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 parentswantedher 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.”
CHAPTER 9
LARA
At first, Jake looks like he doesn’t understand what I said.
I stare at him, feeling the wall of tears at the back of my throat, and I realize I had no idea how hard this was going to be. I’m willing him to get it, so I don’t have to repeat myself again, so I don’t have to say the words that are breaking my heart, and clearly also breaking his.
His hair is practically standing on end, and there’s something gray that looks like plaster on the left side of his head. A smudge of dirt stripes under his left eye, and I resist the urge to reach out and run a thumb over it, to wipe it away.
This week, I kept telling him I was sick, trying to find more time to figure out what to say to him, how to tell him that I wasn’t going. There was a part of me that secretly hoped he would just leave for Michigan without me, forget that I had ever existed.
But now, looking at him, I realize I was stupid to ever think Jake Bradford would do something like that.
“What are you talking about?” he asks, and the hurt on his face is worse than anything I’ve imagined in all the scenarios I’drun through my head. Right now, Jake looks like the world is crumbling around him, and I want to make it better for him, but I can’t. I’m the one causing the problem.
I wanted him to be angry with me to make this easier. Suddenly, I wish I had gone to him, that I hadn’t avoided this. For a brief moment, I think about cracking and telling him the truth.
