Tastes Like Winter

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Copyright

  Dedication

  September

  October

  November

  December

  January

  February

  March

  April

  May

  June

  July

  August

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  When home no longer feels like home - where can you go?

  When your best friend won’t listen - who can you turn to?

  When love makes you feel weak - how do you protect your heart?

  With constant fighting at home, Emma decides working at High Street Books and practicing avoidance is the best method to save her from more heartache.

  She doesn’t expect to meet Jake, the shop owner’s nephew,

  who makes her stomach do crazy things.

  But Jake is intent on pushing her away, and Emma must ask herself:

  Is he scared? Or is he hiding something?

  Tastes Like Winter is a story of love, family, and friendship and,

  when everything is uncertain, trying to figure out where you fit in.

  TASTES

  LIKE WINTER

  CECE CARROLL

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously, and any resemblance to business establishments, events, locales, or any person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  TASTES LIKE WINTER

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2014 CeCe Carroll

  Cover art by CeCe Carroll

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  WWW.CECEWRITES.COM

  To my husband for all the years of love and support

  SEPTEMBER

  The wind rushes past me, tickling my cheeks as I soar higher and higher, flying through the air. Squeals of childish delight bubble out of me, mirrored behind me in my mother’s own sweet, high-pitched laughter. She pushes my swing again, her gentle hands guiding me forward on my journey onward and upward. My chubby hand loosens its grip on the chain, and I reach for blue, convinced I can touch the sky if I push hard enough. I am determined to reach the clouds. Another push from behind, another pump of the legs, and as soon as it comes into reach…

  Beep, beep, beep, beep!

  The screech of the alarm jolts me out of my dream, and I let out an automatic groan. My hand darts out from beneath the comforter, searching for the hellish device, and as soon as my fingers touch plastic, I slam it off and pull my arm back below the safety of the covers.

  My eyes stay shut as I refuse to acknowledge the morning, wishing I could sink back into that beautiful carefree memory from a lifetime ago. I don’t often dream these days, don’t sleep much at all, but when I do, I’m frequently visited by glimpses of those better times when I was young and ignorant.

  I open my eyes and stare at the white ceiling above me, steadying myself. Glow in the dark stars stare back at me in the dim morning light, mapping out constellations and telling stories of the wicked ways of men and gods. My mother helped me arrange them years ago, and while much has changed, they still hang, though now their bright color has faded and taken on a greenish tinge. I reach up to touch them as if I am still on the swing and I still believe it is possible to touch the sky. My arm isn’t long enough—it never was—and I contemplate the extra and empty distance for a moment before dropping it back down to the mattress with a thud.

  It takes me a minute to force the rest of my limbs to move enough so I can crawl out of bed. After I stand, I jump up and down and do a quick shimmy in an effort to wake myself up and shake enthusiasm into my bones. School starts today, along with my new job down at High Street Books, and that’s most definitely something to look forward to.

  Most kids my age dread the end of summer and the return to class. They cut back on their work hours or quit their jobs altogether so that they can focus on homework and friends. This year, it will be the fun junior-year activities like homecoming and prom. I, however, didn’t quit my job. Instead, I got a new one. And unlike my classmates, I’m glad to get back to class and start working. As little free time as possible, that is my goal.

  I spent the summer babysitting, which at fifteen dollars an hour is a sweet deal for me. Put the kids to bed nice and early and spend the rest of the evening laid out on the couch, devouring the books I brought and raiding the snack-filled pantry. But my parents have been fighting more and more lately, and escaping a few nights a week is no longer cutting it. I can’t stand to spend another minute locked in my room, listening to them argue through the floorboards. I’ve decided that this year I’m going to stay extra busy while taking full advantage of the thirty percent discount as I go. I will use anything to distract myself from the inevitable collapse of my family life as I know it.

  I head for the bathroom and turn on the water, then step into the shower and let the warm beads rain down on me. I shampoo my hair, and as the water flows over my head, rinsing the suds away, I wish for it to wash away the weight pushing down on my shoulders. Last night’s argument comes back to me, and the nausea brought on by my guilt and despair worms its way back into the pit of my stomach, a sickness I’m beginning to grow used to.

  “Honestly, Martha, you should take a long hard look at yourself and consider your role in all of this.”

  My father often chooses to keep his mouth shut as his best means of defense, while my mother wastes her energy yelling to an unresponsive wall. Hearing him speak with such a hard edge last night caused my ears to perk up.

  “My role? What have I ever done aside from love you and Emma with all of my heart?” my mother pleaded, and while I could picture her on hands and knees at his feet, I hoped she wouldn’t stoop so low.

  “Maybe you should’ve saved some of that heart for yourself instead of investing everything into us. You’re not the independent, carefree woman I married.”

  I flinched but didn’t quite disagree.

  “Well, you aren’t the considerate, loving man you once were, either!” she shouted, her tone full of desperation.

