Page 42 of The Beta Test

“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.”