“You are not an idiot.” I sit next to him, trying to catch his eyes but he won’t look at me.
“No, I really am.” He pops up and when his eyes land on me, it hurts. I can see the panic in them instead of the look which usually makes mefeel safe, put together. Time seems to slow for the two of us, making me feel like my skin is too tight for my bones.
Lightly, I put a hand on his knee. “What happened?”
Lane looks to the floor in front of him as he rambles. “I had my meeting with Coach and he basically told me how thankful he is that I’m on the team. How he knew I had it in me. How he went to bat for me to come here. And then he asked about the scouts that have called. Scouts. Calling for me? To watch me play?”
My brows knit together. “Those all sound like great things.”
“They are. And then,” he pauses, “he asked me about you.”
I’m frozen in place, like the icy air from outside has infiltrated my veins. I’m afraid to move. All of the ways I was careful—don't show too much attention, don’t stare at the man, always have a place you were—seems like it wasn't enough.
I'm afraid to speak. So, I don’t.
“He asked if you’re back with Freddy.” Lane’s lips curl around my ex’s name.
“He did what?” Embarrassment runs over my skin like a dumped bucket of water.
“He asked if you were back with Freddy. Apparently, you’ve been gone a lot...” He rubs his hands together. “Obviously, I told him I didn’t think that was the case. But then he made sure it wasn’t someone on the team.”
Lane turns his head to face me. There’s an expression on his face that I can’t seem to put my finger on. It’s like anxiety and disappointment swirled together—he sort of shakes as he continues to fidget with his hand.
Buzzing on the table shifts our attention. Lane’s phone lights up with a few text message notifications from someone I don’t know: Oliver.
Lane’s face completely pales—he's white and his lips mash together. He takes in a deep breath and holds it. Leaning forward, it's like he’s double-checking who the messages are from before he grabs his phone and tosses it.
It slides on the carpet and Lane puts his head in his hands. Before I can ask a question or get any more information, he’s standing with his hands rubbing his eyes.
I don’t know what’s happening but I know we need to get out of here.
“Grab your coat,” I say, already standing. I pull it from the hook and hold it out to him. He just stares at it for a second, then at me, like he’s trying to figure out what I’m doing. I lift it a little higher, nudging him to take it. “I’m taking you somewhere.”
His jaw tightens, but he does take it. He slips it on without a word while I grab my keys, open the door, and wait for him to follow. There’s only one place I’m thinking of. The place that has seen me through everything—highs, lows, and the moments where it felt like there was nowhere else to go.
We’re going to the lighthouse.
Iputthecarin park, step out, grab the blanket, and start walking. Lane follows behind me quietly, not saying a single word. The drive over was the same—just the hum of the engine and the steady rush of heat filling the car, neither of us breaking the silence.
The wind hits the second I step onto the sand, sharp enough to steal the air from my lungs. It smells like rain and the lake, cold and clean all at once. I tuck the blanket tighter against my chest and keep moving, my boots sinking into the soft, uneven ground. Lane stays a step behind me, close enough that I feel him there, but not close enough to touch. Out here, with nothing around us, the quiet feels heavier somehow. The sky hangs low with thick clouds, turning the afternoon dim, like the day is already slipping into night.
Waves roll and break in quick succession, white foam clawing at the shore like the lake itself can’t settle. I stop just short of the waterline, hair whipping across my face, and stare out at the dark horizon where everything seems to disappear.
“This way,” I say, nodding toward the pier. It’s the first thing I’ve said since we left his apartment.
Lane doesn’t respond, but he follows as we move along the shoreline. The rhythm of the waves starts to match my breathing, steady yet uneven at the same time. My thoughts crash just as hard. Why did my dad suspect anything? When will Freddy finally be out of the picture? Will Lane realize I’m not worth the fallout?
Is this all we’re ever going to get?
By the time we reach the door, my hands are cold as I punch in the code. The lock blinks green and clicks open. Lane watches me, then says, “Don’t tell me your family owns this lighthouse or something.”
It’s a weak attempt at a joke, but I take it anyway.
“No. I made friends with the people who are responsible for it. I do some light cleaning once a month in exchange for the code. I just like being here. It helps me think.”
We make our way slowly through the small space, taking the steps until we’re at the top of the lighthouse. A few pillows that I’ve brought and left here are already on the floor, indicating my favorite spot.
I sit, pat the one next to me, and Lane sinks beside me. I stare out the window, which makes it feel like you’re surrounded by water. There’s nothing but darkness as far as you can see.
