Tastes Like Winter Read online

  “Being captain will help my chances of getting a scholarship this year, and I can’t mess it up, but jeez, it’s way more responsibility than I originally thought.”

  “I can’t imagine.” And I couldn’t. Being in charge of that much hormonal girl drama was terrifying to think about, and I couldn’t fathom what she had to go through. I wouldn’t have made it past day one, but Genna was a natural. Even though she complained from time to time, there was a reason her coach picked her, and I knew deep down she enjoyed the leadership and team environment. I also knew it was important to listen and let her air her frustrations so she could get back to loving it. That was my job as best friend.

  “This too shall pass,” I add wisely, and she bows her head, agreeing with and accepting my sage advice.

  OCTOBER

  I push open the heavy oak door of High Street, and before my eyes can adjust to the changing light and make out Betsy’s silhouette, she is already halfway into conversation.

  “…and we have to push the clearance carts to the sides and start setting up chairs—fifty or so should do. And the display table will be over here, and I made extra signs…” She rambles on.

  “—Sorry,” I interrupt. “Did I miss something?”

  “The Evelyn Whitmore reading is tonight! Don’t tell me you forgot, Emma. You know, for such a smart girl, you can be so absentminded…” Betsy snickers and continues mumbling to herself. “But then again, I guess the kids these days don’t get excited about real literature. Real art! Oh, I hope she reads the excerpt from when Rodrigo comes home from the Battle of Burgengardd. I absolutely love that scene. Dreamy Rodrigo…”

  Now that she mentions it, I do remember discussing an upcoming book reading and author signing last week. It was less of a discussion and more Betsy giving me a long lecture about the many talents of Mrs. Whitmore, her favorite author. She wrote a whole series of war novels interweaving historical facts with Harlequin-esque love stories. The History Channel for housewives. They are currently developing a television drama to bring her books to life and have nabbed Lorenzo Bastille, from the popular soap opera Time in a Bottle, to play the lead. Evelyn is doing a nationwide book tour to drum up publicity for the show, and High Street Books is her next stop.

  Betsy has stopped talking and is now looking up at me, bright-eyed. It’s official. My boss is a fangirl. I chuckle, mostly to myself. I love her enthusiasm. Her energy is positively infectious and exactly what I need these days. I give her shoulder a gentle squeeze to show my approval, and satisfied by my response, she returns to her stack of flyers.

  I make my way down the aisles of books and through the supply room doors, letting them flap noisily on their rusty hinges. After tossing my bag down on the bench, I pull my apron off its hook and throw it over my head, all in one swift motion. I slide my feet out of the flats I wore to school that day while opening the flap of my bag and pulling out my sneakers. I sit down and take a second to massage my toes gently, grateful to take off the hard-soled shoes.

  Mom brought this particular pair of flats home last weekend as a spontaneous gift, and I wanted to please her by wearing them. They are a beautiful navy blue with a similarly toned jewel at the front, and they elevate my simple combo of jeans and long-sleeved tee. The shoes allow me to look more put together without actually challenging myself and exerting any extra effort. At least that was Genna’s expert assessment when she noticed them this morning. Unfortunately, they still have a lot of breaking in to do, and spending eight hours in them today at school was not the smartest choice.

  I reach back into my bag and pull out a pair of thick socks. As soon as I slide the socks on my feet, I feel instant relief. The simple joys of cotton. As I relish in the feeling, I hear Betsy talking in the main room and smile to myself.

  “Nutty lady is talking to herself again. If only I had something to be so excited about.” Halfway through, I realize the irony that I, too, am now talking to myself and zip my lips. I wedge my feet into my sneakers, double-knot the laces, and head back out the door. As soon as I get past the travel section, I am surprised to see that she is not, in fact, alone.

  I recognize the guy Betsy is talking to from school. He is a couple of years older than me and, if I remember correctly, has a bit of a reputation. But what is he doing here, and how does he know Betsy? Maybe he is a big Evelyn Whitmore fan and wanted to get here early. Ha! I doubt it. I walk up to where they are standing but make no move to interrupt their conversation. Smiling politely, I pretend to look up at Betsy, but from the corner of my eye, I watch him.

