The Illusion of Annabella, Page 22

  “As long as you push past the fear and make it up on stage every time, then you’ll be just fine,” my mom says. “Having a fear doesn’t make someone weak. It’s letting the fear control you.”

  If she knew what I was contemplating doing right now, would she have given me the same advice?

  Picking up the envelope, I slide my finger under the flap and take out the piece of paper inside. My fingers shake as I unfold it. There are several creases on it, as if someone has refolded the letter over and over. Maybe my dad. Or my mom. I’ll never know.

  Dennis,

  I find it so funny that I’m actually writing you a letter, like I’m living in the 19th century. I can almost hear the fire crackling in the corner and the quill scratching against the paper as I write. I’m so glad you suggested doing this. You were right. This is so much more fun than simply sending a text.

  I worry, though, what it means. Letters are so much more personal, and I feel like we’ve crossed too many boundaries as it is. What happened the other day . . . I didn’t mean for that to happen. I just got caught up in another life . . . another time . . . Got caught up in you. I’ve been struggling with accepting what my life has become, and you were so distracting.

  Don’t get me wrong. I love my kids and being a mother. I would never, ever give that up. Sometimes it feels like there’s something missing and when I’m with you, that missing part doesn’t seem so heavy and I feel . . . well, happy. But I worry what it means about me, about my future, about the choices I’m afraid to make.

  I honestly don’t know what to do. Or maybe I do and that’s the problem.

  But anyway, I don’t want this letter to be completely depressing. I can’t wait to see you again. My daughter’s birthday’s coming up soon, and I’ll be heading out of town, but I might stop by before I do, just to say hi and see you for a few minutes—get my much needed smile. I swear that’s all we can do, though. No more crossing boundaries!

  Love,

  Beth

  Love Beth? Oh, my God, did she love Dennis? Did she love Dennis more than she loved my dad? And how was I so oblivious that I didn’t know she was unhappy?

  I ball the paper up, throw it on the floor, then curl up in a ball. Hot tears spill from my eyes as I hug my dad’s journal. Reading that letter must have almost killed him. He loved my mom so much.

  But how could he have possibly loved her after reading that?

  More tears cascade down my cheeks. Fight the pain. Fight it back.

  Searing hot rage and sadness simultaneously whip through me, potent and strong. I pinch my leg to erase the emotional pain, but it doesn’t work this time. I hug the journal so tight my arms begin to shake.

  I wonder how my dad got the letter. Wonder if my mom knew he had it. Wonder how many times he read it. Wonder how long my mom was with this Dennis. Wonder why my dad stayed with her. I wonder so many things, and I’ll never get answers.

  Sliding my hand under my pillow, I feel around until my fingers brush against the envelope Loki gave me. But I don’t take it out. I’m not ready to read anything else my mom wrote.

  I’m not ready to forgive her.

  But maybe, just maybe, I might be ready to find a way to forgive myself.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Cake and Sparklers

  I wake up the next morning feeling hungover and disoriented, just like I used to. Only, instead of feeling like shit from consuming too much alcohol or drugs, I feel like shit from all the crying I did. My lips are dry, my eyes are swollen, and my head is throbbing. For a moment, I can’t even remember why I stayed up all night sobbing, but then I feel the journal in my arms and everything rushes back. Dancing with Luca. Loki yelling at me over the window. Me shouting at Loki about Dennis. The letter.

  That stupid letter.

  Rolling out of bed, I bend over to pick it up. I’m not sure what to do with it. Burn it? Keep it? Show it to someone?

  Uncertain what to do, I fold it up and hide it in my dresser drawer under my socks. Then I pull my hair into a messy bun, slip on a pair of yoga pants and a tank top, and check my phone.

  One text message.

  Luca: Just seeing if u r ok? U didn’t call me last night.

  Such a simple question, but it makes me feel overloaded with emotion.

  Am I okay?

  I have no idea.

  I decide to be truthful.

  Me: I’m still trying to figure that out, but I’ll let u know.

  Luca: Well, I’m here if u need to talk.

  Me: Thanks. I’m not ready for that, though.

  Luca: Maybe one day, though.

  Me: Yeah, maybe one day.

  Leaving the phone on my dresser, I go downstairs. My muscles groan in protest with every step, and my brain hurts with remnants of how it felt to dance again and how much I want to run away.

  In the living room, Zhara has entered cleaning mode, vacuuming the rug as if her life depends on it.

  “What are you doing!” I shout over the humming of the vacuum.

  “What!’ she shouts, continuing to roll the vacuum back and forth.

  I inch closer to the doorway. “What are you doing!”

  She cups her hand to her ear. “I can’t hear you!”

  I wind around the sofa and pull the vacuum cord out of the outlet. “I said, what are you doing? It’s Christmas morning. You don’t need to clean.”

  “I know, but the Bentons are coming over for breakfast this morning, and I,” she gives a shrug, “I thought it’d be nice if the house looked clean. Mom would’ve wanted it that way, you know.”

