47. LANE
LANE
My stomach turns like the waves out on the water.
It’s like my lungs forgot how to work and only remember how to panic. The wind off the water is cold, but I’m sweating anyway. My heart bangs against my ribs like it’s trying to get out, each beat echoing through my body.
I'm no stranger to handling pain, but I’m struggling with the mental image of how Cora will look at me when she knows—like I’m someone else. Or worse, like I’m not someone she wants anymore. Like she won’t understand why I did what I did.
The secret sits in my chest like a second heart, heavier than the first. One wrong word and it’s all over—her, us, the version of me that still gets to stand here without everything falling apart. The life I left behind to save someone else.
I hear myself start talking before I’ve decided to. It comes out low and rushed, like if I don’t keep moving, I’ll choke on it. “This is more than me. The thing I’m keeping. You have no idea what would happen if it got out. I made my choice and I have to live with it and—”
Cora puts a finger to my lips, stopping me mid-ramble. “Lane,” she breathes my name like a prayer. “You can trust me.”
The cold coming off the lake seeps straight through my jacket, sharp and wet, like it’s trying to carve the truth out of me. The lighthouse looms around us, all stone and shadow.
When she grabs for my hand, she holds onto it like I’m something worth keeping. I can feel it. The thing between us that’s been there since the first night we met.
Her eyes are blue and steady on mine; something in my chest loosens, even though it probably shouldn’t. She tilts her head, her hair falling over her shoulders, and her gaze shakes me to my core.
For a second, a quick flash, I feel safe. Something that’s always been brief and fleeting when it comes to my life.
I have to tell her. There’s not really another option. Plus, I want to.
Swallowing past the doubt that dares to change my mind if I wait too long, I try to find where to start. Fuck. I feel a shiver run through my body and I convince myself it’s because of the wind and not the adrenaline about to take me down.
I focus on the hand Cora’s holding as the words leave my lips. “The night of the accident. The one where I crashed the car at the park.”
She nods, waiting for what comes next.
“Oliver. We were both in the car. He was my—” My brain sputters. Fucking trips over itself. Because I don’t know how to label him. Teammate. Friend. Brother?
“Best friend,” I finally say. “I sort of lived with him and his family. Because, mine… well…” My voice stutters, useless for a second. Because mine wasn’t safe. Because mine taught you to listen for footsteps and read moods like weather.
I swallow. “You couldn’t even call them parents. The Knights took me in, and my mom barely noticed. I was thirteen when I stopped going home to my real mom.”
I point to the scar on my lip. “This right here? People think I got it from hockey. Makes sense.” My body tenses with the truth.
“But what no one knows is that it’s actually from one of my mom’s boyfriends…
I was probably eight when this happened.
I came out of my room because I hadn’t eaten in two days.
It was the weekend, otherwise I’d eat at school.
I was trying to find something in the fridge when he pushed me and I hit my face on one of the shelves. ”
Cora’s hand covers her mouth as her eyes widen.
“There was so much blood. And then I got in trouble for bleeding on shit. So, when I tell you I didn’t have parents, I mean it.”
She doesn’t push, doesn’t fill the silence. Just stays there, steady, like she understands that some things take a minute to say.
I’ve always known I don’t deserve her. But this is like having someone hold a light to all the parts of me I usually keep shoved in a dark corner as I try not to flinch.
“I learned early how to be easy,” I say. “How to take up less space. How to not make things worse.” My mouth twists.
And then it’s like I’m back there. To that night.
The party is too loud, too bright, and full of people who say Oliver’s name like it belongs to them. I don’t really like going out but I typically do whatever Oliver suggests. That’s what friends do. We’ve always been sort of a package deal. I went where he went, slipped into his friend groups.
My teammates like me just fine. We get along enough to have that symmetry on the ice. But deep down? If I wasn’t part of the Oliver package, I’m guessing things would be different for me.
Everyone loves him. Oliver is the golden boy.
The person professors trust, coaches brag about, and girls wave at from across the room.
He remembers everyone’s birthday. He holds doors.
He texts his mom back. I’m just lucky to be in his orbit.
A part of his family. I know that. He follows rules because they make sense to him, not because anyone’s watching.
Tonight, Oliver drinks. I kind of can’t believe it. I’ve seen him buzzed when we’re at a teammate's place but not really when we’re out anywhere else. Never at a party like this.
At first, I cheered and laughed with the guys as he chugged and slurred some of his words. When he clapped my back too hard, it was almost like a relief to see him loosen the reins.
“Hey,” I say later, when the music is a wall of noise and the air is thick with sweat and the promise of summer. “Let me drive.”
He smiles like I’m being dramatic. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” I put my hand in his chest, stopping him from walking past me towards the car. “And that’s okay, but just let me drive.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’ve only had, like, two beers.”
“In the first twenty minutes,” I argue. “Give me the keys.”
