Tastes Like Winter Page 4

  He locks onto my eyes and asks directly, “Why not?”

  I don’t think he’s being nosey and prying, but something about the way he asked makes me want to respond honestly. “Home is a bit tense these days. My parents, they’re on the verge of a divorce. It’s so cliché, but it turns out my dad was fooling around with his co-worker.”

  “Secretary?”

  “I don’t think secretary is politically correct anymore. I hear they like to be called executive assistants these days.” I was reverting to sarcasm as a defense. “But, yeah, same thing.”

  He is unfazed by my correction. “Sorry to hear that. I can relate. The curse of the twenty-first century teen—divorce is written in our DNA.”

  I throw him a feeble half smile, and he changes the subject. “What are you reading?”

  I hold up my copy of Dante, and he chuckles in response. He drops his bag from his shoulder, unzips it, and pulls out a copy of the same book.

  “It appears that you and I have a lot in common, Emma Forrester.” He shoves the book along with the folder into place at the bottom of his pack and pushes through the door. It flaps loudly on its hinges in his wake, the sound echoing in my head. I continue following his path with my eyes, desperate for X-ray vision so I could see through the door now blocking my view.

  “That was weird,” I think aloud, trying to shrug it off, but inside I am reeling. It appears we have a lot in common, Emma Forrester, I mock internally. How did he know my last name?

  I reprimand my subconscious. I know his last name. It’s not so strange for him to know mine. Maybe it was the way he said it, as if I’ve piqued his interest and he can’t help but be intrigued. Or maybe I am projecting because of how intrigued I am with him.

  So far, the rumors from school don’t match the Jake I’ve seen. I’m happy for that, but truthfully, it’s still too early to tell. Despite my strange connection, I don’t know Jake at all. I do know that, while he is known for getting high, he has acted perfectly lucid the two times I met him. But maybe that means nothing.

  I’ve never understood drug use and have always been firmly against it. Why would anyone want to dull their senses and zombify themselves? Not to mention how dangerous it is. Call me uptight, but I have seen way too many public service announcements and sat through too many health lectures to ever want to go near the stuff.

  Drug addicts don’t read Dante, do they?

  After fifteen minutes of trying to re-focus on the prose in front of me, I give up on my book with a heavy sigh. I can’t shake the image of Jake from my mind. He’s handsome in a sexy, uncaring, just-rolled-out-of-bed way. His dark hair and hard lines are softened by the ocean in his eyes. They see into me, causing my stomach to twist in an unfamiliar way. It excites me and makes me feel alive.

  Accepting that my literary journey through hell won’t go any further, now that I have been presented with this newfound distraction, I close my book and resolve to finally and begrudgingly go home.

  ***

  Several days later, Jake catches me hiding out in the back of the store again. I’m not ready to admit to myself that I have been making a habit of hanging out here after work hoping for another run-in, but it’s a possibility. He’s expecting me this time and immediately reaches out to hand me a paperback. The cover is well worn, and a huge crease cuts across the front. I read the title: L'Étranger. It is the original French version of the famous novel by Albert Camus. I look up at him, surprised.

  “I read it when my parents were getting their divorce, and it helped.”

  I stare back down at the book. Jake brought me a gift? Even if it’s used, it still counts as a gift! My heart does a flip in my chest, and I am so excited and curious, I can barely think. But I am also baffled by his selection.

  Reading the confusion in my eyes, he continues, “You know, last week you mentioned that stuff about your parents. I thought it might help.”

  I stare at the cover trying to make sense of what he means. I am familiar with the book but have yet to read it myself.

  He looks like a scolded little boy who has overstepped his boundaries.

  “Anyway…” He tries to backtrack.

  I cut him short. “A novel about existentialism and the meaninglessness of life helped you through your parents’ divorce?” I challenge him, still surprised by his selection.

  “What? I find something comforting about his portrayal of the absurdities of life. It makes everything seem so… inconsequential.” He waves a hand as if to signify how little everything around us matters.

