My Secret Deal 23

I knew something was wrong the second I stepped into the house.

The lights were all on. The living room was too clean, too still, like a set staged for something I wasn’t going to like. My parents sat side-by-side on the couch, stiff as statues, their expressions carved into something colder than anger — disappointment, maybe. Worse.

I didn’t even get a chance to say hello before my dad stood abruptly, his shadow stretching across the room like a threat.

“Give me your phone,” he said, his hand already outstretched.

My stomach twisted into a hard, heavy knot. “What?” I asked, even though I knew exactly what he meant.

His voice sharpened. “Now.”

For one long, heavy second, I hesitated. I thought about running, about saying no — but there was no point. I dug into my pocket, fingers numb, and handed it over without meeting his eyes.

He turned to my mom, who was already moving down the hall. She returned with a stack balanced in her arms — my laptop, my notebooks, even my poetry sketchpad — everything I loved, carried like evidence against me.

“No more distractions,” she said flatly, setting them on the coffee table. “No more lies.”

“You’re grounded,” my dad added, his voice final. “Effective immediately.”

The words knocked the breath from my lungs. I stared at them, my hands curling into fists at my sides. “You can’t be serious.”

“You skipped school,” my dad snapped. “You lied to us. You screamed at your mother. And now you’re sneaking around like a delinquent who doesn’t even care about her future.”

“You don’t get to do this,” I said, my voice rising before I could control it.

“Until further notice,” my mom interrupted sharply, “we’ll be driving you to and from school. You will not leave this house unless it’s for classes we approve.”

“You mean the prison you designed for me,” I choked out, the words like fire burning my throat.

“We built you a future,” my dad roared, stepping closer, towering over me now.

“No,” I screamed back, my voice cracking under the weight of it all. “You built your future. Not mine.”

The room fell deathly silent.
Both of them stared at me like I’d just ripped the roof off their perfect little world.

“I’m quitting,” I said, my whole body shaking. “Piano. Spanish. Debate. Everything.”

My mom stumbled a step forward, reaching out. “Lily, no—”

“I don’t want to be a lawyer!” The words tore from my chest like glass, jagged and bleeding.

I saw it happen almost in slow motion.

My mother’s face drained of color. Her knees buckled beneath her, and she collapsed onto the couch. My father caught her just in time, shouting orders at me — get water, shut up, go to my room and think about what I’d done.

But I didn’t argue.
I just turned. Walked upstairs. Closed my door with shaking hands.

And then I sobbed.
The kind of sobs that rip through your ribs and leave you gasping, curled up on the floor.
The kind that made me feel like pieces of myself were scattering across the room and I would never be able to gather them all again.

Through blurry eyes, I grabbed my backpack. I started shoving things into it without thinking. A hoodie. My wallet. Some photos. I didn’t know where I was going, but I knew one thing for sure — I couldn’t stay.

Not in that house. Not under their roof, living a life I didn’t choose.

I was halfway through stuffing my sneakers into the bag when I heard the tap against the window.

I froze. My breath caught in my chest.

Slowly, I crossed the room and pulled open the pane.

Jake was crouched on the thick branch of the oak tree just outside, balancing a greasy pizza box in one hand and a tub of ice cream in the other. His hoodie was pulled low over his head, and he looked every bit like a storm cloud that had decided to take human form.

“Thought you might need a break,” he said simply.

I stared at him, overwhelmed, before whispering, “How did you know?”

He shrugged, a small, crooked smile tugging at his lips. “I just… did.”

We sat on the floor, backs against my bed, legs crossed like kids at a secret club meeting. Jake handed me a slice of pizza without asking any questions, and we worked our way through it in silence at first. The ice cream sat melting between us, half-forgotten.

“I screamed at them,” I said eventually, my voice hoarse.

Jake didn’t flinch.
“I’m proud of you.”

“She fainted,” I added, wincing.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

“I told them everything,” I said, my voice breaking again. “And now I’m grounded. Indefinitely.”

He didn’t try to sugarcoat it. He just nodded, steady and sure. “I’ll climb every damn tree in the county if I have to.”

A laugh bubbled out of me — fragile but real. He smiled softly, the kind of smile you don’t give just anyone.

“You don’t have to save me,” I whispered, feeling the old fear creep back in.

Jake turned toward me, his eyes steady. “I’m not saving you. You already did that yourself. I’m just… reminding you you’re not alone.”

I leaned into him, pressing my forehead to his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around me without hesitation, pulling me closer, holding me like the world outside didn’t exist.

And for the first time in days, I started to feel human again.

Over the next two weeks, he came every night, always the same way — sneaking up the tree, tapping on my window, bringing pizza or candy or just his hands, his words, his presence.

He gave me a second phone, scratched and old, but it worked. We texted, we whispered across the branches. Sometimes he left notes wedged into the oak bark — Missed you. You’re doing amazing. I see you, Clover.

It wasn’t just survival anymore. It was hope. It was breath.

One night, just before he climbed back out the window, he lingered, crouched on the ledge.

“You’ll come to the game this weekend?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

I hesitated, my hand tightening around the windowsill. “If I can sneak out.”

“Please try,” he said, his voice rawer than usual.

I searched his face. “You okay?”

He hesitated for a second too long, then shrugged like it didn’t matter. “I just… I play better when you’re there.”

Something cracked in my chest.

“You’re my good luck charm,” he whispered.

I leaned forward, kissed him slow, pouring everything I couldn’t say into it.

“I’ll be there,” I promised.

Because I wasn’t just Jake’s secret anymore.
And he wasn’t just mine.

We belonged to each other.