The Illusion of Annabella (13 page)

“That’s what this is about? You’re pissed off because you think I’m rich.” My semi-intoxicated mind can barely make sense of what he’s saying.

“No, I’m pissed off because you’re a little rich brat who’s going to get off free because mommy and daddy can pay for the best lawyers while my ass is going to rot in jail.” His face reddens as he reaches for me.

I skitter out of the way, but put too much weight onto my bad leg. The room spins as my knee buckles, and my hip bashes against the windowsill. I cry out in pain and Miller grinds to a halt. The pain is good. The pain thins the fog in my head, helps me clutch onto reality more.

“And that’s another thing,” he continues, getting more riled up. “What the hell is wrong with your leg? The whole time I’ve known you, you’ve walked around with a limp. You said it was from a horse, but there’s this guy I know that said you were in some sort of car accident.”

I rub my hand over my face, knowing that the solitude I had with Miller is gone. The angry guy standing in front of me is too demanding and needy to be my escape anymore, even if he is high.

Putting most of my weight on my good leg, I step forward. He doesn’t budge, and my shoulder bumps into his chest.

“Move out of my way.” My voice wobbles, my cracks showing, the old Anna slipping through, and I loathe it—loathe her for being so weak.

His gaze lingers on my chest. “This is such bull,” he says, snatching hold of my arm. “Five months and I didn’t even get laid. What. A. Waste.” He shakes his head in disgust.

“You’re hurting me,” I cry out, bending my arm to try and pull away.

He looks down at his hand on my arm, and for a moment, his fingers constrict. When I wince, he pushes me down on the bed.

I shut down, let a door slam shut in my mind, as he covers my body with his and starts kissing my neck. I tell myself I can do this—that I won’t panic—but when his hands dip down my pants, anger, hurt, and shame obliterate the numbness.

“Stop! I fucking said no!” I press my hand to his face and shove him back.

He glares down at me as I breathe raggedly then slides off me. “Get the hell out of here. I’m too strung out to deal with your drama.”

Fixing my shirt, I squeeze by him and out of the room, only breathing again when I make it to the kitchen. I grab a beer and fumble to pop off the cap. The fresh air somewhat helps clear my foggy mind. I start down the driveway, taking a few swallows, trying to compose myself. But reality is seeping in as I realize just how bad the situation could have been if Miller hadn’t stopped. Goosebumps dot my arms, even though I’m wearing a jacket, and tears pool in my eyes, threatening to pour out. But I suck them back, pull my shit together, and wander deeper into the night, trying to figure out how I’m going to get home. I could call Loki or maybe try getting home on foot. More than likely, the second choice will end with me on the side of the road in unbearable pain. Still, out of the two, the latter seems the most enticing—calling Loki means facing stuff I can’t face, especially after what just happened.

Cece would probably come get me, but calling her means talking during the drive home. Right now, I just need a ride, without complications or potential meltdowns.

My boots scuff against the dirt as I glance down at the palm of my hand. It’s too dark to see the number so I use the flashlight app on my phone. Luca doesn’t know me that well, so hopefully he won’t drill me with questions.

It takes me a few tries to punch in his digits correctly, but I finally dial his number. My finger hovers over the talk button for a minute or two before I actually push it. It’s only ten o’clock, but when the phone rings four times, I wonder if maybe he’s in bed.

He answers right as I’m about to hang up. “Hello?”

“Um . . . Hey.”

“A . . . hey, too, whoever you are.”

I sit down on a large rock at the end of the driveway, set the barely touched beer down, and stretch out my legs. “Oh, yeah. This is Anna . . . from next door.”

“Oh, hey.” He goes from confused to upbeat. “Wow, I’m really surprised you called.”

“That makes two of us.” I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling queasy. “Did you really mean what you said? About calling if I needed anything?”

“I never would’ve given you my number if I didn’t mean it,” he tells me with a trace of amusement in his tone.

“Good. Because I need you to come pick me up.”

“Like, right now?”

I open my eyes as headlights shine on me, and I tense, worried it might be Miller. “Yeah, like right now.”

He pauses, and I hear a door close. “Where are you?”

I trap my breath in my chest as the car zooms by, kicking up a cloud of dirt. My gaze travels toward the silhouette on the hillside. The roof of the house isn’t visible anymore, but it’s there, hiding in the dark. “I’m out by the junkyard about a mile past an antique shop. There’s a sign, so you should be able to find it.”

