Page 4 of Secret Triplets, Second Chances
JAKE
I t’s been a month since homecoming, and I haven’t had the chance to see Lara since then.
Well, I have seen her, passed her in the hallways at school, but after that night it was like we entered into an unspoken agreement that we wouldn’t speak to each other around our peers.
We even have a class together — fourth-period American Lit — but we’re never grouped up, and other than a few exchanged glances, we don’t even acknowledge one another.
Practice is grueling, with Coach pushing us harder and harder. His focus is usually on me, picking apart everything I do, his voice ringing through the rink starting to feel like the buzzer from that surgery board game. And I’m always, always messing up the operation.
When a week goes by without me getting a chance to talk to Lara, and it’s clear that we’re not going to break across our groups at school, I write my number on a sticky note, fold it, and slide it into her book when she leaves to go to the bathroom during American Lit.
When she comes back, she doesn’t notice right away.
But that night, lying in bed with my math textbook open in front of me, I get a text message from her.
Lara: Maybe Connor should have watched this.
Lara: Video attachment
I tap on the attachment. It must be Lara’s living room, the TV right in the center of the shot. There are plants on either side of the screen, and there’s some sort of metal stick moving in the corner.
The program is a tree house competition, in which the contestants are building crazy structures. One has a slide, another has a working kitchen, and yet another has an escalator.
Laughing, I text her back.
Jake: Maybe they should focus on using a drill first.
Lara: I didn’t know you had such strong opinions about construction.
Jake: I didn’t know you watched competitive tree house building.
We text for long enough that I eventually roll over onto my back, holding the phone above my face, and the math textbook slides off the mattress and onto the floor beside my bed.
My room is a sanctuary in this house, fixed up by me and maintained how I like it. I built my bed to fit into the strange little alcove on the side of the room, and I installed several locks on the inside of the door that my dad doesn’t know about.
I’ve never had a reason to use them. But if I ever need them, I figure they’ll come in handy.
They mirror the locks I secretly installed on the inside of Shelby’s room, too.
She never said anything to me about them, but she pocketed the key for the external lock I set up for her.
I’ve noticed she locks it, too, which is a good idea since her piggy bank is in there, and I wouldn’t put it past our dad to steal from it if he runs out of money on a Friday night.
Lara sends another clip, then a laughing emoji when I ask about the metal stick in the corner of the video.
She texts me a picture of what she swears will eventually be a sweater.
Then she sends a picture of what her mom is making, but instead of just the project, the picture shows her mom right in the middle, holding up a square of knitting progress with pride on her face.
Eventually, I fall asleep, and in the morning, we go back to texting, her sending me a picture of her black coffee, me responding with gagging emojis.
I never struggle with what to say to her. We build up inside jokes and go back and forth. She sends me pictures of her dad mowing the lawn. I send a selfie of me in my hard hat, having given in to helping one day on the job, and it takes her a few minutes to reply.
Lara: I’m proud of you for protecting that brain.
For some reason, that answer makes something flip in my stomach, because I’m sure it’s not the first thing she thought when she saw it. Very few girls from school have seen me working, but I know from experience that they seem to like seeing me in the uniform.
Finally, two days before Thanksgiving break, I ask her the big question, hands trembling as I do.
Jake: Hey, still up for hanging out before the state fair?
She texts back immediately.
Lara: Of course.
My headlights wash up and over the driveway and lawn of the Novak house. It’s a beautiful construction, large and Victorian, with eclectic landscaping full of vines and interesting shrubs.
I want to get out of the car, go to the door. Sitting here and waiting for her makes me feel like a jerk, but she specifically asked me not to come up, so I won’t.
When she finally grabs the handle and pulls the truck door open, her cheeks are flushed, and she brings with her a warm vanilla and cinnamon scent that makes my mouth water. Is that what her house smells like on the inside?
“Hey,” she says, voice soft and low, like she’s stepped into a library and doesn’t want to disturb the silence.
“Hey,” I pass her my phone, which is plugged into the car with one of those radio adapter things, “you can control the music.”
A laugh bursts out of her. “Way to put me on the spot.”
Lara puts on what she tells me is her autumn playlist, and we listen to soft, crooning voices quietly for a few minutes before she clears her throat and glances over at me.
“I probably should have asked what we’re doing tonight.”
I glance back at her. I’d told her to dress warm, and she is - wearing a wool skirt and thick tights, a sweater, and a coat zipped up over the top. We’ve had an unseasonably warm autumn so far, but Minnesota nights can be brutal this time of year.
In the back seat, I have my own provisions — blankets, hand warmers, and a portable gas fireplace. Hopefully it’s enough that this isn’t totally miserable.
It would be way more fun to bring her where we’re going in the summer, when we could strip down to our suits and jump in. The thought of her in a swimsuit makes my stomach flip, and I swallow it down, tightening my hands on the wheel.
“Can I keep it a surprise until we get there?” I ask, hoping I don’t sound as nervous as I feel.
“Sure,” she says, shifting in a way that makes me think she’s making herself comfortable in the passenger seat. For some reason, that makes me feel warm inside. Lara getting comfortable in my truck, sharing my space with me.
