Tastes Like Winter Read online

  Since we ate shortly after noon, it’s still light out. The outside air is crisp, and as it hits my face, I am grateful for the cooling sensation. I wrap around the house, sneak through the side yard, and start walking briskly up the street. I don’t know where exactly I’m going, but I know that I have to get away before my parents stop fighting long enough to realize I’m not there. I take a left at the end of the block and head towards the harbor.

  When I reach the waterfront, I gaze out at the bay, allowing myself to take in a deep breath. I exhale hard, thinking maybe I can push out all the negative energy and give myself some much-needed peace. A sudden gust of wind throws it back in my face and bellows a laugh at my feeble attempt. I instinctively pull up my hood to shield myself from the chill. I didn’t think to grab a jacket before heading out, and my sweatshirt is too thin.

  A tear escapes and rolls down my cheek. I challenge it and turn my face to the wind to dry it before another can form.

  That's when I see him, sitting at the dock's edge, strumming a guitar. My body tightens with anger as my heart and lungs sigh with some twisted sense of relief. I should listen to Genna and let things be with Jake. I’m dealing with enough with my parents. I can see what love did to my mother, and I shouldn’t let a guy mess with me, weaken me. I shouldn't invite in any more pain.

  But right now, I don't have the energy to fight myself. There is no denying it, I am happy he is here.

  Before my mind can fully process its next move, my feet start on a path down the dock towards him. His body shifts slightly as he hears my footsteps approaching, but he doesn't look up to see who it is. He doesn't stop playing.

  I sit down next to him, careful not to let any part of our bodies touch, but even at this distance, heat radiates from his skin in waves. A journal rests beside him on the opposite side of the weather-worn planks, open to a page that is covered in what looks like lyrics. The words are scribbled, and many sections have been crossed out and rewritten. I cannot make out the words on the sheet, so I close my eyes and listen to him sing.

  “Let peaceful sleep be reserved for those full of deserving,

  Comforting hope be held sacred when innocence is returning,

  Mother, I’m here, and the guilt isn’t abating.

  When the Rapture comes, I’ll still be left waiting.”

  I open my eyes to examine his face, trying to decipher the meaning of the words, and pair the lyrics to the still yet sorrowful look in his eyes. I think of the stories about his parents’ accident and ponder a connection.

  As the song ends, the last note still hovering in the air around us, he reaches behind me and sets down the guitar. He turns back to face the water and, in the same smooth motion, wraps an arm over my shoulder. He pulls me closer to him, all without uttering a single word.

  For a second, I am in shock, unable to comprehend his embrace in light of his recent avoidance of even the smallest amount of eye contact. He remains quiet, and that forces my own mouth to lock firmly closed. Besides, there are no right words. I decide, for once, to say the hell with it and let myself enjoy the moment. After my God-awful day, this embrace is exactly what I need.

  I allow myself to sink into his broad chest and breathe him in. He is wearing the same black sweatshirt I have seen on him so many times. It smells as if it hasn't been washed recently, though not in a bad way. I breathe in deeper and smell the spice of pumpkin pie, the baby powder scent of his soap, and the faint smoky odor of a fire. This time when I exhale, the anger I've built up over the course of the day goes with it. Finally, release.

  The minutes pass by, and neither of us moves. I watch closely for a stiffening of his body that might signal discomfort, but it never comes.

  The sun commences its evening decent, throwing streaks of red and orange across the sky. I try to calculate how long we have been sitting here. Over an hour at least. There are so many things I want to say, but I am afraid to break the silence. I want to look up and catch his eye, find some unspoken answer there, but I stay frozen still. I am terrified I might upset this perfect balance, wake up and discover this is all a dream.

  The last ray of sun disappears behind the horizon, and the air grows colder. Part of me is content to just be here, in his arms, feeling his shallow breath. To forget. But another part of me is growing annoyed. What right does he have to play these mind games with me? And what kind of a fool am I, to sit idly and let him? The frustration wins, and I find myself standing up.

