Tastes Like Winter Page 16

  As soon as I open my door, I see Mom at the other end of the hall. She looks up at the sound and moves eagerly towards me. I try to make it to the bathroom door before she can reach me. I’m not sure I can hide the bleeding heart on my sleeve, and I don’t want her to see.

  “Hey there, sweetie. Good morning! I see you found the laundry. I tried not to wake you when I was putting them down.”

  “Thanks, Mom. And no, you didn’t. I have to be at work in thirty minutes.”

  “Oh, okay. Do you want me to make you breakfast?” She is extra chipper this morning.

  “No, I have to hurry. I’ll grab a granola bar on my way out.” I reach to close the door to signal the end of the conversation, but she sticks her hand in to block me and smiles. This time, her expression shows a touch of questioning.

  “How was last night with Dad? You guys have a nice discussion?”

  “It was fine, but I can’t talk now, Mom. I need to get ready.”

  I brush her hand aside and shut the door. I press my forehead against the wood. I hate pushing her out, but I force myself to remain silent as I listen to her feet shuffle outside for a moment before eventually moving away and down the hall.

  When I emerge a record seven minutes later, she is gone. I breathe a sigh of relief, grab my backpack along with the coffee mug and granola bar that she has laid on the counter for me, and head out for the day.

  The shop greets a constant stream of customers throughout the morning. Fourth of July brings crowds to the ocean town, and they are all looking for their next beach read. What’s good for business is good for Betsy, and I am happy to work harder for her. It’s good for me, too, since I have been too busy all day to dwell on my own problems (read: Jacob Thomas Addler).

  At the end of the day, I flip the sign on the door to read “Closed” and begin filling a basket with any books that were misplaced so that I can re-file them. A group of spoiled brats were in earlier and decided to pull the whole children’s shelf apart while their mothers were off perusing the romance section. While unsupervised, they deposited the books in random scattered piles throughout the store.

  I am sitting in front of a shelf, surrounded by brightly colored animal illustrations, trying to put the books back into alphabetical order, when I hear the bell above the door sound. Crap! I must have forgotten to lock it. I clumsily struggle to rise from beneath the piles.

  “Hey, sorry, but we’re closed.” I shout while trying to peek my head around the corner.

  It’s Sam. I roll my eyes and lay the stack of books I was holding down on the carpet. I stand slowly and brush my hands off on my jeans, more for effect than them actually being dirty.

  “Look, I don’t know what you want, but I am not in the mood for your attitude at the moment. I have a lot of cleanup to do around here before I can close for the night, so if you don’t mind…”

  I meet her eyes. She is frowning, and her face is painted with distress.

  “What?” I ask.

  She struggles for words.

  “What, Sam? What? I wasn’t joking about being busy.” I let my impatience come out with my words.

  She brings her hands together and begins nervously picking at her cuticles. She mumbles, “I… think I need your help… I don’t know what to do, but I think I need to do something… and I think I need your help.”

  “Oh, you need my help? That’s interesting. And what, pray tell, can I help you with?”

  “Jake…”

  The look she gives me has me terrified. Her words hit me, and my mind races back to last night, a knot instantly forming in my stomach.

  “What about Jake? Did something happen?”

  It’s funny how, no matter how angry I am at him and how little he deserves it, I still care.

  “No, he’s fine. I mean, well, he’s not fine, but no, nothing specific happened. Like, he didn’t get into a car accident or anything.”

  I relax marginally.

  “But he’s not doing well at all lately. He didn’t come home until five a.m. this morning, and even then, he stumbled in smelling like all hell and looking even worse. I woke up to the sound of him tripping on his way to the bathroom. He fell flat on his face, and it took me a while before I could get him up. I haven’t seen him like this since—well, I haven’t seen him like this in a while, and I’m getting worried.”

  She stops, and I can’t tell if it’s because she wants me to say something or if she is taking time to form her next words.

  I gesture for her to continue. “And what do you want me to do?”

  “He needs you. He’s been going downhill since you guys broke up or whatever it is that happened, and—”

  “You can’t break up if you’re never going out to start with. Besides, he isn’t talking to me, so what makes you think I’m the solution here?”

  She hesitates a moment then blurts outs, “He stopped talking to you because of me!”

  I narrow my eyes and look at her sideways. “What do you mean, ‘He stopped talking to you because of me’?”

  “Well…” She gets the nervous look in her eyes again. “I sort of told him that you were too good for him and that he didn’t deserve you. I told him that he would mess it all up, like he does everything else in life.”

  “What? When?” I shake my head, confused, trying to put the pieces together. What is wrong with this girl? “Why the hell would you tell him that?”

  “Remember that fight we had at school?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “Well, I was angry and jealous.” She looks guilty for a second and then switches back to the mean girl expression I have grown to recognize on her. “He gets everything so easily! Straight As in school without even trying, my parents’ constant love and devotion. They baby him so much. Gas money, clothes, movies—whatever he wants! No problem! I’m their own kid, and they don’t even notice me since he moved in!”

  “His parents died!” I yell back with fire.