Just like before, the conversation comes easily.
Lara talks about how tough the American Lit teacher has been on grading our papers.
On our first draft, I got a C plus, and she got an A minus.
We talk about the English teacher’s new haircut and how we’re pretty sure the math teacher must be going through a divorce.
Lara tells me about how she and Zachery are planning a trip to Minneapolis to go to a Christmas market, and for a moment, it sounds like she might invite me to come along, before she remembers that our arrangement is an unspoken secret.
“That’s all right,” I say, waving my hand. “Practice will ramp up a lot over Christmas break.”
“I want to come to one of your games,” Lara says, and the way my heart starts to flutter makes me feel silly, lightheaded, full of air.
“Really?” I ask, glancing over at her as my car climbs through the forest, headlights illuminating the trees around me. “Zachery won’t think it’s weird?”
“He loves going to sports things,” Lara says, chuckling, “just to look at the athletes.”
That makes me laugh, and we pull into the spot I had in mind when I thought about bringing her up here — just off the trail that leads to the waterfall, with a clear view of it, but far enough away that we aren’t sprayed with freezing water. I back in, so the bed of my truck is facing the water.
“Wow,” Lara says when we get out of the truck. I gather our supplies up into my hands — camping mat, blankets, hand warmers, a thermos of hot chocolate. “That’s beautiful.”
“Have you been here before?” My words come out muffled through my scarf, and for some reason, I really want the answer to be no.
“No,” Lara says, some awe still in her voice above the slight tremor of a shiver. “I didn’t know there was a waterfall like this close to Wildfern Ridge.”
“Second largest in Minnesota,” I say, trying not to think about the fact that it was my dad who first brought me here when I was a kid, telling me that my mom had loved this place.
“What’s the largest?”
“High falls.” I go to the bed of the truck, and start to spread our things out. “Here.” I hand the thermos to Lara, hoping it will keep her warm. “Hold this for me.”
She does, and I spread out the mat, the quilts, and nestle the warmers inside. A moment later, we’re kicking off our boots and climbing into the bed of the truck. She slips her hand into mine, and even with her gloves between us, it sends a zap of something up my arm.
For a few minutes, we sit quietly, passing the thermos back and forth, just staring out at the water and listening to the sounds — the gentle crashing of the water, the soft whistle of the breeze through the trees, the gentle movement of animals in the trees beyond us.
I’m lucky it didn’t snow. It would have made this adventure a bit too hard.
“I wonder if it will freeze in the winter,” I murmur, not realizing I’ve spoken out loud until she turns and looks at me, eyes wide with thought.
“I bet this one could,” she says, her gaze going far away, a look I’ve come to recognize means she’s thinking about something.
“I know Niagara Falls never freezes, but that’s because the movement is so consistent and forceful that even sub-freezing water wouldn’t have the time to solidify. I bet one this little?—”
“—easy,” I joke. “It’s the second largest in Minnesota.”
She laughs. “I bet the second largest waterfall in Minnesota could freeze, if the temperatures were cold enough for a sustained amount of time. A week or so.”
“How do you know that stuff?”
“I mean, I don’t, really. It’s just an educated guess.”
“You’re a genius.” I laugh, shaking my head and passing her the hot chocolate, forcing myself not to stare at her as she takes a sip. “If I were that smart, I wouldn’t have to worry about getting into Michigan.”
“You don’t have to worry,” she says, and when I look at her, the expression on her face makes my stomach swoop.
It’s not just assuaging. She really believes I’ll get in. When was the last time someone believed in me like that?
“Why wouldn’t they want you, Jake? You’re great at hockey, you’re smart, and I saw you’re on track to get the volunteering cords for graduation.”
I am on track to get the silver cords, but that was sort of an accident.
Every weekend that I’m not working or practicing, I go to the nursing home and spend time with the people there.
In the summers, I fix up their landscaping.
I didn’t know someone was keeping track and submitting slips to the school.
“I’m worried I’m going to be like my dad.”
The words come out before I can stop them, and Lara goes still, her eyes serious and calm on me. “What do you mean?”
In any other situation, I’d take it back, but for some reason, I find myself telling her everything.
I’m pretty sure my dad had a dream once, but he got stuck here in Wildfern Ridge with kids he didn’t want. Me, then my sister.
“We ruined his life,” I say, picking at the blanket over my lap, “and that’s why he hates me. It’s why he’s a drunk, and it’s why I’m not having kids, ever. If I don’t have kids, I can’t be a bad dad, and I’ll never end up blaming them for the dreams I didn’t follow.”
Lara is quiet for a long time, and I wonder if she’s trying to figure out how to get out of this, wiggle her way out of being my friend now that she knows how fucked up I really am.
Instead, she moves slowly, like I’m a horse that might startle and buck away from her, and she works her arm up around my bicep, laying her head on my shoulder.
It’s quiet, and though the air around us is cold, it’s warm under our blankets. The waterfall dances in the moonlight.
I want to kiss her, but I don’t. Instead, I focus on the feeling of her against my side, her arm around mine, the gentle rise and fall of her breathing.
Her silent acceptance, her unwavering support.