  Part of me wanted to root her on, but the weakness in her voice made her words carry less conviction. I continued listening from the top of the stairs, hidden by the shadows as they ranted on, neither trying to solve the problem but merely pointing fingers and placing blame. This summer, these arguments have caused my eyes to open wide and my heart to slam firmly shut. And this time, while I hated to admit it, to side with my father, he was right, and I was desperate that for once she would listen.

  “That’s bullshit, Martha. I haven’t changed.”

  My father’s voice reflected my own thoughts. Dad has always been a workaholic, choosing the office over his family time and time again. When I was younger, my mother made it her mission to fill any possible void his absence might have left. “Daddy has to work tonight, so you and I get to have a mommy-daughter ice cream date. How does that sound, sweetheart?” was all she needed to say to distract my childhood self.

  However, the older I grew, the harder I was to distract. I’ve long since begun to notice the things I am sure they both hoped I wouldn’t. When news of the affair broke and the tension between them became palpable, I began examining their relationship with a more observant eye. I grew up thinking my dad was an important man with a
lot of responsibility, and that was why he acts the way he does at home. Now, I wonder how much of his absence stems from Mom smothering him and him struggling to escape her. The more he worked, the more she clung to him as if he were a life raft that might drift away and leave her drowning if she didn’t hold on tight enough.

  I step out of the shower and towel off before throwing on a pair of jeans and pulling a plain black tee over my head. I run a brush through my hair, the bristles gliding through the silky brown strands, and take a quick glance in the mirror to make sure everything is in place. My nose crinkles at the person staring back at me. My eyes always give me a “deer in the headlights” look, but ever since the insomnia kicked in, that deer looks malnourished and as though it’s been struggling to survive a long, harsh winter. Maybe it’s the matching blue circles that now shadow my lower lids.

  Sleep doesn’t come easy with the full-on battle that has begun between the two of them. Days aren’t any easier, seeing how Mom latches on to me now as if her seventeen-year-old kid should be responsible for her, for her happiness, since her own husband no longer wants to bear the responsibility. I love her and I long to be that rock for her, but we are a long ways away from the days of playing in the park as I dreamt last night.

  There is a picture of Mom and Dad from their honeymoon sitting on the mantel in our living room, and I frequently find myself studying it, wondering how such a happy couple has come to this. When did my father become so hard and my mother so weak? The beautiful woman in that photo turned into an empty shell, giving blindly and searching for happiness in those around her instead of looking inside herself. She needs to learn to stand on her own two feet.

  I look at my reflection now and see so much of her staring back at me. It scares me. “Will I end up like her?” I ask myself.

  I turn away from the mirror, trying to push aside all these thoughts that have been plaguing me for weeks. I reach across the nightstand and scoop up my phone and the paperback I’m currently reading. I shove them both into my bag and throw the whole thing over my shoulder.

  With my hand on the doorknob, I pause and see if I can make out parental sounds in the hallway. Greeted with silence and satisfied I am safe, I swing the door open and flee downstairs, taking them two at a time. I add a bottle of water and a blueberry yogurt from the fridge, along with a crunchy peanut butter granola bar from the pantry to my bag and am out the door before my mother can round the kitchen corner and engage me.

  Genna is already parked outside, her new car idling at the curbside.

  “Let’s go!” I spit out while shutting the door behind me, hoping she will sense my urgency and speed away. She throws me a wicked Cheshire cat smile and rolls down my window using the automatic controls at her side.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Forrester!” she shouts through the now-open window, adding a big wave for effect.

  I turn and see my mother, now pressed against the glass of the window, curtains pulled aside, smiling and waving, oblivious to her obvious desperation. My eyes squeeze shut, and I turn my head away and grunt. “Genna, please don’t encourage her.”

  Her response is a laugh, followed by, thankfully, foot to pedal as we accelerate away.

  Once the house is a safe distance behind us, I allow myself to relax and sink into the plush seat.

  “Nice car.” I look around and take in the clean dashboard and the checkered mats on the floor, obviously a new addition.

  “Thanks!” Genna beams. “I love her.” She pets the wheel with more admiration than I could possibly muster for anything with four wheels.

  Genna saved for over a year so that she could buy a car when she turned seventeen. She was ecstatic when her parents surprised her for her birthday earlier this summer, offering to match her savings, dollar for dollar. The beater she originally envisioned turned into a much nicer, though still very used two-door sports sedan in cherry red. Her love for the vehicle is unmatched, and while I have heard her wax poetic about it for weeks on the phone, this is my first ride.

  Genna plays field hockey, and after school ended in June, she spent three weeks away at training camp in Western Massachusetts, followed by daily practice on our home field. This has caused my best friend to be M.I.A. for the most part all summer. Even when she wasn’t practicing, she was away at team dinners or spending quality time with her own folks, the close-knit bunch requiring strict and regular family-only evenings. We joined up for a few ice cream gab sessions for old times’ sake, and one pizza/movie date, but each time felt rushed and fleeting. My self-inflicted isolation at home and her general distraction with the team has made this summer different, both with and without her.