  “Yeah, and it was his fault they died, not mine! Why do I have to pay for it?” she retorts. She sounds like such a snob.

  “You know, Sam.” I stop short, trying to control my temper. “You sound like a spoiled, little bitch right now.” I spit the words. “It wasn’t his fault! Besides you think he doesn’t already blame himself? His fault or not, you don’t think he already punishes himself everyday?”

  She slinks back, looking afraid and remorseful, as if maybe she never did think of that possibility.

  “No amount of gas money makes up for the death of both of your parents. Are you that selfish, that you would begrudge him the comfort of your parents’ love when that is all he has left?”

  She shakes her head feebly. “No, no. I’m sorry.” She sounds genuine.

  “Something is seriously wrong with you. But please, don’t apologize to me. Apologize to him. He feels bad enough. He doesn’t need you throwing it back in his face whenever you’re feeling ignored. You need to grow the hell up.”

  “Ugh. I know! I know I messed up. That’s why I’m here. I’m trying to fix this.”

  “You need to fix it with him, not me.”

  “Fix it how?”

  “I don’t know how. Just fix it! Tell him the truth. Tell him you lied. But don’t let him go around thinking you blame him, too!”

  I try to put my part of the equation aside for the moment. That is another issue entirely, which isn’t as important right now.

  Sam disagrees. “You’re good for him, you know?”

  I look her straight in the eye.

  “He has a funny way of showing it,” I reply, more to myself than her. “In fact, you have a funny way of showing it, too.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s how he is. He always has been. More so since the accident, but before that, too. He closed up during his parents’ divorce. He can be nice and sweet, but he can also be a real ass.”

  I find myself chuckling out loud and bite it back.

  “It’s like a constant push and pull with h
im, like he can’t decide what is worth his investment.”

  I scrunch up my nose, dumbfounded. Because Sam has gone from naïve brat to psychologically observant in five minutes flat, and because she is reiterating everything that I, myself, had noticed throughout our entire messed-up relationship.

  I blink, and she is still talking.

  “…But when you guys were hanging out, he was… I don’t know… lighter. A little less brooding, a little more upbeat, happier. I’m stupid for letting my own jealousy get in the way, but you were good for him. I saw it. Mom saw it too, and she was always teasing him about you. It made me crazy.”

  She smiles at me for the first time, and again, it looks genuine. “I guess he’s becoming like a real brother to me. Hell, I definitely have the love-hate part of the relationship down.”

  She laughs, and I find myself joining her.

  “All right, I guess I’m going to go try to find him. Thanks, and again, I am really sorry.” She steps forward, as if moving in to give me a hug before deciding against it.

  I appreciate the thought but agree that not hugging is probably for the best. Sam and I have a long way to go before I can forgive her attitude and act civil enough for physical contact.

  She heads to leave but before she reaches the door, I call out, “Hey, Sam. Was that stuff you told me that day at school true?”

  She turns back. “Half true. He was in the car and he was driving, but he swears he wasn’t high and the stuff they found in the car wasn’t his.”

  “But he got arrested…” I push for more of an explanation.

  “I guess the owner of the car automatically gets charged with possession. They tested him at the station and his test came back clean, so the judge reduced his sentence to probation. Mom says Jake could have fought it, but he refused. He took the blame so his friends wouldn’t get into any trouble.” She shrugs. “Loyal, I guess. Stupid, but loyal.”

  “Does he still party like he used to?”

  “Not until last night…”

  I nod.

  “Okay, I’m going to go talk to him. I’ll see you around.”

  And she is out the door.

  I stand for a few moments, unable to move while I process this new information. I’m angry with Sam for what she did, but I’m also optimistic that maybe we can now get past our differences once and for all and become some semblance of friends.

  Ha! Okay, not friends, but maybe not enemies? I do have one more year with her at school before I graduate, and it would be nice to no longer have so much hostility accompany me down the halls.

  I let my thoughts move to Jake. Maybe the past few months of me being ignored weren’t another one of his games. However, my conscience tugs at me. Even though what Sam did was wrong, unbelievably wrong, he still had a choice in all of this. He could have talked things out with me. We were close enough for that, weren’t we? I understand that he is fighting with himself, but does he need to keep fighting with me on top of it? You don’t do that to someone you care about, demons or not.

  I plop back down on the floor amongst my stack. The piles have grown exponentially with my thoughts, and they become endless. I pick up another book; this one is about barnyard animals. There is a picture of a giant, bubblegum pink pig on the cover. I tap the cardboard, wondering if I should text Jake. My heart plays tug-of-war as I place the book along with a few others back in their appropriate spots on the shelf.

  Confused once again as to what to think or do, I let out another silent scream, ending the day in much the same manner as it began.

  ***

  The next morning when I arrive to open the shop, the temperature has dropped, chilling the air. The sky is dark with clouds, and while it is not yet raining, the outlook is not good. Poor weather makes for slower business, and I guessed that the store would be quieter today.

  I throw my bag in a cubby under the counter and reach for the keys to unlock the register. I plop down on the chair and realize that I have sat on a book. I pull it out from underneath me and see it is a copy of Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree. I spring back up and begin walking it over to the children’s section. I must have missed this one during last night’s clean up.

