father’s face flashes through my mind.
He always seemed so happy. He couldn’t have possibly known about the affair.

I yank open the cupboard above the sink, fumble for the bottle of pain pills I was prescribed for my leg, and pop two in my mouth. I swallow them down then hobble to the living room, trying to catch my breath. As I’m stepping over the threshold, my leg buckles. I stumble and fall face first onto the floor.

Pain throbs through my body as I start to push back to my feet, but something silver and sparkly catches my attention. Leaning in to get a better look, the pain in my leg abruptly vanishes, and the ache in my heart takes over.

Remnants from the glitter rainstorm are embedded into the cracks in the floorboards. Panicking, I try to dig them out, but my fingers won’t fit into the cracks. Tears sting my eyes.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Once you do, you won’t be able to stop.

I press my cheek to the cool hardwood floor, squeeze my eyes shut, and take a few measured breaths. The foggy memory of faint giggles surrounds me, and I can almost feel glitter showering across my skin.

The last perfect day, where everything seemed possible. . .

“Did you steal my shirt!” Alexis shouts at Zhara from upstairs, sounding as angry as she has for the last six months. “Seriously!”

My eyes snap open as the memories of happier days fizzle out.

“Why would I steal your shirt?” Zhara asks. “We don’t even have the same taste. And I would never just take your clothes without asking.”

“Oh, yes, because you’re perfect.” Alexis snorts a condescending laugh.

“Would you two knock it off!” Nikoli shouts. “I’m trying to watch the game.”

Loki’s worn sneakers appear in my line of vision. “Shit, did you fall?”

“No.” I grip onto the end table for support as I get my balance.

“Then what happened?” He inspects me over from head to toe.

I dust a few fragments of glitter off my hands and they float back to the floor. “I just felt like laying down and stretching my legs out.”

He sighs heavily. “I have to tell Zhara we’re leaving. Go get in the car.” He trudges up the stairs, looking more defeated than normal.

I open my mouth to apologize, but I hesitate for too long, and before I know it, he’s disappeared upstairs. Turning away, I head outside. With each step, the medication slowly settles through my body.

By the time I make it to the car, I’ve slipped into a state of numbness, so far gone, I can barely feel anything anymore.

Memories Haunting Every Page

The pills help at first. I manage to get out of the car and into the store without too much procrastination. When Loki puts me in charge of stocking the shelves, I worry the shield will crack. But the medication keeps my anxiety subdued. I feel pretty okay as I sit down on the floor and sort through books with the scent of fresh new pages lingering in the air. I almost want to crack each book open and inhale the scent, just like I used to do when I worked for my dad. I stop myself, though, knowing I’ll be opening pages to a past that never really existed in the first place.

Eventually customers wander in from outside. Behind the antique cash register, Loki grows tense and keeps casting panicked glances in my direction. He pretty much shits a brick when a little boy points at me and starts crying.

“Go work back in the office,” Loki says, striding down the aisle toward me.

I glance up from the stack of books. “Why?”

“Because people are complaining about you. Did you know that little boy thought you were a ghost?" He crouches down in front of me and lowers his voice. “You can’t dress like this. Not while you’re here. It’s too unprofessional.”

I eye his faded grey t-shirt and dark jeans. “You’re not dressed any better, though.”

“This isn’t how I usually dress. I just forgot to do the laundry last night,” he says. “And it’s still better than what you have on. You look like those kids who are always hanging out back, smoking all the time, like they don’t have anything else better to do with their lives.”

“I
am
one of those kids who hang out back smoking.”

“You
smoke
?” His expression teeters between rage and shock.

“No, I was speaking metaphorically, Loki.” Gripping onto the lower shelf, I lift myself to my feet. “If I embarrass you, then I can just go home.”

He stares warily at my injured leg. “You’re not supposed to be walking on your leg that much, especially when you haven’t been to physical therapy in over three weeks. If you keep it up, you’re going to never get better.”

“We both know I’m never really going to get better,” I say then smash my lips together, wanting to retract my statement.

The tension in his eyes eases down a notch. “Anna, I know things have been hard for you, and I’m sure it doesn’t help that I’m always on your case about stuff, but physical therapy is important. If you don’t build up strength in your leg then you might end up walking with a cane or something, and I know you don’t want that.”