  He looks up at me and his eyes reflect surprise, an almost dazed confusion.

  “It’s getting late. I should go…” I leave the words hanging there long enough to allow him the opportunity to object.

  He doesn't. He doesn't say anything; instead he turns his head from me back to the view of the shoreline. I stand there for a moment, completely speechless, trying to figure out what kind of twilight zone I am in. No answers come. Defeated, I turn and leave.

  As soon as I get home, I head straight for bed. Thankfully, everyone has dispersed, and I go unnoticed. My head hits the pillow, and it feels amazing. I am too tired to even be mad at Jake—too tired to pull apart everything that happened today, analyzing it piece by piece like I love to do. Not tonight. Tonight, I think to myself, I’m not going to worry about having a restless night’s sleep at all.

  And before I can finish the thought, I drift into oblivion.

  ***

  Betsy insists that I do not need to work Thanksgiving weekend. With Jake and Sam off from school, she assures me that all of the shifts are covered and I should relax. She isn’t aware that I would rather be there. Even though Mom has been much better since Dad moved out, I still have to make an extra effort at home, and I am afraid that the blowup at Thanksgiving might halt her forward progress. Work has been my solace, despite the confusion over Jake. I try to explain to Betsy that I don’t mind the shifts, but she holds firm, and my name stays off the schedule.

  On Black Friday, Mom drags me out for lunch and to get some shopping done. Since we don’t arrive at the mall until after noon, most of the shelves are already picked over. I do manage to find a new emerald-green and navy-blue–striped sweater on sale that Mom offers to buy for me.

  Other than that, the trip is a failure. There is an undefined tension between us since yesterday’s Thanksgiving meltdown. Our conversation is more painful than usual, which is hard to imagine. Avoidance once again looks as if it might be my best option, leading me to spend the rest of the weekend holed up in my room, reading.

  Not working also means I don’t have a chance to talk to Jake before he goes back to school. A fleeting moment of connection like this week, followed by another and immediate retreat, is looking like the norm with him. So when I arrive at work the following Monday, I am surprised to find a small package tucked in my cubby. Thinking it’s a holiday gift of sorts from Betsy I take it with me to the front counter.

  “Hey, what’s this?” I ask her, gesturing to the package in my hand.

  “Not from me,” she says.

  I have piqued her interest. I tear the brown wrapping paper away while she watches and reveal a copy of Ethan Frome by Edith Warton. There is a small note attached to the cover, which I hide from sight. In my hurry, I don’t have time to read it, but I do see that it is signed Yours, Jake.

  “What is it?” Betsy asks curiously.

  I try to recover quickly, for Betsy’s sake. “It’s a book from Jake. I asked to borrow it. I thought he had forgotten.”

  “Oh, well, he stopped by this morning before heading back to school. He must have dropped it off then.”

  I nod, trying to end the conversation without being suspicious. It works, and she sends me to the sales table to organize, stack, and price a new shipment of books. Waiting all afternoon to read the note is painful, but I’m afraid if I try, I might catch Betsy’s eye again. I do not want to clue her in to what may or may not be developing between her nephew and me. So far she has been kind enough not to mention anything, but I do see a
question in her eyes.

  As soon as I get home and am behind my closed bedroom door, I reach for the book and note.

  Holidays are hard. Thanks for being there last week.

  Yours, Jake

  Thanks for being there? Is he referencing the dock, when he didn’t say anything to me and barely acknowledged my presence? Confused, I flip the book cover over and read the synopsis. Bleak New England background, yada yada, ailing wife, youthful cousin, yada yada, stirs long-dormant feelings… What the hell is this supposed to mean?

  Before I know what I’m doing, my cell phone is in my hand, and I am dialing Genna’s number.

  She answers on the first ring. “Hey there, stranger! What’s up? How was your long weekend? We just got back! Could you feel me re-enter the state?”

  Genna spends every Thanksgiving at her grandparents’ house in upstate Vermont.