  I scrunch my nose, at last understanding his distorted logic and appreciating the backwards attempt at self-help. Funnily enough, I see where he is coming from and completely agree. So far, he is the first person I have told about my parents who hasn’t tried to console me with “Everything will be all right.” Maybe reading this book will actually help.

  “Thanks. That was thoughtful.” I hold up the book. “How did you know I read French?”

  I’ve been taking French classes all through middle and high school, and my father is fluent in the language from his time living in Paris as a young adult. Growing up, he would teach me phrases and quiz me on words. It is actually one of the few bonding experiences I can remember having with him as a child. I am currently at an AP level in school, a class that isn’t even technically offered. I sit in with the Advanced French III kids, doing an independent study of sorts. The class consists of me reading books Madame Jacquel picks out for me and writing long papers on them. Les Misérables, LeFantôme de l'Opéra, Candide. Maybe I would suggest I read this one next.

  Nevertheless, Jake couldn’t have known that.

  He shrugs. “Aunt B mentioned something about it.”

  I try to remember ever mentioning it to Betsy but come up short. His explanation is insufficient, but I don’t push him further.

  “Oh. Well, Thanks again. I can’t wait to read it.”

  He smiles, and instead of moving to leave, he leans back against the wall opposite me, crossing his legs at the ankle, looking relaxed. In an attempt to avoid awkward silence, I sit back against the lockers, trying to mimic his comfortable stance and ask, “Do you study French at all?”

  “Yup. In high school, and now I have to take a few classes as a prerequisite for my major. That’s actually my copy from class, so sorry for the shitty condition. It probably has a lot of highlighting and some translated notes.”

  I am thrilled by the prospect of seeing which passages he marked for later reconsideration. “Where do you go again?”

  “Emerson.” He continues by reading my mind and answering my next question before I have the opportunity to ask it. “Philosophy major, literature minor.”

  “Wow. That sounds awesome. I would love to study something like that.”

  “I like it. I get to read a lot of cool books, and classes are mostly discussion based, which is way less painful than lectures.”

  “What type of job are you hoping to come from it when you graduate?” I ask curiously.

  He shrugs in response, “No clue.”

  I cringe. “And that doesn’t terrify you?”

  He laughs heartily before pausing for a long moment, considering his answer before speaking. “There are more important things to be scared of in life than dismal job prospects.”

  I narrow my eyes at him, trying to read his meaning, but he changes the subject before I have the chance to form a reply.

  “Now that classes are in full swing and Aunt B is satisfied that I’ve gotten a good feel for my teachers and class schedule, I’ll probably be around here more often helping out. She’s pretty strict about schoolwork and wanted to make sure I was settled in first. Maybe I’ll see you around?”

  Betsy pops her head in and announces that she is heading out to grab a bite to eat. She asks Jake if he wouldn’t mind watching the register for twenty minutes since he is already here. He agrees, and embarrassed about still hiding out in the storage room, I inform her that I was
on my way out. I pack up my stuff and head to the front alongside her. As soon as I’m out the door, I flip through the book. It is heavily marked up with notes. I beam and clutch the book to my chest as if I have been given a secret treasure that I need to protect.

  Betsy makes no notice and heads for her own car. “See you next week!”

  “See you!”

  ***

  Jake’s gift is perfectly timed, because as soon as I arrive home, I am greeted with both of my parents sitting at the dining room waiting for me. Their hands are crossed stiffly—my father’s in his lap, and my mother’s resting atop the large cherry table, picking nervously at the surface.

  As soon as the door opens, they look up, and my heart sinks. This can’t be good.

  “Emma?” My mother takes the lead. “Can you come in here for a minute?”

  My stomach begins to churn. I drop my bag inside the entryway, and its thud sounds loudly in contrast to their heavy silence.

  “What’s up?” I ask with caution as I slide into a seat across from them.