“
Wait
? Why are you at a junkyard?”

“I’m not at the junkyard. I’m sitting out on a rock in front of a cabin
near
the junkyard.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine . . .”
Am I, though?
“I just need a ride home.”

“All right, I’ll be there in, like, thirty minutes,” he says easily. “Are you going to be okay until I get there?”

“Of course I’ll be okay.” I self-consciously touch my leg. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You tell me. You’re the one calling me in the middle of the night asking for me to drive out to a junkyard.” Silence fills the line. He sighs. “Okay, I’m on my way.”

 I yawn, wishing I were home so I could pass out. “Okay, see you in a bit, I guess.”

“Okay, Anna, see you in a bit.” Humor touches his tone as if he finds my attitude funny.

I hang up and lie down on the rock with my phone clutched in my hand. My heart rate calms as I gaze up at the stars, listening to crickets chirp, and trying to ignore the foul odor drifting from the junkyard.

Memories of my family camping under the night sky sneak up on me. My dad would tell us stories of ghosts, monsters, and aliens—he always had a crazy imagination. My mom used to tell me that I shared my dad’s crazy imagination and that one day it would take me somewhere amazing. I used to believe her, but now I can’t figure out what the truth is or ever was, just like I can’t figure out who I’m supposed to be.

Growing restless, I slide off the rock and dust off the dirt from the back of my jeans. I pace the end of the driveway, biting on my fingernails. Tonight could have been worse. How did I end up here? How did I become this person? Why do I feel so confused? So
empty
?

My gaze flicks to the hillside.
It all started there.

I want to know what lies inside—what happened that day—but at the same time, I don’t want to know. I want to run toward the house, but I can’t. I want. I can’t. Want. Can’t.

Too many questions flood my mind as I wander down the side of the desolate road, taking lazy steps. As the cabin—and Miller—grows further away, my heart rate settles. I quicken my pace, and my leg muscles groan in protest. But I keep moving until I’m at the end of the dirt driveway that leads to the two-story house by the antique shop. The lights are off, and in the darkness, it looks so harmless, just a house and store.

The air is still except for the crunching of the gravel beneath my boots as I stagger over a few potholes and trip over a couple of rocks. I make it to the front porch steps, farther than I’ve ever gotten before. My gaze bores a hole in the door. What’s on the other side of it? Who was that man? What did my mom really do while she was here on my birthday? Was she really having an affair?

I inch up the rickety stairs until I’m standing on the wrap around porch. I cup my hands around my eyes and press my face to the window. I can’t see anything other than the outline of furniture, but I’m filled consuming rage.

It all started here. The lies. The secrets. The destruction.

Anger erupts through me, like hot lava about to explode. Backing down the stairs, I scoop up a rock and chuck it as hard as I can at the window with so much hatred inside me it’s terrifying. Shards of broken glass fly everywhere, and I feel myself shatter right along with it.

Guessing Games, Old School Rock, and Life-Saving Ink

I stand there, stunned at the damage I’ve caused. Then a dog starts howling from inside the house and an upstairs light flips on. My phone rings, breaking my shock into smithereens.

Fumbling to shut off the ringer, I hurry away from the house. My leg muscles kink as I dive behind a tree right as the front foot door swings open and light beams across the yard.

 “Who’s out there?” a man hollers. “Whoever you are, you’re in deep shit.”

I align my back to the trunk of the tree and hold my breath. Shoes scuff against the dirt, growing closer to me. I almost walk out from my hiding spot, just to see if he is the man from that day.

“I’m calling the police!” he shouts, then slams the door.

Balling my hands into fists, I stab my nails into my palms and take off through the dry field toward the road. When I reach the road, I travel the path along the fence line just in case the cops show up.

My leg just about gives out several times as I trip through the dark, unsure of where to go. I have the heartbreaking urge to be home, curled up in a ball, like I used to do when I got sick. My mom would bring me soup and have a romance movie marathon with me. I felt so loved and taken care of . . .

I hunch over and dry heave until all the alcohol I drank earlier comes back up. As I’m wiping my mouth clean with the back of my hand, my phone rings again, and I dig it out of my pocket.

“Yeah,” I answer with a cough.

“Hey, where are you? I’m parked in front of the cabin near the junkyard, but I can’t see you anywhere . . . You aren't inside, are you?” Luca asks with apprehension.

