Page 8 of Secret Triplets, Second Chances
JAKE
A t first, when I get home, I don’t realize that anything is wrong. The house is quiet, almost eerily so. I know from texting Shelby earlier that she’s out with her friends, hanging at a bonfire, so I knew that she wasn’t going to be home.
This afternoon, I worked my last job with the guys, putting up drywall in a new construction. They all congratulated me on going to Michigan. One of the guys got me a hat, and another showed me that he’d already bought tickets to come see a game.
Lawrence gave me an envelope of cash, wouldn’t take it when I tried to give it back to him.
Now, I kick off my boots and let out a long sigh.
My entire body hurts, like it always does after working construction for a day.
That’s why all the guys on the crew are constantly telling me not to let it be my full-time job, that it will take your body, chew it up, and give it back to you mangled and unusable.
But I never intended construction to be my full-time job.
Feeling nasty, covered in sweat and dirt from a full day of work, I move carefully so I don’t brush up against anything in the kitchen. I cleaned it yesterday, and even though I’m leaving soon and I don’t give a fuck about my dad, I want things to be nice for Shelby.
When I turn the corner and start down the hallway, I see it.
The door to my bedroom is open.
When I’m playing hockey and everything is going right, I get this feeling like I’m not quite in control - like someone smarter and more athletic is playing me as a video game character, controlling my every move and cinching the win for my team.
Right now, my body starts to feel like that. Like someone else is controlling me. I can taste the adrenaline pumping through my veins as I get nearer to my room.
Shelby’s door is still shut, but mine is halfway open, like someone’s kicked through it and it rebounded before coming to a stop. On the floor are wood splinters and the lock mechanisms, still attached to chunks of wood.
I should have thought about reinforcing the door frame. Then again, I’d always secretly thought I was being dramatic for having the locks in the first place. I’d always been sure, somewhere deep inside, that my dad might be an asshole, but he would never really hurt me.
Now, that feeling takes its last, gasping breath, before shriveling up and dying. I know with a painful sense of finality that I will never think of my dad the same.
Everything I didn’t already pack in my truck is gone — the mattress is stripped, dresser drawers pulled open and completely emptied. The room looks like nobody lives here. It looks ready for a brand-new kid to move in.
My hands start to shake with anger as I move through the room, taking note of everything missing - my hockey trophies, my clothes, and every picture of Lara and me that had been sitting on the top of my dresser.
Every poster has been ripped off the wall, every shoe box pulled out from under the bed.
The more I think about it, the more that I imagine my dad in here, in the one place that was supposed to be just for me, the angrier I get. I think about him going through my stuff, touching each item with his dirty, beer-shaken hands.
Then I’m flying through the house, barely feeling my feet as they hit the ground, heading for my truck so I can find my dad and beat the shit out of him. Then I freeze.
There are two large boxes sitting on the curb outside the house, technically in the street.
“Fuck you,” I spit, grabbing the boxes and hauling them up and into the bed of my truck, not allowing myself to think about how pitiful it is that everything I own in this world can be condensed down into these two boxes and the stuff in my backseat.
Jumping into the driver’s seat, still shaking with rage, I pull out my phone to text my sister.
Jake: Hey, leaving early for Michigan. Not coming back.
Lara’s house looks different this late at night, and for a second, I think about going to the front door instead of the window.
I think about what it would be like if one of her parents opened the door. Maybe her mom, smiling like she did in that first picture Lara ever sent me of her.
“You must be Jake!” she might say, taking me by the arm and pulling me inside. I’d be able to smell their home-cooked dinner, and she’d insist that I have some leftovers when she found out I had nothing for supper.
Lara would be in her bedroom, marooned in tissues and cold medicine, and she would insist that I not come in, but her dad would talk her out of it, tell us to put on a movie.
They’d let me sleep in the guest bedroom or on the couch, and even if they were upset about the idea of Lara leaving with me, they would never scream or throw things.
Even with that fantasy rolling through my head, I don’t go up to the front door.
Instead, I round the side of the property, find the balcony I know belongs to Lara, and climb the trellis leading up to it, smelling the sweet vining plants as I do, positioning my hands carefully so I don’t smash any of the blooms.
It’s like her parents wanted her to sneak out when they put her in this room — a balcony and a trellis. But I know she never has. When I land on her balcony, it makes a little noise, and I pause for a second, holding my breath and waiting to see if anyone is going to catch me out here.
Just inside the sliding glass door to her balcony, there are gauzy white curtains drifting in the breeze.
A door opens on the other side of the room, and Lara comes out of the bathroom wearing little pink pajamas.
I stare at her as she moves through the room, picks up a hairbrush, and turns around to look in the mirror.
I realize, too late, that she might scream when she sees me, but she doesn’t.
She jumps, brings her hand to her mouth, then her heart, then turns and walks quickly to the door, breathless when she opens it and looks me up and down. I’m still in my work clothes, I didn’t even think to get changed. I need a shower.
But I don’t have the mental presence to be embarrassed about it right now. Not when I’m here with her, and it’s already calming the anger thrumming through my brain.
“Jake? What are you doing here?” she asks, her voice a whisper.
It’s so good to see her that, at first, I don’t think about how she doesn’t sound sick at all. In fact, her cheeks are flushed, and she’s practically glowing, looking more alive and healthier than I’ve ever seen her.
“Lara,” I say, bracing myself against the window and leaning in to kiss her. She lets me but doesn’t kiss me back. I pull away, clearing my throat. “Sorry… have you talked to your parents yet?”
She opens her mouth to answer, but I can’t stop myself from going on, “My dad busted into my room today. Put all my stuff on the curb. How long will it take you to pack? I can help you, and then I was thinking we could leave tomorrow.”
Lara sucks in a breath. “Jake…”
I shake my head, not wanting her sympathy about my dad. With any luck, we’ll be in my truck tomorrow morning, driving toward Ann Arbor and not wasting any more time in Wildfern Ridge.
I’ll have Lara by my side, hockey in my future, and this fucking town firmly in my rearview mirror.
“Maybe you could talk to your parents and see if I could stay here tonight. Even if I can just crash on the couch. If not, I can sleep in my truck, and we can take off as soon as your stuff is ready.”
“ Jake ,” Lara says, reaching out like she wants to touch me, then drawing her hand back like she’s remembered not to. I stare at her, realizing for the first time that something is wrong.
The look on her face makes my stomach sink. Without her even saying it, I realize that she hasn’t been sick. She hasn’t told her parents about Michigan, and she hasn’t told them about me at all.
Maybe, deep down, I knew this was going to happen. Maybe that’s why I came to her window instead of going to the front door.
I open my mouth to try and say something, anything that can stop this from happening, but Lara beats me to it, her voice choked when she speaks.
“Jake,” she says, biting her bottom lip for a moment and looking away, like she can’t even meet my eyes when she says it. “I’m not coming with you to Michigan.”