  My mom glances over at my dad to see if he would like to step up and take the lead, but not surprisingly, he shrugs and says nothing, leaving her to explain.

  “As you know,” she begins, “your father and I have been going through a difficult time, these past several months.”

  I know what is coming. At once, my palms feel clammy and my heart dips, because I know. I thought they’d work it out. I may have dreamed one of them would move out so the fighting would stop. But now that it’s going to happen…

  It’s there in my mother’s eye, and the pain is excruciating.

  Please don’t say it; please don’t say it…

  She continues unaware, “I’m sorry, Emma, but I don’t think we’ll be able to work things out. We’ve decided that it would be best for your father to move out and get a place of his own. It’s been too hard on you. We don’t want to keep exposing you to the fighting. It isn’t the norm. This isn’t what we want for you.”

  She looks at me with pain-filled eyes while I sit there and absorb what she is saying. No more fights. No more listening to their daily arguments. I have known this was coming for a while now. I should be grateful. I should be happy that they, we, the three of us, can move on to a healthier place. But I feel like crying instead. She waits for me to say something, but all I can think to respond with is a measly “Okay.”

  My mom looks frustrated, as though this is not how she expected this conversation to go, which angers me. Does she want me to yell and storm up to my room in a childish tantrum? Does she want me to tell her it will all be okay and that I am fine with this divorce? Her eyes plead with me. What the hell does she want me to say? I look over to my dad, hoping he might have an answer.

  The silence is painful, slicing into my last nerve, until finally he speaks. His voice is firm and lacks emotion. “I leased a one-bedroom apartment by South Gate. The deposit has already been paid. I will be moving out slowly over the next few days. After I am settled, we can work out some sort of a schedule for visits. I would like to keep seeing you.”

  His words are hollow; he barely sees me now. And a one-bedroom? He obviously wasn’t thinking of me when apartment hunting.

  “Okay?” I offer, trying to keep emotion from my voice.

  Is this conversation done yet? My mother’s shoulders slump, and she looks more defeated than I have ever seen her. My father looks angry, not that he has any right to be. He shoves back from the table and stands.

  “Okay.” He dismisses us and exits the room, as if he can’t get away from us fast enough. Seconds later, I hear the door to his study close.

  I, too, stand, my movement slowed by the weight of the conversation. I hesitate, wondering if I should say something to Mom. I feel bad for her, I do, but I don’t like seeing her acting so weak, and I do not think coddling her right now will help matters. I desperately try to strengthen my wall of tough love.

  “Okay…” I whisper before turning back to the dining room entrance, picking up my bag, and quietly making my way upstairs.

  I hear her suck in a whoosh of air behind me as she tries to control herself and muffle a sob, but I force myself not to turn around. She has to learn how to pick herself back up. I can’t do it for her. But, God, I hope she learns quickly, because hearing her breaks my heart.

  I shut the door to my room and turn on the sparkling lights that fall behind my bed. They softly illuminate the space, creating a familiar and warm glow. I pull my cell out of my pocket and tap on it, contemplating if I should call Genna and tell her the latest news. I want my best friend’s help carrying this burden, but I’m afraid that for the first time in our life she might not be able to help me. As I look around my empty room, that thought makes me feel even more alone.

  Genna hasn’t changed. I have. She hasn’t stopped being a supportive friend and asking how I’m doing, but lately I get the impression that she isn’t actually listening to me when I do try to share. She looks at life through these rose-colored glasses and tells me everything will work out, and I’m sorry, but that is not what I want to hear. I love her, but I wish she would hug me and let me know that I am not alone and stop looking at my situation like something that will resolve itself in time. I want to shout at her and scream, “My parents aren’t fighting over dirty dishes, Gen! My dad slept with another woman! And my family will never be the same!” but I can’t bring myself to be so cruel. It’s not her problem—it’s mine, and I’m better off keeping it all in.

