Page 8 of Secret Triplets, Second Chances
“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.
CHAPTER 5
LARA
Every five minutes, I check my phone for a text from Jake.
It’s Christmas Eve, and I’m alone in my mom’s café, wiping down the counters, the air still thick with the scent of vanilla and cinnamon, coffee and milk. Green and red ribbons shine from the tables. Our annual Christmas Eve party was a hit.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come along?” Mom asked as Dad helped her step into her coat. Outside the fogged café windows, snow had started to gently fall. “Cathy is going to miss you.”
Cathy, my mom’s friend who owns an art museum in Minneapolis, always throws extravagant parties for her friends and donors. I’d loved going for years, thinking it was so special to slip on a designer dress and walk among city dwellers who knew nothing about Wildfern Ridge and wanted nothing to do with the small Minnesota towns around them.