  I ignore her questions and bark, “He gave me a copy of Ethan Frome! He put his arm around me, ignored me, and then gave me a copy of Ethan Frome!”

  “Hold up, Em! Slow down. What’s Ethan Frome, and what are you talking about?”

  I inhale and pinch my brow bone before continuing. “Ethan Frome is a book. Jake left it in my cubby at work today with a note saying ‘Thanks for being there last week’.” I spit the last bit out sarcastically.

  “What happened last week?”

  “Nothing! I mean, I don’t know. Thanksgiving dinner happened. My dad came over. It was all sorts of bad. I went to the harbor to try to hide until everyone left; Jake was there. He put his arm around me and then proceeded to ignore me for over an hour until I decided to leave.”

  “What do you mean he put his arm around you and then ignored you? That doesn’t sound like being ignored.”

  “He didn’t say anything! We literally sat on the dock for over an hour, and he didn’t look at me or speak a word to me. It was Twilight Zone-level messed up.”

  “Humph. Well that’s pretty fricken’ weird. It’s sounding like Jake might have multiple personalities or something.” She takes a minute as she tries to make sense of it on her end.

  “And then he gave you some book? What’s the book about? Hasn’t he given you books before?”

  “Yeah, he gave me a copy of The Stranger a month ago, but when he did that he explained himself. This book is completely out of the blue. I haven’t read it, but the blurb is talking about all sorts of dormant feelings and hidden desires so either this is a random pick or he is trying to tell me something here. What the heck is he trying to tell me, Gen?”

  “Maybe you should read the book and try to figure that out.”

  I face palm and curse under my breath. “Yeah, I suppose I should.”

  “Happy reading, lover girl! CliffsNotes version tomorrow?”

  “Sure thing.”

  I spend the next hour reading through the book, and as soon as I am done, since it is short, I start from the beginning and go through it again. By the time the sun has risen, I have read the book three times and am still confused. I try to explain to Genna in the car the next morning that there is no way Jake could have meant for this story to be something about us. She in turn insists that I must be missing some secret, sexy declaration about how he wants to bone me.

  “Really, Genna? You think Jake gave me Ethan Frome to ask to bone? Who even says that anymore?”

  “I love the word. Bone. Boner. Boning. It rolls off the tongue nicely.”

  I shut my eyes, silently asking the heavens Why?

  “From everything you’ve told me, Jake sounds like a smart guy. A game-playing ass, maybe, but a smart guy. All boning aside, there must be a message there.”

  “Unless he’s asking to attempt suicide by riding a sled into a tree together, I can’t find it.”

  Genna shoots me confused side eyes but lets it go.

  “Should I text him and ask what’s up?”

  “No way! Screw him and his cryptic messages. Don’t play his games. If he is interested, he will come to you,” she states matter-of-factly.

  She throws the car into park and gestures up at the school through the windshield. “Five days away and this place hasn’t changed a bit. School is a constant place of welcome! Forget Jake—let her hold and comfort you!”

  I can’t help but roll my eyes. “You’re too much.”

  And another school day begins.

  DECEMBER

  I can hear them arguing behind me. My mom is stressing the importance of freedom in curriculum and a strong liberal arts foundation. My dad is preaching the necessity of an experienced doctoral staff and a high-caliber reputation. The tour guide is eyeing them both, clearly annoyed, while fighting to speak louder so the others in our group can hear all about the university’s performing arts program.

  We are at Emerson. My parents have decided to come together, despite their differences and with my best interests at heart, to help with the monumental decision of choosing the right college.

  What a disastrous plan. They, too, realized it was a bad idea within the first five minutes.

  We spent the morning at Boston University, my father’s alma mater, where I was shuffled from building to building, learning about the many benefits of attending such a prestigious college. My dad is insistent that I attend the same school he did. He thinks I should be a lawyer and follow in his footsteps. But if he knew anything about me—which he obviously doesn’t—that is a career I am not at all interested in.