  I pull on a pair of soft cotton shorts and a tank top and fall against my pillows. The mixture of emotion churning inside me has settled into a deep nausea, low in the pit of my gut. Hours ago, I felt a different flutter in my stomach, one of anticipation. The thrill of a cute boy, perhaps, but it’s more than that. Around Jake, I’m not thinking about home, about being the grown-up to parents that are acting like children. I can forget about them and feel lighter.

  Jake’s smile plays across my mind, and a little bit of the weight lifts. I crawl across the bed to turn off the lights then lean down to the ground, searching in the dark for my bag. I pull out the worn book and run my fingers across the creased cover, seeing if I can bring back any of the warmth he brings out in me. After a moment, I settle back into the mattress’s softness, clutching the book to my chest.

  I close my eyes and try to breathe into my knotted muscles, to find some release. When it comes, I whisper to the darkness. “Thanks for this, Jake.”

  ***

  The next morning during our drive to school, I tell Genna the news, and as predicted, she gives me a long hug and tells me not to worry because everything will work out. She insists on an ice cream date night to allow me to eat away my feelings about the now-official divorce, but those plans change during the day. Instead of ice cream, she is now dragging me to a party tonight, quite against my will. She apologized for screwing up our night but promised that instead we can talk while we get ready at her house.

  She wanted to make an appearance tonight because “Everyone who plays a sport will be there.” Also, a bunch of older kids who already graduated and are now playing college league will be attending, and she wants to get advice on the recruitment process. She’s hoping to continue playing when she graduates and would like all the help she can get. She expertly pulls at my heartstrings by insisting that all the extra knowledge will increase her chances of getting a scholarship. Her explanation is fifty percent true concern and fifty percent bullshit, but I let her have her way.

  As soon as I arrive at her house, she and her parents greet me at the door, pulling me into a group hug with well wishes and more promises that things will get better soon. Genna slips a Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia bar into my hand with a wink and leads me upstairs. I don’t want to talk anymore, so I nibble on my frozen treat and watch as Genna picks out outfits for us. To further distract her, I allow her to do my makeup and hair and smile at all of the appropriate times so that she knows I am okay.


  An hour later, we pull up to Ryan Mickleson’s house and park behind a half dozen other cars. Despite being early to the party, I see the festivities are already in full swing. Lights illuminate the yard, spotlighting a few partygoers. Ryan is High Beach High’s quarterback, and he comes from an ancestral line of High Beach football players. His older brother was the last QB and passed on the title when he graduated a few years ago. Everyone loves Ryan and his brother. They are relentless on the field, but otherwise they're big teddy bears, round faced and always laughing. Because of their widespread popularity, this party is sure to reach capacity.

  Instead of going for the front door, we walk around the side yard, following the sound of music to the back. At Genna’s insistence, I’m wearing dark skinny jeans and a peach tank top that has a sheer overlay and hangs open in the back. She forced me to leave my sweatshirt behind, and I am already cursing her because October in New England is cold, and tonight is no exception. At least I got away with wearing my worn-in riding boots, which provide some much-needed warmth to my legs.

  As soon as we step onto the back porch, Genna and I are handed beers. She accepts hers, but I nudge mine off. I guess I’m driving us home. Great. The porch is crowded with people, and looking through the sliding glass doors, I can see the kitchen and den are packed, as well. There is a fire pit in the corner of the yard, and already desperate to warm up, I move towards it.

  “Gen, I’m going to hang out by the fire”—I motion with my head— “because somebody forced seasonally inappropriate clothing on me!” I shout the last part over the sounds of party chatter as I put distance between us.

  She laughs and innocently bats her lashes at me. “Oh hush. You look gorgeous, and that outfit is totally worth a little chill! I’ll be over in a minute. I want to make the rounds.”

  I see somebody vacating one of a few Adirondack chairs arranged in a circle around the pit and snag it before anyone else can. This, I decide, will be my spot for the evening.

  I’m warming my hands, watching the reds and oranges of the fire dance before me, when I sense someone plop down on the ground next to me.