Read Online Seven Ways to Lose Your Heart by Tiffany Truitt - Free Book Online

way to fix things with Annabel. She always liked a good challenge, so as I drove over to her house to pick her up, I decided that was what I would give her. A battle of wits. She didn’t need someone to baby her or give in to her every whim; she needed someone to challenge her. That’s what she’d needed back then, too. Someone to instruct her to tell people like me to fuck off.
    Of course, it was still more than likely that instead of making amends, I’d end up with my balls in a sack.
    “I can’t believe the owner just left all of these here,” she says, turning her attention back to the abandoned records. She hesitates riffling through them. No doubt, inwardly debating if she brought enough antibacterial lotion to keep her safe. It’s hard not to laugh at her. Not in an asshole kind of way. She’s just funny without trying to be, and it’s kind of cute.
    Annabel was so wild as a kid. Always saying whatever bonkers thing came to her mind. All guts. I thought about going to her so many times after the accident to apologize for being a real asshole, but she had grown so different, and it gutted me. It was easier to ignore her, keep her safe in my memory. But I’ve seen glimpses of that Annabel tonight.
    She’s still in there.
    “Well, if you would actually touch one of them long enough to read the title, you’ll see most people would have left them just because of their obscurity. Not exactly the music that would make Rolling Stone ,” I reply, leaning against the checkout counter in an attempt to respect her bubble.
    There’s nothing I hate more in the entire universe, both the one we know about and the ones J.J. Abrams creates for his endless time travel tales, than someone standing over my shoulder while I’m looking at records. It’s a major code-red invasion of privacy.
    “I guess,” she says, gingerly reaching a hand forward toward the dust-covered albums. “But it’s still merchandise. There’s still a profit here. Maybe some of these are so obscure you could fetch some money for them,” she suggests, probably thinking I’m some pot-smoking bum who’s in desperate need of a few dollars.
    I know what others say about me. I wonder if she ever said any of those things herself. I would have deserved them from her.
    “The last thing the owner was hurting for was money,” I explain. “He was a retired businessman from Cali. Moved out here trying to reclaim his hippie days or something. Opened the store, filled it with records when everyone was buying iPhones, and when it crashed and burned, he just up and left. Recession hit, and the property owner couldn’t get anyone else to take the space. So, here it sat. A rich man’s pipe dream. Looters came back and took anything of worth, and, well, you see what’s left.”
    “The rejects,” she says quietly, pulling out a record and holding it up, trying to catch a bit of light to see it better.
    “I like to think of them as the survivors,” I reply.
    Annabel turns around to face me, cradling the record against her chest, biting down on that bottom lip of hers, and for a second I forget the reason we’re here. It’s a strange thing being alone with Annabel Lee. She’s changed in ways that the man in me can’t help but notice. Doesn’t mean I don’t feel a bit like a dick for checking her out. That’s not why I sought her company.
    “You have a very poetic view of the world,” she says, and I’m not sure if she means it as an insult or a compliment.
    I take a few steps toward her, mostly ’cause I’m an idiot and all, and tug the record from her hands. “Bean’s Little Catherine,” I say, reading the band’s name. “This one sounds like a real treat. Shall we take a listen?”
    “OMG . If you suddenly make a record player appear out of thin air, I will be fully and utterly convinced you’re a wizard. If the fact that you convinced me to come on this joyride wasn’t proof enough…”
    “Your grandma convinced you to come out