Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
“So,” Jake starts, then pauses to stir his burrito bowl and take a sip of soda, “I’m a good listener, so hit me with it. What’s going on?”
I scowl mid-chew. Not because he’s wrong—because it’s Jake. Jenna’s little brother. The one who used to look to us for cues—what to say, how to act, when to stop being annoying. Before he conquered his stutter, we were his primary social circle and as the older kids, we were the natural leaders.
And now he’s looking at me like he’s the calm one and I’m the mess.
“Huh?!”
Jake ignores my inelegant display and keeps going, steady as ever. The goodwill he’d earned driving me off campus and buying me lunch is disappearing swiftly. I don’t have the bandwidth to be managed right now. A break from campus is all the help I needed. Full stop.
“This may come as a shock,” he says, dragging it out while he rearranges a piece of chicken with his fork, “but I’m kind of an Avery expert.”
“What—”
“—And as such, I can identify a call for help when I see one.” He jerks his chin meaningfully towards my backpack in the booth next to me, which I brought inside the restaurant for some reason.
His meaning takes a moment to sink in. The doodle.
The flaming dumpster field disaster that shouldn’t exist, that I shouldn’t have made, that I definitely shouldn’t have let anyone see, ever, including myself.
Heat crawls up my neck. Just because someone pays extra for your guac, does not mean they’re entitled to your inner turmoil.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jake. It was just a picture.”
Then one of his big, warm hands covers mine on the table. I stare at it for a moment, noticing how it completely engulfs my hand.
“Talk to me,” he says.
Absolutely not. We may be ‘friends’ now, but this seems like an unnecessary leap. We can stay casual homework buddies who occasionally ditch school to eat burrito bowls.
My brain scrambles for safe subjects, ones that will deflect Jake’s intensity off me. The weather? Binder organization? Grocery list optimization? I discard those ideas immediately; Jake won’t be interested, and the grocery list thing makes me think of Analiese, which is definitely a no-go topic.
“Ok,” I say, pulling my hand out from under his and taking a deep breath like I’m about to say something important, but really I’m buying any microsecond of procrastination I can while I scramble to gather my thoughts.
“Thanks again for going trick-or-treating with Hunter and me. You know, he hasn’t stopped talking about you since.
He mentioned you said you’d come over and play video games with him? That was nice of you.”
Jake’s eyebrows lift a fraction. “Hunter’s a cool kid. I like hanging out with him.”
I nod. “Yeah, he’s great. But speaking of Halloween, don’t you think the ‘fun size’ candy is kind of a misnomer? What’s fun about the smallest possible piece of candy? They should be called ‘sample size’ or ‘depression size’ or something. Don’t you think?”
“I guess? But can we get back to the—”
But I barrel forward with a little laugh, feeling a gust of energy. Yes, we can dust aside my teeny, tiny little breakdown and move on to lighter topics. Why was I stressed? It seems so silly now. I’m sure Jake just wanted to blow off school and have some fun. It’s fine.
“My dad always said taking some of our candy as a ‘tax’ was a good way to learn the harsh realities of economics as a kid, but he conveniently only taxed our favorite candies like Reese’s or M&Ms.”
My mind’s eye conjures a vision of my dad laughing while he eats our treats, and tears spring unbidden to my eyes. Why did I bring up my dad? I blink quickly and force the tears back.
Jake takes a bite of his food and nods. I don’t like the concerned gleam in his eyes, but I ignore it. Maybe he regrets getting chicken instead of barbacoa. Not my problem.
I pivot topics again as I pick up my fork and smush my guac around. “Oh! You know I talked to someone on Connection Services who said classic milk chocolate M&Ms aren’t the best flavor, can you believe that? So insane. Right?”
The pause lingers. I look at him expectantly.
Jake leans back slightly. “Oh. Do I get to talk now?”
He continues. “Setting aside that I know you’re deflecting your problems—again—I’d say your connection sounds rather intriguing. Life is too vibrant and varied to limit yourself to plain M&Ms. Why not try peanut butter and jelly or lose yourself in the delights of popped caramel?”