He claps me on the shoulder, easy and careless. “I’m really fine. It’s not that big of a deal.” His words are louder than they need to be. Almost like he wants the others to hear.
Maybe he’s sick of being the good guy. The guy on the team with a 4.0, dad as his coach, never really been in trouble.
I know the guys give him shit but in the way you do when you’re with friends. You joke around and everyone has something they can pick on. People pick on Oliver for being good.
Feels like maybe Oliver’s sick of being picked on. Maybe he wants to be someone else tonight.
He walks towards the car and I follow.
“It’s like a five minute drive. Don’t be so annoying.”
It’s one of the first times he has said something like that to me.
It scratches at old wounds which break open every once in a while, sometimes when I see my teammates with their families.
Knowing mine exists out of pity. Or that’s what it feels like sometimes.
Honestly, right now, Oliver kind of reminds me of home.
My real one. Of my mom and her guy of the week trying to get me to be practically non-existent.
I back off. I have to. He’s right—it’s only five minutes back to the apartment. We’ve been here for a few hours… maybe he hasn’t actually had that much to drink.
Again, this feels like home in the worst way.
“Okay,” I finally give in, stepping back. “Just… don’t be stupid.”
He grins. “When am I ever stupid?”
He’s right. Oliver’s the guy who has all the answers, whether we’re in class or at practice. He’s reliable, someone you can trust.
To our luck, the road is mostly empty. We roll the windows down. Summer air rushes in mixing with the music. He turns the volume up on one of his favorite songs.
“What NHL team would you want to play for? If you could pick one?” he yells to be heard over the music.
This is a question we go over probably every other week. Hockey has always been the dream. That’s what brought me to Oliver and his family in the first place.
We go back and forth on the same rotation of teams. My chest lightens with each word, like we’re back to our normal state. A laugh escapes my throat at something Oliver says.
Then the headlights come out of nowhere. Too close. Too fast. There’s no time to say anything.
Oliver swerves just in time to avoid the car, but we hit something else. Time slows; it’s like I can see everything happening from a distance. I see the collision before I feel it.
The seatbelt locks and punches the air out of my chest. The windshield shatters just as the world tilts hard to the right and then stops in a way that isn’t really stopping.
For a second, everything is ringing. The smell of beer brings me back to the present, finding the roadie Oliver was too cool to dump out before getting in to drive is now covering me.
I look over to my best friend, the one I shouldn’t have let drive.
His chest quickly rises and falls, blood dripping down his face.
He must’ve hit his head on the steering wheel. I look from Oliver to the space in front of him, amazed the airbags didn’t go off.
“Oliver,” I croak, already turning toward him. “Hey, look at me.”
My hands shake when I unbuckle my seatbelt. Somewhere in the distance, sirens start.
“Oh my god. Lane! Oh my—” There’s not enough room for the panic from his voice in the car.
“Stop.” I put my hand on his chest, some blood dripping from a cut above his eye on my arm. “Are you okay?”
Oliver looks at me and my blood runs cold. The fear burrowed in his eyes, wide like fucking dinner plates, hit me like a crosscheck to the boards I never saw coming.
“What the fuck was I doing? Oh my god—” His voice is erratic and it’s almost like he’s talking to himself instead of me.
He doesn’t need to fill in the rest. I know what he’s thinking. This is fucking bad. Perhaps life altering kind of bad. And by life, I mean hockey, because that’s what everything comes back to.
When Oliver’s lip wobbles, the decision snaps into place. It’s not even hard.
I open my door and get myself standing. My legs feel shaky with the adrenaline rushing through my body. I do a quick scan to determine if anything hurts. Wiping my face, there’s no blood or cuts, and I’m able to walk and move my arms. That’s good enough for now.
I open Oliver’s door. “Come on. Get out of the car.”
“We should wait for the police,” he argues. Oliver, always trying to follow the fucking rules.
The sirens are getting closer with each second that passes. We’re running out of time.
My hand grabs the front of Oliver’s shirt and I pull. He gives in and follows my instruction, even if I don’t give him much of a choice.
I don’t let go of his shirt when I continue, “Oliver. Listen to me. Get in the passenger seat.” I push him that way.
“What? No. You’re not—”
“Get in the fucking passenger seat.” My words are like a growl as I point at him.
A second later, I’m sitting in the driver’s seat, slamming the door.
Oliver gets back in the car, this time on the passenger side, and I don’t even look at him when I say, “I was driving. I was the one who caused the accident. Do you hear me?”
“Lane, no—”
“Oliver. Yes. I was driving. No one saw us leaving the party. And we’ll never tell a soul. No matter what. Got it?”
I watch him sit back, buckle himself in, and nod. “Got it.”
“Where’d you go?” Cora’s voice brings me to the present.
I sigh out a breath and break my own rule. “That night? I wasn’t driving. Oliver was. But I took the fall for him and blew up the only life I’ve ever been afraid to lose.”