  After a quick lunch in the student center, we hopped in a cab and moved downtown to Emerson, which is already more my scene, but it’s still too close to High Beach for comfort. We are now at the end of the tour, and I am counting down the seconds until it is over. Mom and Dad have spent the day flip-flopping between ignoring each other and heated debates like the one they are currently involved in, and it has been excruciating.

  Thankfully, our guide wraps things up, and we disperse outside the Paramount. She throws my parents another visual dagger, and I wince, apologizing for their less-than-appropriate behavior.

  Hit with a December chill, I pull my collar up and point to a Starbucks at the end of the block. “Want to pop in there, grab a drink, and warm up?” I ask my parents.

  I start off down the street before they have a chance to respond and push my way into the coffee shop. The place is crowded, as if everyone has had the same idea of how to escape this afternoon’s arctic cold. I approach the counter with my parents in pursuit and, when my turn arrives, order my usual Earl Grey soy latte. My dad adds a black Pike roast and a cinnamon scone. My mother passes altogether and steps aside.

  As I wait for the barista to whip up my deliciously complicated hot beverage, I glance over and notice my parents bickering again. This time they are at the milk and sugar convenience station, no doubt vigorously debating the pros and cons of one percent versus fat free. I grab my cup and sluggishly follow to where my parents stand stiff by the exit.

  “Emma!” someone shouts.

  I turn to trace the sound and see Jake on a loveseat by the corner window. Genna’s advice be damned, I smile in return and change my direction towards him. My mother notices my shift and curiously pursues me, leaving my father hanging by the door. She catches up to Jake as soon as I do, and we all stand awkwardly.

  “Hi,” I say to Jake, trying to ignore my mom’s overeager glance.

  “Hi,” my mom interjects before Jake can speak and sticks out her hand.

  He shakes it enthusiastically.

  “I’m Mrs. Forrester. Emma’s mom. Or Martha. Please call me Martha.” She looks on impatiently, waiting to be introduced. “Emma, dear, who’s your friend?” she pesters.

  “Mom, this is Jake. Jake, this is my mom.” I gesture from one to the other. “Jake is my boss’s nephew.”

  “Oh, Betsy is your aunt? How is she doing? We went to high school together, you know?” She looks at me for approval before turning back to Jake. “I was so sorry to hear about your parents.”

  I wince at her abrupt
ness. I try to defuse the situation by asking Jake, “What are you doing here?”

  “I go to Emerson, remember? Main campus is right up the street.”

  I knew that. In fact, part of me spent the day looking around, hoping, on some off chance, that I might see him.

  “Oh how lovely! We came from there. Emma is looking to apply next fall, and we were on a tour. It’s a very nice school. Perhaps you can give her some advice?” My mother has completely hijacked this conversation.

  “I would love to.” He looks at me. “Emma, you and I should hang out sometime. Grab a coffee, and I’ll fill you in.”

  He smiles at my mother and looks over at me. He winks slyly so she doesn’t see, and I can tell he is fully aware of what he is dishing out. My mother, on the other hand, is ignorant to the fact that she is being purposefully charmed, and she eats it up.

  He gestures to the cup in my hand and raises his own drink. “In fact…”

  I catch on to his train of thought and chime in with the same artificially sweet tone. “In fact,” I finish for him, “what are you doing now?”

  He grins, happy that I caught on. “No plans. Want to sit?”

  My mom turns her head to me, and while continuing to gaze politely, her face registers a hint of confusion. “But Dad and I thought we would go to dinner to discuss your school choices.”

  She beams again at Jake. It is not possible that she could still think dinner is a good idea, and I pray that she is trying to look attentive and sociable for his sake. Regardless, I can’t take the risk.

  I continue the game. “Aw, I’d love to, Mom, but you know, I’ve got so many questions fresh in my head now. I wouldn’t want to forget them. Would you mind? I think the opportunity to talk with someone currently studying at the university would help to identify the advantages and clarify my options.”