A sense of familiarity nudges me, and I can’t help following it—just to see what happens. “Why would I want to risk disappointment?”
Jake smiles winningly. “I bet you used that line on your connection, didn’t you? What did he say?”
“I didn’t say it was a guy.”
“Well, is he?”
“I think? We don’t discuss those kinds of things. It’s supposed to be anonymous, Jake.”
“Of course.” He nods understandingly. “So what do you talk about?”
I shrug. “School, movies, stuff like that.” I take a sip of water. “Food a lot, it seems.”
Jake finishes the last bite of his burrito bowl and wipes his chin with a napkin. “That’s a surefire topic to win over Avery James. The guy has game.”
I laugh and push my bowl towards him, knowing he’ll finish the rest of mine. He takes it without question. “It’s not like that.”
He squints at me. “I think you like him. It’s ok, I won’t tell anyone.”
“For the hundredth time, Jake, I’m with Braden.”
He tucks into my bowl. “Right, but what if the artificial intelligence behind the app is on to something? This guy could be your true soulmate. Scientifically speaking, I mean.”
All my problems with Braden float to the surface, and I feel my hands shake slightly. I’m sure Jake means well and wants to joke around, but I… can’t. Time to wrap up this little impromptu lunch.
I tap my phone screen to check the time. “Look, if you asked me to ditch just to subject me to some sort of relationship Spanish Inquisition, I’m out. There’s still time for you to drop me off at school before fifth period if we leave now.”
“NO!” Jake blurts, taking me by surprise. “No,” he repeats again, more softly. “Let’s go do something else then.”
“Jake, I don’t know—“
“It’ll be fun. Sometimes we need a break from everything. I actually read an article saying productivity improves when people take breaks from the day-to-day. That’s what you’re worried about, right? Messing up your schedule or having to make up schoolwork?”
Um, yeah. That and his determination to question me on things I don’t want to discuss. No thanks.
He sees my hesitation and immediately knows the source. It’s getting freaky how well Jake appears to know me.
“And I promise I won’t try to make you talk about anything you don’t want to—not Braden, not school, not even M&Ms. I’ll even pinky promise.”
He holds out his right hand, pinky extended, the dimple in his left cheek popping adorably as he gives me a lopsided smile that’s so… Jake.
I look at his hand and feel my own smile begin to form. How many times over the years did Jenna, Jake, and I pinky swear with each other about the forbidden things we did at the Taylor house so none of us would snitch on each other to our parents? Too many times to count.
I sigh, but it’s half-hearted. The truth is I do feel like I need a break. My pinky wraps around his.
“Deal,” I say. “Where are we going to go?”
“The carnival? Really?” I ask, glancing at Jake as we sit in the cab of his truck.
In front of us, a sparse crowd wanders the grounds, the ferris wheel looming in the distance, turning slowly.
This particular carnival rolls into town every couple of years and sets up shop in an empty lot a few miles from school.
The aging rides and weather-worn signs have seen better days, but so have I.
The last time I was here, Braden and I rode that ferris wheel, and he held my hand so tightly at the top that my fingers went numb.
Nope. Nope. Shoving that memory aside. If nothing else, the doodle meltdown this morning should tell me I need a hiatus from the Braden situation.
“Hey,” Jake says, already reaching for his keys, the hockey-puck keychain still attached, “it was either this or the mall. And the mall doesn’t have funnel cakes.”
Well. Who am I to argue with fried dough?
We hop out, and I don't resist when Jake catches my hand and tugs me toward the lights. He's in full Jake mode—dimples out, energy loud, like he's determined to drag me into having a good time whether I cooperate or not. A tiny flicker of guilt about the hand-holding, but... we're friends.
His energy is infectious. I'm suddenly picturing him as an itty bitty golden retriever puppy bounding toward the carnival and I snort. He glances back, eyebrows up. I shake my head like I'm fine. I'm definitely not, but my heart feels roughly a thousand times lighter than it did this morning.