  He is half a foot taller than me and thin. Not lanky, but not overly muscular, either. He is wearing light jeans, threadbare at the knees and frayed where they meet his shoes. His sneakers are black and nondescript and, similar to his jeans, look long worn and well loved. He has a loose grey tee shirt on, and the biceps that peak out are beautifully corded and still tanned from the fading summer sun.

  My eyes drop to the black sweatshirt he has balled up in his fist. A deeply folded Moleskine notebook, peeking out from the front pocket, catches my eye, but my attention quickly shifts back up to the veins bulging slightly under the stress of his grip. I can’t help but stare at his arm. Light fine hair covers his skin, and I find myself unexpectedly wanting to touch its softness. The flash of heat that rises in my cheeks takes me off guard, as it’s not a reaction I am used to, not a feeling I ever remember having before.

  Certain that the company in front of me must be able to hear the blood pounding through my veins, I blink and self-consciously raise my eyes. He’s staring at me. Our eyes lock for a second before I uncomfortably look away. I return my gaze to Betsy and realize they have stopped talking. Crap!

  She shakes her head ever so slightly and motions to him. “My apologies, Emma. Do you know my nephew, Jake? I’m sure I have mentioned him before. He is supposed to be working here, but schoolwork sure has kept him busy. But Dan and I are happy to relieve him of his shifts, since we always say school comes first, right Jake?”

  Jake dips his head, but he continues to direct his gaze at me, his scrutiny prickling my skin. Betsy’s eyes dart between the two of us, and I am sure she can sense the deep awkwardness I am feeling. I have to look back at him to not be rude, but for some reason, I am afraid. I quietly let out a breath and turn my head.

  I paste a friendly smile on my face and reply, “Yeah. I think we used to go to the same school? I’m Emma. It’s nice to meet you.”

  I clumsily extend my hand, regretting the movement as soon as my body makes it. Who shakes hands? It’s so formal. He senses my reluctance, and he responds by relaxing his own stance. He grips my hand firmly and gives it a shake. His hand is rough and warm and exactly as I was imagining it seconds earlier. Before I can swallow the knot in my throat, Jake releases my hand and turns to leave.

  “Well, I better let you guys get back to work. I wanted to drop off the car keys. I’ll see you later, Aunt B.” He stops at the door and turns back slightly, his eyes meeting mine once more. He bows his head and smirks. “It was nice meeting you.”

  And before I know it, he is out the door. I stare off into the empty space, considering what just transpired and trying to understand why I am unsettled to the core.

  I remember hearing school gossip about him, but I never before made the connection to Betsy. Jake Addler was known as a bit of a problem child—the usual mix of drugs and alcohol. Not necessarily a troublemaker in the sense of picking school fights and failing out, but rather he sat in the back of the class, stoned and half asleep. He was handsome and brooding, and all the girls ate it up. I never did understand that tired cliché, but seeing him now, he has a definite charm. Though I must admit, he doesn’t look like much of a derelict. He graduated last year, and I haven’t seen or heard much about him since. When his parents died, it was a small-town headliner, but he wasn’t mentioned in any of the news articles I read.

  I continue thoughtfully staring at the spot he occupied until Betsy breaks thro
ugh.

  “Emma!”

  “What?”

  “What?” She peers at me knowingly and gives me the same smirk Jake left me with. It must run in the family.

  “I don’t know what you are talking about.” And after rolling back my shoulders, I turn on my heels and head to the side to set up chairs.

  ***

  During dinner later that night, I casually mention Betsy’s mystery nephew in an attempt to dig up more details from my always-in-the-know mother. I think I’m being subtle, but she smells one sniff of boy talk and runs with it. Over the next hour, she happily fills me in on all of the town gossip about the accident—the good dirt that you can’t read in the newspaper—like we are regular chatty Cathies. I fish out the following:

  1. Jake’s parents were both killed instantly in an accident a little over a year ago, when their car went off the road.

  2. They were divorced at the time of the accident (but driving in the same car together? Scandal!).

  3. Much like my own self-centered father (her words, not mine), Jake’s father also cheated on his beautiful sweetheart of a mother (again, her words).