  I think about blurting out what I discovered about our mom, but instead I force a smile, and she turns on the vacuum again.

  With weight on my shoulders, I enter the kitchen, and my chin nearly smacks the floor. Have I somehow ended up in wrong house?

  In the center of the island is a ginormous cake stacked high and shaped like a Christmas tree, just like the cake my mom used to bake every Christmas Eve.

  “Pretty cool, huh?” Loki yawns and stretches as he walks in. He’s wearing a long-sleeve shirt and a nice pair of jeans, and his hair is tousled like he used to wear it.

  I look back at the cake. “Who made it?”

  He gets a bag of coffee beans from the cupboard. “Easton did.”

  “Really? Easton can make cakes?” I say, grinning wickedly. “Wow, I’m so going to use that against him one of these days.”

  “Be nice to Easton.” He starts up the coffee machine then fastens his gaze on me. “You and I need to talk.”

  “About what?” I ask, even though I already know. But I’m not ready to talk about it yet. Maybe ever.

  “Anna, don’t play dumb with me. We need to talk about what happened last night,” he says, collecting two mugs from the dishwasher. He slides one to me. “I know you’re going through some stuff, but I’m a little confused as to why you got so pissed off when you were the one who broke the window.”

  I pick up the cup. “I’m just moody. You know that.”

  “This was more than just moody. You’ve been so unemotional lately, and I seriously thought you’d turned into a zombie or something . . . But after last night . . . I’m worried you might be holding in more than I thought.”

  I swipe my finger across the cake, stealing a drop of icing. “You thought I was a zombie? Seriously?”

  “I’m speaking metaphorically.”

  “Aw, I get it. The philosopher side of you is rising from the dead.”

  “Don’t try to make this about me,” he says, reaching for the coffee pot. “I want to talk about you for a minute.” He pours himself a cup of coffee then fills my cup to the brim. “You want to tell me what got you so upset?”

  I plant my butt on one of the barstools. “I’d rather not.”

  He adds two spoons of sugar to his coffee. “Well, you need to give me something.”

  I gather the steaming mug of coffee and sip the hot liquid, trying to decide what to tell him. I’m fac
ed with a choice. Out my mom and let everyone know what kind of person she was? Or keep the secret to myself and let them remember her as the loving woman she was? That means living with the burden of the secret forever, taking it to my grave.

  “Will you settle for parts of the truth?” I ask.

  He stirs milk into his coffee with a spoon he grabs from the drawer. “That depends. Let’s hear it, and I’ll decide from there.”

  “I hate this Dennis guy,” I admit, staring at the steam rising from the cup. “But I can’t tell you why. Just know that it’s for a good reason.”

  He remains silent for a while, stirring his coffee absentmindedly. “You’re keeping something from me . . . I can tell.”

  “I think that’s all we do anymore. I know you are with those papers you’re always carrying around and those phone calls Nikoli’s overheard.”

  He raises the mug to his mouth but then lowers it without taking a drink. “I’m responsible for this family and all that stuff going on . . . That’s my problem. You guys don’t need to worry about it. You already have too much to worry about. Like graduating before ending up in jail.”

  My cheeks puff out before I exhale loudly. “So, how about this? I keep my secret to myself and you can keep yours.”

  He frowns with hesitancy. “I don’t think that sounds like a good idea. It’s too, I don’t know, adult-like. And you’re only seventeen.”

  “I’ll be eighteen in, like, six months.” Picking up my cup of coffee, I stand to my feet. “And we all kind of grew up the day . . . the day Mom and Dad died.”

  “Hate to break it to you, but your actions haven’t been very mature lately.”

  I stare at the floor as guilt gnaws inside me. “Yeah, I know, but I’m going to try and change that.”

  “You’re acting strange . . . This thing that you’re not telling me . . . You’re not in more trouble, are you?”

  “No, but I’m still not going to go over and apologize to Dennis. You can punish me or whatever, but I won’t do it.”

  “If that’s what you decide to do then fine.” He turns on the faucet and begins rinsing off the dirty dishes from last night’s dinner. For the first time since the accident, he made everyone sit around the table together, and it was more than just awkward—it was painful. But we’re all still standing, so I guess that’s a plus. “Go get cleaned up. We’re having breakfast this morning with the Bentons.”

  I clasp the mug in my hands. “Who invited them over?”

  He reaches for a dishtowel. “I did.”

  “But how did it even come up?” How did they become friends so fast? “I mean, they don’t have kids your age or anything.”

  “Tammy’s been helping me with some really important stuff,” he says, scrubbing a dirty plate with a sponge.

  I study his overly jarring movements, as if he’s trying to scrub a hole though the plate. “What kinds of stuff?”

  He shrugs, dismissing our conversation, and because he didn’t pry into my business, I let the subject go.

  I turn to leave when Loki says, “I’ll let you know what your punishment is later.”

  “Fine by me.” The punishment doesn’t matter, anyway.