“Ok, Avery James,” he says, pointing toward a row of booths. “I can’t stop picturing you trying to knock down milk bottles or shoot ducks with a water gun. Let’s go play some games.” He pauses, then brightens, looking far too pleased with himself. “Ha. James. Games.”
I groan and roll my eyes, but the smile won’t leave my face.
We weave between families and couples through the pathways over the sun-baked pavement. The enticing scent of fried food wafts through the air, causing my stomach to rumble even though we literally just ate lunch. Apparently, my body didn’t get the memo.
“Unh-uh,” Jake tuts, “no fried dough until we win a prize.”
“The games are all rigged! Now I’m feeling like I’ve been lured here under false pretenses.”
“Are you saying you can’t handle knocking over a few bottles?”
“All I’m saying is, you said this would be fun, and my definition of fun includes fried dough.”
Jake huffs a laugh as we finally make our way to a booth with prizes hanging above it like fluffy, colorful clouds.
I spot an adorable stuffed beaver and decide it needs to be mine.
Tim the Beaver, the MIT mascot! It’s fate.
Besides the mascot association, beavers are cute, so the game can involve zero thoughts about certain colleges that unnamed boyfriends attend.
After paying the worker manning the booth, Jake grabs a ball and tosses it lightly in the air. “Let’s make a wager.”
I cock an eyebrow at him, intrigued. Competition wakes something up in my soul. “What kind of wager?”
Jake taps his chin theatrically, feigning deep thought, but I know he's full of it.
With Jake, there's no middle ground—he's either inventing something mid-breath because it amuses him, or he's been scheming for weeks.
This is the same kid who had his Halloween costumes decided by July, complete with supply lists and backup options in case his first choice sold out. Either way, I should be worried.
I can’t tell which Jake this is yet. Probably the second one. Which means whatever comes out of his mouth next will either be brilliant… or catastrophic.
“If I win, you come to my first home game wearing my jersey.”
My mouth opens to protest immediately. I can’t wear his jersey! What if people think we’re dating! Wearing someone’s jersey is basically a public announcement. I already have a boyfriend. I’m just thinking facts here… not dwelling on the general Braden situation.
“And,” he adds before I can protest, “you get ice cream with me after.”
His blue eyes hold my gaze with a clear challenge. I set aside my first objection momentarily to hear the entire proposition. Knowledge is power, after all.
“And if I win?” I ask.
“I go to every one of your home swim meets that doesn’t conflict with my hockey schedule,” he says easily, “and I wear a shirt with your name on it. Since you guys don’t have jerseys.”
My face scrunches up before I can stop it.
Jake… at my meets? That’s a lot of Jake.
But also—annoyingly—he’d probably make it fun.
And if I hated it, I could always ignore him.
We’ll likely only have around 4 or 5 home meets.
That’s not so bad. I can live with that.
But I need it to be a little more fun for me.
“I have one edit to your proposal.”
He flicks his hand like a king granting an audience. “Proceed.”
“I get to make the shirt you wear, and you have to wear the one I make.”
His expression goes cautious. “It has to have your name on it, and it can’t say anything insulting about me. And no drawings or doodles.”
“Excuse you,” I say, affronted. “My drawings are art.”
“They’re crimes,” he says, deadpan. “Just—your name, school colors. Normal.”
“Is glitter ok?”
He exhales like he’s bracing for impact. “Sparingly.”
“Deal,” I say grandly. “My name. School colors. Minimal glitter. No slander against your spotless character.”
We shake hands like we signed an international treaty.
At home, Tim the Beaver gets placed next to my vision board. He looks perpetually startled, which feels appropriate given the current state of my life. He’s adorable and I love him, though.
Jake was annoying about our game in the way he's always annoying—grinning, telling me I have "a ruthless streak that's honestly terrifying"—but he wasn't a sore loser. He handed Tim over like it was a privilege, not a defeat. Then we got fried dough and he let me eat most of it.
For a long moment, I just stand there looking at the board. All my neat little plans, still pinned in place. Next week is Thanksgiving, which means Braden and my family and a whole mess of things I can't control no matter how many stickers I use.
I straighten one crooked sticky note, then walk away before I start overthinking again.