“It doesn’t matter to me,” I say, my fingers stabbing into the wooden shelf as I struggle to breathe evenly. “Just like your online classes. Sure you take them because you feel like you have to, but it doesn’t replace what you lost, right?”

It takes him a beat to answer. “Things might not be the same as they used to be and they probably won’t ever be again, but I’m not just going to give up on all of my dreams. I still want to do things with my life eventually. Maybe my future plans aren’t the same and I have to work twice as hard to get things done, but sometimes that’s just life.” He shakes his head, his eyes flooding with pity. “There’s so much more out there than you even realize right now. Beyond Honeyton. Even beyond dancing.”

It’s like he’s knocked the wind out of me. I can barely breathe. “I need some air.” I start down the aisle, but he snags the sleeve of my shirt.

He tows me back to him before letting me go, then he rakes his fingers through his hair. “Sorry, but after the shit you’ve been pulling, I’m not letting you out of my sight. Just go in the office and take a breather, okay?”

“There’s nothing to do in there.” I gripe, mainly because the idea of going into my dad’s office makes me feel like I’m going to vomit.

“You can hang out. Eat lunch. Stare out the window. I don’t really care, just as long as you stay where I can keep an eye on you.” Worry lines crease his face. “And no going out back,” he warns, then returns to the register.

I glare at him as I weave through the shelves, past the lounge chair shaped like a bookshelf, and duck into the back section of the store, which used to be my father’s office.

The small, cluttered space causes memories to tumble over me of the last few times I spent here, helping my dad stock the shelves. My airway constricts, but I don’t gasp for air and bottle up the sadness. I trace my fingers over a framed picture on his desk of my dad and me in front of the store. He has his arm around me and we’re laughing about something. He looks so happy, and so do I.

I miss that. Miss him.

I sink down in the chair and let my eyelids drift shut. It’d be easier if I could just go to sleep or pass out, but with all the memories floating around the room, even with the pills I took, make that impossible.

Growing restless, I open my eyes and move over to a short bookshelf in the corner where my dad kept a collection of older books that he was too in love with to sell. I lower myself to the floor and skim my fingers along the titles on the bottom row. Most of the titles I don’t recognize—my dad had an oddly unique taste in books—but there are a few that I know by heart because he took the time to read them to me. Stories of princesses and magical kingdoms. He was such a good dad, and how did I repay him? By lying to him in his final moments in life.

I’m so sorry, Dad.

I draw in a breath and clumsily get to my feet, but a thick, leather book with no title or author catches my attention. I slide it out and open it on my lap. My breath catches in my throat. The pages are covered with my father’s handwriting.

“He kept a journal,” I say aloud to myself. But as I fan through the pages, I realize my father’s journal endeavor was short lived because he only managed to fill up three pages.

I thrum my fingers against the page, wondering what to do with book. I want to read it. I want to burn it. I want to hug it and never let it go.

With trembling hands, I slam the book shut and hoist myself to my feet. I write Loki a note on a post-it, stick it on the office entryway where he can find it, and sneak out the back door with the book. I hike across the gravel parking lot toward the street. A cloud of smoke circles around me as I pass by the drearily dressed group that always seems to be smoking near the garbage cans. When I reach the sidewalk, something catches my attention in my peripheral vision.

Just down the street, Cece is leaning against Ben’s red lifted truck, twisting a strand of her blonde hair around her finger. She’s wearing a pair of yoga pants over her leotard, which means she just got out of ballet class. She has her flirty smile on and keeps biting her lip.

Guess they really are together.

I feel the slightest sting in my heart, but don’t react, won’t become that girl. Cece can do whatever she wants and so can Ben.

Ripping my gaze off them, I veer left toward the block my house is on. I have to move slowly; otherwise my leg won’t make the four mile walk home. Back when I helped my dad at the store, I’d sometimes pop in my earbuds and dance my way home. Yeah, people looked at me strangely, but I was too wrapped up in my own world to care. There was something freeing about dancing around in a world that was packed with so many people just walking around. It was probably the most abnormal thing I’ve ever done, and the toes on my good leg ache to relive those days of being so free, so at peace with who I was. But the toes on my bad leg are numb and my leg can barely handle walking anymore.