  It won’t change my decision. I won’t apologize to the man my mom was having an affair with. Just the idea of seeing him causes my blood pressure to skyrocket . . . I know I can’t face him.

  I go up to my room, feeling dizzy with confusion, and get changed into a pair of black jeans and a violet shirt that matches my hair. Or used to, anyway. I haven’t dyed it in months and the purple has faded and grown out, so half my hair is the plain brown color it used to be. I want to dye it but need to figure out how to get my hands on a box of dye.

  I braid my hair to hide the streaks then apply some lipstick and eyeliner before slipping on my boots. As I’m getting ready to walk out, I get a text.

  Cece: Merry xmas, Anna. I know u won’t reply but I just wanted to say that I hope u have a great day. I know how much u used to love the holidays.

  Used to.

  With Cece, everything always reminds me of the past. It might always be that way with her because she’s part of my past. It’s why I chose to go with Miller that day. But that didn’t work out for me very well, either. Temporarily, sure. But the pills and alcohol I constantly took and the freedom I felt with Miller is gone. And I’m stuck trying to figure out who I am in this world without Miller. Without dancing. Without my mom and dad. It makes me feel so . . . alone.

  Me: Merry xmas, Cece.

  That’s all I can say for now.

  By the time I make it to the living room, Luca and his parents have arrived and are chatting with Loki, Zhara, and Nikoli. A fire is crackling, the air smells like pine needles with a hint of bacon, and there are more presents under the tree than there was last night.

  “Hey, I was just about to come get you,” Loki says when he spots me lollygagging in the doorway. His feet are kicked up on the coffee table, he has a plate of bacon and eggs on his lap, and he seems more relaxed than he did a half an hour ago.

  I shrink back when everyone’s eyes land on me.

  “Hey, Annabella.” Tammy greets me with a warm smile and a wave.

  Today she’s wearing a red dress, silver earrings, and a jean jacket. It’s completely opposite of the jazzed up holiday outfit she was sporting yesterday, and I wish she would’ve worn the crazy bell sweater, because in these clothes, she looks like my mom.

  Tammy turns to a man sitting beside her. “Jack, this is Annabella, the girl Luca’s been talking our ears off about.”

  From the window seat, Luca bursts into a fit of coughs, nearly hacking up a lung. “Mom, don’t exaggerate.”

  I place my hand over my mouth to hide my laughter.

  “I’m not exaggerating,” she protests. “Jack, tell him I’m not exaggerating.”

  Jack, who looks like an older version of Luca, gives me an apologetic look. “It’s nice to meet you, Annabella. We’ve heard a normal amount of stuff about you.”

  Luca presses his palm to his forehead and mumbles something under his breath.

  “Likewise,” I say, and even manage to sound like I mean it.

  “Breakfast is in the kitchen. We did sort of a buffet style thing,” Loki tells me, glancing at the paper plates on the coffee table. “We were waiting for you to eat before we dig into the cake.”

  “We can eat it now,” I suggest, hyperaware that Luca is staring at me. He has on the knitted cap he seems to like to wear, and a plaid shirt and jeans. But what I really notice the most is that that he isn’t wearing his glasses. “Cake for breakfast actually sounds awesome.”

  Loki shakes his head and points toward the kitchen. “Eat some eggs and bacon first.”

  “Kids these days, right? Always wanting to eat sugar,” Tammy chuckles, looking down at the floor. “Like this little one.”

  At first I can’t figure out who she’s talking about, but then a little girl wearing a pink dress, who looks around six or so, pops up from the floor. “Tammy, when do we get to open presents?” she asks impatiently.

  “Soon, Bria.” Tammy pats her head. “But we need to wait until everyone’s ready.”

  So that’s Bria, Luca’s niece. After what Luca told me, I wonder how Tammy will introduce her.

  Bria sulks as she climbs onto the sofa beside Tammy then her eyes land on me. “Who’s she? Her hair looks like bubble gum. The grape kinds that tastes really bad.”

  Luca chokes on another laugh, and I shoot him a death glare but have to wrestle back a smile.

  “That’s Annabella.” Tammy twists around to look at me. “Annabella, this is Bria.” She doesn’t specify who Bria is, so I’m left wondering if she decided to go the crazy route and call Bria her daughter or not.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Bria.” I offer her one of my rare smiles.

  Bria looks unimpressed, though. “Why’d you do that to your hair? It looks weird.”

  “Bria,” Tammy warns, guiding the lit
tle girl onto her lap. “Remember how we talked about saying too much?”

  I catch Luca rolling his eyes before he rises to his feet. “I’m going to get something to eat,” he tells his mom, then crosses the room toward me. When he brushes by, he links our arms together and tows me along with him. Once we’re in the kitchen, he frees my arm and lets his head fall back. “God, she’s driving me crazy today,” he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. He breathes in and out and wiggles his shoulders, shaking off his aggravation, then raises his head. “So, how’s your Christmas morning going?”