“No, I’m walking on the side of the road . . . near the antique shop about a mile back.” I press my hand to my damp forehead and breathe in and out through my nose as my stomach gurgles again.

“Okay . . .” He sounds perplexed, but doesn’t ask questions. It makes me like him just a tiny bit more. “I’m headed there now.” I move to hang up when he adds, “Stay on the phone with me until I get there.”

“Why? You’re not that far away.”

“Yeah, but you seem like a wanderer.”

“I’m not.” The dry grass kisses my legs as I start hiking down the side of the road again.

“All right. I guess you’d know better than I would,” he says over the humming of an engine.

“Yeah, I would.” But I’m not sure I’m right.

Music gently flows through the receiver.

“Are you listening to the classic rock station?” I ask, unable to help myself.

“Of course. I’m old school, remember? What else would I listen to?”

My dad used to listen to that station all the time when he was at the store. He was always humming tunes by singers and bands like Journey, Lynryd Skynryd, and even Johnny Cash. Sometimes, when I shut my eyes, I can still hear him humming . . .

“You still there?” he asks a minute later. “Or did I lose you?”

“Are you still there?” I retort, opening my eyes.

He chuckles. “Yeah, I’m still here, Anna. Where else would I go?”

“I don’t know . . . Home? In fact, it might be wise . . . I’m a mess right now,” I babble as a spout of wooziness overcomes me again.

“That’s okay . . . I’m used to that kind of stuff.” He gives an elongated pause, hesitating over something.

“You’re used to dealing with people who’re a mess?” Exhausted, I kneel down in the gravel on the side of the road.

“Kind of . . . You’re okay, though, right?” His concern unsettles me because I don’t deserve it. Don’t need it. Don’t want it.

I kind of do, though.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” I ask through a yawn.

“I don’t know.” His tone drips with sarcasm. “Maybe ’cause you called me up in the middle of the night to pick you up near a junkyard out in the middle of nowhere. Plus, that cabin . . . It seemed sketchy.”

“It is sketchy,” I agree, hugging my knees to my chest. I feel sick and beaten down and super freaking tired. I think I went overboard tonight. Too much alcohol or something. Or maybe what happened with Miller is twisting up my gut.

Miller. Tonight. His hands all over me.

I shift to my hands and knees, the phone falling to the ground as I dry heave again. By the time I’m finished, the ground feels like it’s an out of control merry-go-round.

“God, I just want to go to sleep,” I mutter.

“Anna, are you there?” Luca’s voice comes from somewhere on the ground.

I feel around until I find my phone. “Yeah, I’m still here,” I say, sitting back in the dirt.

“I thought I lost you for a moment,” he says, sounding worried.

Poor guy. I kind of feel sorry for him and the mess he’s about to walk into.

I’m just about to let him off the hook, tell him to turn around and go home, that I’ll find another ride, when I spot a pair of lights shining through the darkness.

Relief washes over me.
I just want to go home
. “I think I can see your headlights.”

“Okay . . . where are you? I don’t see you anywhere.”

“Sitting on the ground near . . .” I squint through the dark. “Mile marker six.”

The car screeches to a stop a few feet away from me. Hanging up, I trip to my feet, but frown at the height between the ground and the door.

The door opens on its own, and Luca is leaning over the console. “Are you going to get in or just stand there?” he asks in a playful tone. He’s not wearing his glasses again and is sporting a grey knitted cap. That cute, nerdy look he had going on the other day would be gone except for the goofy grin he has on his face.

“Where’s your car?” I ask, grasping onto the door.

“That’s my mom’s. The Jeep’s actually my dad’s.” His mouth sinks at the mention of his dad.

Clearly, Luca doesn’t have a fantastic relationship with his dad—I could tell that when he told me about the interview. But what I don’t get is why his dad was crying out on the porch.

I massage the side of my leg before reaching up and grabbing the top of the seat. Putting all of my weight on my uninjured leg, I bounce up and down on my toes.

“Shit. Do you need help getting in?” he asks, reaching for door handle to get out.

“I got it.” To prove it, I drag myself up into the leather seat. Pain surges through my leg, but my teeth clamp down on my lip, stifling the cry clawing up my throat.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks worriedly. “You look like you’re in pain.”

I close the door and the interior light clicks off. “I promise I’m okay. Always okay.”
Liar. Liar. You’re anything but okay right now.