  Growing up, Genna and I took trips every year, one with my mom and one with her parents. They were the best times of my life and the reason I fell in love with travelling at such a young age. We never went far, camping in New Hampshire or to their lake house in Maine. One year, as a special treat, we flew to Arizona, rented a car, and drove out to the dry and mystical lands of Sedona.

  We stayed at the most beautiful resort I have ever seen. It stood tall in the desert. The beautifully landscaped buildings were centered on a courtyard, with a massive pool that reflected like a mirror the clean blue and fluffy white of the cloud-spotted sky.

  Her parents took us on day hikes on the red rocks, the colors of the sand undulating with the sun. Genna and I raced ahead, jabbering on and giggling away as we climbed higher and higher. Pointing out clay formations and shrubbery, we pretended we were explorers discovering new land. I will never forget that week. I will never forget the feeling of falling in love with adventure.

  This is the first year we didn’t go on a trip. Her schedule was too busy, and I was sure my mom wasn’t up to it; I didn’t need her having a breakdown in front of Genna. Instead, I drove up to the White Mountains by myself one weekend. Trying to regain the excitement of years passed, I hiked up to Lafayette Lake. But I felt Genna’s absence in the sway of the trees and the crunch of the gravel beneath my boots. I tried to call her when I reached the summit, pausing lakeside to catch my breath, but her phone went to voicemail. It must have been off for practice, forgotten in her locker amongst dirty socks, hair ties, and shin guards.

  To her credit, Genna has already apologized a dozen times for not being around more, especially in light of my recent family troubles. Each time I told her it wasn’t a problem, and each time she insisted that I was being difficult and letting her off too easily. She promised to make it up to me as soon as school started and things slowed down with her sport’s schedule.

  Perhaps it is all for the best, since not having to talk about everything has been rather nice. I’ve known Genna my whole life and absolutely love her to death, but she is a fixer, and I would rather avoid becoming her next project.

  We have worked out a nice routine the past few weeks, though.

  She calls me at the end of the day, usually when I’m out on babysitting duty, after I have put the kids to bed. Excitement in her voice, Genna fills me in on the latest team gossip, which she insists on sharing despite the lack of interest on my behalf. After rambling on for a while, she realizes her mistake and asks me how I am doing and how my parents are getting along.

  What Genna fails to realize is that I don’t want her to ask. I try to distract her with talk of babysitting or the television show I’m watching. When that doesn’t work and she insists I share some deep, dark feeling about my parents’ nightly battles, I eventually give in, more for her sake, so she knows she is being a good friend, than mine. I’ve taken to grunting out some dismissive answer of the day—enough to shut her up and get her talking again.

  “So, your mom seems good…” She opens up our first face-to-face conversation about the affair since it all began.

  “Yeah, I guess. Though unfortunately she has sort of latched on to me now. I love my mother, and it kills me to see her acting this way.”

  To see her fade away like this. All those fake smiles hiding a world of hurt
inside her. I pretend not to notice, but I know she’s hurting and trying to hide it. Like me.

  That last part I keep to myself.

  Genna says nothing as she drives, waiting for me to continue as if she thinks she will have more luck drawing me out of my shell now that we are together in person. The hope twinkling in her eyes forces me to continue and throw her a couple more bones despite my reluctance.

  “I’m not sure if this is the attention she showed Dad now redirected at me, or simply a desperate clinging… Either way, I feel like I’m choking. It’s like—”

  I cut myself off and turn my head to look out the back window. I can no longer see my block, let alone my house, but I have a sudden feeling that my mother is still there, in view and able to hear my confession. I shake my head to release the sensation and turn to look at Genna, who is nodding in understanding.

  “It’ll get better,” she states with complete assurance.

  I try to muffle my frustration at her words, the same frustration that has been growing in me each time we discuss my current home situation. This is the reason I don’t like talking about it with her. I should ignore it as the simple innocent and ignorant comment it is, but I can’t help but wonder how the hell she would know.

  Her parents are the perfect couple. The worst thing they argue about is whose turn it is to clean the breakfast dishes or take out the trash. They are the couple that grosses us kids out by kissing too much and dancing in the kitchen while we finish our plates at the table. They even have a standing Friday Date Night. I know this because I spent most Friday nights at her house, growing up. Her parents would dress up for dinner or a show, while Genna and I had our own night of raw chocolate chip cookie dough and movies with the babysitter.

  Her dad has never committed adultery. She has never had to console her sobbing mother at midnight while her father still wasn’t home from the office. She will never have to live through her parents battling the way mine have, or living with the constant sense of doom as her family heads towards divorce and dismantling. I’m not sure Genna understands anything about any of this. But I grit my teeth and let it slide, because I love her and I know she means well.