  4. Jake, while not in the accident himself, was found on the scene at the time. Rumors are he was found mute, covered in blood, clutching his mother’s dead body.

  5. When the paramedics tried to pry him off so they could get her into the ambulance, he freaked out and ran away from the scene.

  “Wait! He ran away? Like literally ran away?” I interrupt her.

  She raises her eyebrows conspiratorially. “Well, that’s what they say.” She is eating this up. “The police let him go because the deaths were pretty obviously accidental, but it took days before they could track him down and get their questions answered for their official report.”

  She goes on to tell me that Betsy and her husband, Dan, took Jake in to raise alongside their daughter, Samantha.

  “Pretty blond girl. Plays sports. I think she might be a year younger than you. Do you know her? If she plays sports, Genna probably does.” My mom easily recognizes that Genna is the more social one in our odd pairing.

  I have heard Betsy mention Sam before, but we have yet to work together. I try to picture her from interactions at school or with Genna, but after failing, make a mental note to fish more the next day.

  I end the conversation quite satisfied. Mom is acting happier tonight than I have seen her in months, and I am grateful that we were able to spend an evening together, the two of us, talking about boys in a traditional mother-daughter way. No tears, no tension, no drama and yelling. All my tough love and self-imposed distancing has been hard on the both of us, and coming together again tonight makes my heart cramp up. We gather our dirty plates, and I help her carry them into the kitchen before we load up the dishwasher side by side.

  With the last glass and fork loaded, I switch on the machine to start the cycle as Mom grabs a sponge to wipe down the now-empty sink. Leaning against the corner, I watch her. Satisfying my curiosity about Jake tonight is icing on the cake; however, my bubble of contentment while looking up at Mom’s smiling face as she cleans deflates as I question why I am curious about Jake at all.

  Sure, I’ve been attracted to guys before. I’ve even shared a few sloppy kisses throughout my middle and high school career. But none of that ever amounted to anything more than a fleeting moment or two. Yet, even though I don’t want to admit it, Jake has been tickling the back of my mind all day. The way my heart instantly reacted when I saw him. The way he examined me, smirked at me. So what gives? Why him? Why now? And why am I still, hours later, unsettled and nervous?

  Observing my mother these past months, and seeing how much she has gone through with Dad, scares me. I never want to end up like that. I never want to sacrifice my life for a guy. So is Jake eliciting this reaction in me simply because he is the first new boy I have met since my eyes have been opened so wide by my parents’ situation? My heart is pumping a warning and reminding me to be wary and strong. That must be all it is.

  Satisfied with that answer, I hope I can now put it—him—behind me. I decide to head for my room. There is a chapter and a dozen problem sets I should to get through before Calculus tomorrow, and I’d better start reading. Before I go, I loop my arms around my mom’s shoulders and hug her gently from behind, trying to push love and strength into her with my touch.

  “Homework time. Thanks for dinner. I love you, Mom”

  She pats my hands gently in return, the moisture from her cleaning dampening my skin. “Love you too, sweetie.”

  Her voice sounds weak again, and the hope I had for her progress lessens. I give her one final tight squeeze before forcing myself to walk away lest she starts crying again.

  ***

  The next day during our morning drive to school, I test fate again. Quite out of character, but unable to help myself, I ask Genna if someone named Samantha Addler is on any of her teams. She recognizes the name as soon as I say it.

  “Yeah, but call her Sam. She goes crazy when people call her Samantha. She’s pretty popular. I am surprised you don’t know her. She’s a sophomore, though, so maybe not. She is a middle-of-the-road player. Coach thought she had a lot of potential, but over the past year, she’s fallen from top ranks. From my experience, she can actually be quite the bitch.” She shrugs. As soon as I think I’m in the clear, she turns her head, curiosity plastered on her face. “Why do you ask?”