  I make space next to the other Ss, and as I position the book to shove it in its place, a piece of paper falls out and sails to the floor. I pick it up.

  On the other side, in familiar handwriting, it reads:

  I talked to Sam last night. Meet me after work. Harbor Side Park? Please.

  It wasn’t really a question, and the please was more of an afterthought. I take the book and note back to the front counter, set them down beside the register, and get down to work.

  Five minutes later, I turn the book and note over, face down.

  Another minute passes, and I shove them in my bag. Out of sight, out of mind.

  I swear that tree was giving me a funny look.

  ***

  I get to the park a few minutes after eight. The sun didn’t make much of an appearance at all today, but the sky is still gently lit on the horizon, and the moon hasn’t yet made its ascension above.

  Jake is waiting for me on the swings. His back is towards me, and his head hangs down. He twists side to side, pushing himself half-heartedly with his left foot.

  I sit down opposite him, on the next swing over, and wait for him to speak. His problem. His invitation. His turn to speak.

  He looks up at me quietly, studying my face.

  “Well?” I insist. So much for it being his turn. I lift my brows. I didn’t realize how much anger I still had in me until now. Despite yesterday’s movement forward with Sam, this was becoming a waste of time.

  “I’m thinking!” he says back like a frustrated child.

  His playful mocking tone brings a smirk to my face. I fight it back and try not to give in to his charmingly pouted lip.

  “You had all day to think,” I remind him.

  He sighs and shakes his head gently with a grin. “Yeah, well, now that you’re sitting there looking all mad, I’m having trouble putting those thoughts into words. I can’t tell if I’m intimidated by that scowl or turned on.”

  My mouth drops open, aghast. I stumble to close it, and a smile unwittingly crawls across my face. It’s as though not even a day has passed. He sees that my guard has dropped and relaxes into his own smile. For a second, he is goofy Jake again, but it’s gone in the blink of an eye.

  “So, like I said in the note, I talked to Sam. She said some stuff, I said some stuff, and now I am here apologizing.” He races through. Here is the Mr. Avoidance I have come to know and love.

  “Well, are you going to actually apologize, or is that as much as I am going to get?”

  “Wow, you’re tough.” His playful expression returns.

  I twitch but refuse to falter. “No, Jake. I’m just tired.” I force out the words.

  “All right. Fair enough. I’m sorry, okay? I am an idiot. I let Sam get to me. I’ve got shit to work on, I know that. But here”—he lifts an arm from the swing set’s chain and motions around him—“This is me trying.”

  The words are sincere, but the delivery reeks of ass-hole-ism.

  “You’re trying, huh? What exactly are you trying for? Because it sure would be nice to know what I’m even doing here. I get that you have things in your past that make it difficult for you to express yourself. And I’m trying to be understanding, but I need some help over here.”

  I break off for a second before launching in again. “You know, Sam told me more about how you feel about me last night than you ever have. You can wax poetic for hours about books, travel, philosophy, but what about me?”

  Frustrated, I turn my glance down to my bag, which I dropped at my feet when I sat down. “You love lions, huh?”

  I kick the doodle staring up at me.

  “Do you love lions, Jake? Or do you love me?” I meet his eyes again, pulling deep at him for an answer. “Because if you don’t, that’s fine. I can deal with that, b
ut cut it with your excuses and these bullshit games. Maybe it’s in one of those journals you keep. But I’m at the point where I am fed up, and I need you to take a moment, get over your hang-ups, and fill me in on how you feel.”

  I’m practically panting now. The stress of finally getting those words out has created a frenzy I can’t hold back any longer. Jake moves to speak, but I stop him.

  “No. Don’t. Take some time and think about it. Figure out what you want. What you actually feel for me.” I charge the word “you” with as much emphasis as I can muster. “And when you’re ready, when you make a decision, let me know. In or out, Jake. Because if you want there to be an ‘us,’ you need to stop running, quit fighting, and let us be us.” I emphasize the word “us” with a soft caress, hoping that he will get my message.

  He stares back at me before nodding. “Okay. I will. I promise.”

  I nod back, suddenly exhausted. The finality of his response leaves me temporarily satisfied. I said what I came to say. The proverbial ball is in his court. I push myself back, pump my legs once, and jump off the swing.

  This time when I walk to my car, I have no desire to look back.

  AUGUST

  A few weeks have passed since our playground encounter, and I’ve still heard no word from Jake. While it saddens me that he couldn’t grow up and get past the things holding him back, my heart is a little lighter, knowing I said my piece. It makes it a bit easier to move on. No answer is, in fact, an answer of sorts, and now I know.

  Shortly after the holiday weekend, my mom cornered me by the fridge and spilled the beans. Apparently she was acting strange not because of a big birthday surprise she was planning for me, but rather because of a certain piece of news, which my father was supposed to have brought up the night of July Fourth and obviously didn’t.

  She took charge and filled me in about how the divorce agreement has at last been settled and the papers will be signed and finalized by month’s end.