I don’t make it very far down the sidewalk before my muscles start spasming. Sometimes this happens and between the ache and the sweater and leather jacket I’m wearing, I grow exhausted quickly.

Sinking down onto the curb, I lay my head on my lap. I’m so sweaty that my clothes are sticking to my skin. How wonderful would it be if the world opened up and swallowed me whole?

“Annabella?”

I tilt my head and my eyelashes flutter against the sunlight.

Tammy, the new neighbor, is staring down at me with concern. “Oh, honey, are you all right? You look sick.”

She’s wearing a red sleeveless dress that matches her lipstick and black boots and hoop earrings. Again, she reminds me so much of my mom that my heart skips a beat. But beneath the fashionable outfit, is she really like my mom? Does she lie to her husband? Does she have Luca lie for her?

“I’m fine,” I reply, hugging the book against my chest.

Her brows knit. “Honey, why are you sitting on the curb? Are you hurt?”

Sighing, I raise my head. “I was just walking home and needed to take a break. I’m good, though. Totally refreshed and ready to go.”

Refusing to set the book down, I attempt to stand without using my hands, but end up falling right back down on my ass.

“Oh, my goodness.” She flails her hand around, waving at someone in the parking lot. “Luca, come help me get Annabella up.”

Oh, my God, no way is that about to happen. Walking with a limp is bad enough.

Gritting through the pain, I shift forward, and putting way too much weight on my bad leg, trip to my feet. Searing pain clenches in my muscles and tears sting at my eyes, but I’m standing and that’s all that matters.

Tammy looks back at me with pity in her eyes. “Let me give you a ride home, okay.” Her gaze falls to my leg.

She knows what happened to me.

“It’s only a couple more miles.” I lift my foot to walk away, but the blinding pain shifts to full-on, knock-my-breath-out-of me throbbing. My jaw clenches, and I end up biting my tongue. The foul taste of rust fills my mouth, and my eyes water.

Gripping onto the post of a street sign, I inhale deeply and force the waterworks to stay put. When Tammy answers her phone, I breathe in relief. Now’s my chance to get away.

“Here, let me help you.” Luca steps in front of me and blocks my escape. He isn’t wearing his glasses, and his hair is sticking up all over the place. I have the silly urge again to run my fingers through it and fix it back into place.

I shuffle away from him. “I said I’m fine. Yeah, I have a messed up leg, but I know how to walk.”

He freezes, his hands suspended in midair. “I was actually going to offer to carry the book for you.”

I try to decipher if he’s for real or not. “What is this? 1950? Guys don’t carry books for girls anymore.”

His lips tug into a lopsided grin. “This guy does.”

I bite down on my lip, resisting back a smile. “That was really lame.”

He chuckles, his cheeks tinting pink. “I know. Sorry. I’m blaming it on the move here. It’s thrown me off my game.”

I tuck the book underneath my arm. “Sounds like an excuse to me. Maybe you never really had any game to begin with.” I internally cringe at the playful edge in my voice.

“Maybe you’re right.” He massages the back of his neck as he stares at the ground. “Now everything’s suddenly making sense. No wonder every girl I tried to talk to ran off.” A smile rises as his hands drop to his sides. “Just like you did earlier.”

I remember how he called me pretty. How he assumed that I like sweet, nice guys. “I wasn’t running away from you. Just something you said.” I instantly replay my words. Why am I being so honest?

“It was the cocky, douche bag remark, wasn’t it?”

“Kind of.”

“I’m really not a douche bag. I promise.”

“But you’re cocky,” I speculate.

He wavers, pulling a reluctant face. “I have my moments sometimes, but I also have my un-cocky moments, too.”

“What kind of word is un-cocky?”

“The super cool kind.”

“So, let me get this straight. You’re a sometimes cocky, sometimes un-cocky, book carrying, awkward phase loving kind of guy that makes up his own words.”

He points a finger at me. “You’ve been paying attention.”

“No, you’ve made me pay attention by refusing to leave me alone.” I aim to sound annoyed but come off more amused than anything.

“I know. It’s kind of a defense mechanism when I get really nervous,” he says with a sigh. A pucker forms at his brows. “Usually, it doesn’t work, though, and people end up running in the other direction.” He glances over my shoulder at something. “Like that girl over there. I tried to charm her with my awesome social skills, but either she’s blind or she was pretending to be.”