  I am ready and expertly dodge the question. “Oh, no reason. She’s my boss’s daughter, and I guess my mom went to school with my boss. She brought Sam up at dinner last night in an attempt to bond.”

  The Mom card is well played, and without a second word, she drops the subject. I don’t want to tell Genna about Jake yet. Once I tell Genna, she will freak out and want details, and aside from a minute-long supremely awkward conversation, there is nothing to report. Best to keep my curiosities to myself until I have a chance to completely figure my own feelings out or forget all about him, whichever comes first.

  Sure enough, later that day, I find myself having another Addler family encounter. I don’t know if my subconscious sought it out or if it was all coincidental, but after lunch while Genna and I are heading to our lockers, I round the corner and walk right smack into Sam Addler.

  Of course, I don’t know it at the time, but no sooner do I beg apology and walk away than does Genna grab my arm and whisper, “That’s the Sam you were asking about.” I turn my head and strain to see where she is heading off in the distance, but I’m met with nothing more than a swoosh of straight blond hair.

  At lunch, I see Sam again. This time my eyes have knowingly sought her out. I’m not sure why, but my strange interest in Jake has translated into a new (and admittedly creepy) interest in his cousin. I spend all period watching her across the cafeteria. Similarly athletic and popular kids surround her. Their group is boisterous, and they tease each other as they munch on fries and sip their sodas. Genna was right; Sam is someone I should have noticed earlier, if I paid attention to the people around me.

  Mary is sitting at the round table beside me with her head in her AP Biology book, taking bites of her salad whenever she turns the page. We have a quiz this afternoon that I should be prepping for, but I can’t stop staring in front of me. Mary’s distraction allows me to observe Sam uninterrupted. As I watch her, I try to pull out some of Jake’s characteristics as I remember them from our brief meeting.

  Sam has long blond hair that is pencil straight, whereas Jake has darker, thicker tufts that are short and stick up slightly in the front. I shut my eyes to help remember and paint his face back into my mind. I open them again and squint to see Sam’s eyes. Even from several tables away, I can see they shine blue like Jake’s. They also both have smooth, tanned skin that looks as though it picks up the sun effortlessly. I close my eyes again and include those details in my mental portrait. I add a few strokes for the angles of his chin and the lines of his cheeks and nose.

  When I blink aga
in and refocus on the cafeteria in front of me, Mary is in my face, looking annoyed.

  “What is wrong with you? The bell rang. We have to go!”

  I swallow the thickness in my throat and try to shake off the daydream and collect myself.

  “Ye-yeah, s-sorry. Let’s go,” I stutter and grab my bag from the empty seat next to me. “Ready?”

  I smile up at Mary as if I wasn’t completely zoned out seconds before. She narrows her eyes at me before turning and walking ahead, as if expecting me to follow. I fall in line behind her quietly, staring at my shoes and trying to cool the heat that has risen to my cheeks.

  ***

  I flip another page and keep reading. My shift ended a little less than an hour ago, but unwilling to go home, I have been hiding in the back, reading. My head is pushed against the cold metal of the locker behind me, and I shut my eyes and rub them fiercely to wipe away the fatigue. I’m halfway through the divine comedy that is Dante’s Inferno, and while interesting, it is heavy reading that exhausts my brainpower.

  The door swings open, and Jake, whom I have not been able to stop thinking about since our first encounter, strolls in. I look up.

  “Hi. Emma, right?”

  “Yeah.” My voice is weak.

  “What are you doing back here?” His eyes dart around the room in confusion.

  “Oh, I—I” I stammer. “I was reading.”

  He tilts his head curiously and gives me a smirk. “In the storage room?”

  “I like it back here. It’s… peaceful.” I sound like a nitwit. So far, Jake has the uncanny ability to turn me into a blubbering idiot. I blame my hormones and his good looks.

  He gives me a weird glance before grabbing a thick folder from the top of the filing cabinet.

  “Also, I don’t want to go home,” I am compelled to add, not sure if I am trying to redeem myself or if the depth of his gaze is pulling it out of me. I chide myself for oversharing.