“Because you could tell me if something happened,” Luca says cautiously. “That guy you drove off with . . . He seemed really intense.”

“He is.” I rest my head against the cool glass. “But I swear, nothing happened.” Nothing I’m ready to talk about right now, anyway.

He studies me for a moment before driving down the road. Thankfully, he has the music turned low; otherwise, my crumbling night would end up in a pile of dust on the floor. Of course, the silence between us is extremely uncomfortable.

As the miles stream by, my nausea declines to drowsiness, and I almost pass out, my thoughts promptly drifting back to what almost happened. I can still feel where Miller’s fingertips pressed into my skin, hard enough to leave bruises. I feel like getting drunk until I pass out, getting so high until I can’t think straight, kissing someone until I’m so numb inside I feel dead inside . . .

My stomach muscles clench and vomit burns at the back of my throat again. Tears sting at my eyes as I choke it back, refusing to hurl all over Luca’s car.

“So, are you going to bite my head off if I ask what you were doing all the way out here?” Luca asks as we near the city limits, where the fields turn to closed shops, the grocery store, and the bank.

Inhaling and exhaling, I struggle to keep my tone even. “I was at a party.” I hunker down in the seat when a cop car zooms down the street toward us.

“Must have been quite the party for you to want to leave early.” His gaze flicks from me to the road. “What’re you doing?”

“Nothing.” I only breathe freely again when the cop car flies by us.

“Is there something I should know about? Like, am I harboring a fugitive?”

“I’m only a fugitive if you let me get caught. So really, the ball’s in your court. You can either turn around and hand me over or just let it go.”

He searches my eyes for something. “I guess that all depends on what you did.”

“That doesn’t really matter.” I drape my arm over my tender stomach. “It wasn’t anything major.”

“I think I should be the judge of that.”

“How do you figure?”

“Because you seem to overlook really intense stuff.”

“Like what?” Sitting up in the seat, I feel defensive all over again, like I did in the driveway.

“Like when you were roasting out in the sun, wanting to walk home like it was no big deal.” He counts down on his fingers. “Or when your boyfriend was yelling at you in the driveway and you just shrugged it off.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I say, suppressing a moan as my gut churns. “And even if he were, he isn’t anymore. Not after tonight.”

“He did something to you, didn’t he?” His knuckles whiten as he strangles the wheel.

“No, he didn’t,” I say, surprised by his intense reaction. “Seriously, Luca. Nothing happened, so chill out.”

He turns his head and looks at me, still holding a death grip on the wheel. “But something almost happened.” It’s not a question, but a statement.

“Almost isn’t something you need to get all worked up about.”

“Yeah, I do. If he almost did something to you, then that means he tried.” He flexes his fingers and tilts his neck from side to side. “I seriously want to go back and kick his ass.”

“You don’t seem like the kind of guy that’d be very good at ass kicking,” I say. “And trust me. It’s not worth the risk of getting your ass kicked.”

He shoots me a dirty look. “Hey, I can hold my own.”

“You seem too nice to hold your own in a fight.”

“I can be mean when I want to,” he says sternly, but I can tell he’s struggling not to smile. "If you want, I can turn around, drive back to that cabin, and prove it to you.”

On the brink of smiling, I casually cover my mouth with my hand. “Fine, I totally believe that you can be a mean asshole when you want.”

“Then why are you almost laughing?"

“I’m not.” Collecting myself, I lower my hand to prove it. “And I don’t even know why we’re having this conversation. I never said anything happened, and even if it did, it was probably partly my fault.” I swallow hard as tears flood my eyes.

“Anna, whatever happened back there, it wasn’t your fault.” He places a hand on my knee, and I suck in a breath.

Breathe. Air in. Air out.
“You don’t know me well enough to make that assumption, and trust me, a lot of the shit I do is my fault.”

“Not what happened tonight, though.”

“You don’t even know what happened.”
Inhale. Exhale.
My belly aches. “Can we please talk about something else?"

He opens his mouth to say something else, but snaps his jaw shut. He flips on the high beams with his gaze fastened on me, his eyes meticulously scanning me over. “So, fess up. What’d you do?”

I’m so relieved he dropped the Miller subject that I end up answering his question without thinking. “You know the antique shop a couple miles back?” I ask through a yawn, and he nods. “I . . . threw a rock through the window.”