Tastes Like Winter Page 8

  I try to look as innocent and sincere as possible. And I would rather pull off my fingernails one by one with dirty, rusted pliers than sit for two more hours with you and Dad at dinner.

  I stifle a laugh, and it comes out with a choke. She is oblivious.

  “We’ll hang out here for a little while, Martha. Maybe I can show Em my schedule and some of my class syllabi. Answer any of her questions. I can put her on an evening commuter train home. In fact, I will walk her to the station myself.”

  Talk of syllabi goes to her head, and she is unable to object. “That’s so nice of you to offer, Jake. Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  “Don’t mind at all.”

  “Okay then. Emma, call me when you are on your way home, and I will pick you up. And Jake, it was so nice meeting you.”

  I swear I see her blush.

  “Nice meeting you too, Martha.”

  I glance back at my dad who is looking irritated and has now been pushed against the wall by a couple of hipsters in beanies and skinny jeans. When he sees my mom approaching without me, he looks confused, but I wave him away and turn back to Jake.

  “Here, sit down.”

  He scoots over, and I drop into the spot beside him. The seat has been pre-warmed by his butt, and I find myself creepily savoring the warmth.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “For what?”

  “Rescuing me back there. That was positively brutal.”

  “Ha! I could tell. You look beat.”

  Self-consciously, I reach a hand out to smooth my hair, not sure if that was an insult on my appearance.

  “What are you drinking?

  “Earl Grey soy latte, one and a half Splenda,” I recite absentmindedly, still considering his previous dig.

  “Hmm. That surprises me. I didn’t guess you to be drinking such a high-maintenance drink.”

  I look over at him, slighted again. Two hits in less than a minute. What was with that? Did he ask me to hang out to make fun of me?

  I rebound. “It’s not high maintenance. It’s good.”

  He grabs the cup out of my hand before I can protest and takes a sip. “Actually,’ he admits, “that is good. What did you say it was, again?”

  “Earl Grey. Soy latte. One. And one half. Splenda,” I enunciate each word, filling my voice with attitude, delighted in my victory.

  He picks up the notepad before him and, mocking me, pretends to write it down. “Earl grey soy… All right, I got it.” And he jabs the paper with his pen for emphasis.

  I roll my eyes and ask, “Why, what’s in your cup?”

  “I don’t care if it was heroin in my cup. It’s in my cup.” He imitates the Lil Wayne line from his infamous Behind the Music interview.

  I laugh. “Lil Wayne. Nice. Good impression.”

  “Yeah, that guy’s crazy.” He joins me by adding his own light chuckle.

  “Sure is.” I repeat the line with my own weak impersonation.

  His face is serious again. “Pike roast, black.”

  I blink. “What?”

  “You asked what’s in my cup.”

  “Oh!” I feel like an idiot. “That’s what my dad drinks. Borrring.” I bump him with my shoulder teasingly.

  “It’s what real men drink. Your dad must be a real man. Tastes like soil and the sweat of little Latin American boys.” He tries to deliver it seriously but cracks up halfway through.

  “That sounds disgusting. Disgusting and… perverted.” I squirm.

  “I think it sounds delicious.” He is wearing a full-on grin now.

  I change the subject and ask, “So, what’s this you’re reading, anyway?” I reach across him and grab the book he has perched on the couch’s edge.

  “Russian history?” I raise an eyebrow at him.

  “Actually, it’s not as boring as it sounds.”

  “Oh yeah? Tell me a story then,” I challenge. With things like powerful tsars, unique architecture, and the art of ballet, I don’t think Russian history sounds boring at all, but I want to keep him talking.

  “About what?”

  “I don’t know, maybe Russian history? Did we change topics in the last millisecond?” I tease him.

  “Oh!” He fumbles for a minute. “Okay, sure.”

  And he launches into a tale of the Great Duchess Anastasia and her mysterious disappearance. I know the story from watching the Disney cartoon as a kid. I also know that the story was completely disproven many years ago when her remains were found and DNA tested, but it’s nice to hear him tell it anyway.

  I sink into the corner of the couch, sipping my tea as he paints the characters before me. His delivery isn’t the most poetic or fluid, but the passion in his eyes when he speaks more than makes up for it. Sitting here, listening to him, is easy, and I find myself wondering why it can’t always be like this.

  He shifts his position as he wraps up and gives me a shrug. “I guess you’re right.”

  “Right about what?”

  “Russian history does sound interesting.” His expression shows me he agrees. “So, Emerson, eh?”

  I groan. “Yeah, I guess. Not necessarily where I want to be. No offense or anything. It’s a great school. But I would rather not be a quick train ride away from home, if you know what I mean.”

  “Sure. It works for me. But, yeah, I get it.”

  “I would love to use college as an opportunity to get out of Massachusetts and see a little bit more of the world.”

  “Oh yeah? Do you have any places in particular in mind?”

  “You name it, and I have thought about it. California would be awesome. Can’t get any further away from Massachusetts than that. Or Washington. Maybe North Carolina. I was even looking at the application process for McGill. I went to Montreal when I was twelve with my mom, and I remember it having a certain culture you don’t find around here.”

  Realizing I am rambling, I look at Jake and see that he is watching me intently.

  “That’s cool. I haven’t been to Canada before.”

  We continue talking, and our conversation expands from colleges to books to, surprisingly enough, a discussion on post-modernistic philosophy. We even discuss more of my favorites, but this time, I am able to get him to tell me some of his.

  Favorite color: Green.

  Favorite movie: Full Metal Jacket.

  Favorite time in history: the Renaissance.

  Progress.

  Each topic somehow fits, and none of it is the slightest bit forced. However, a topic that does not come up is Thanksgiving break and the infamous copy of Ethan Frome. We both avoid it like the plague. I decide I don’t want to talk about it unless he brings it up—let him come to me, as Genna suggested.

  Every time I talk to Jake, I’m surprised by how nice it is to have someone I can connect with on the same intellectual level. Our dialogue today is effortless, and even when we are debating, it’s not argumentative but rather as if we are challenging each other to push our minds a little bit further. I’ve always been interested in things, all things. That’s why I’m constantly reading and daydreaming about the places I’d like to travel and things I’d like to do, but Jake sparks a passion inside me and makes me want to experience more.

  Over the course of our conversation, I have shifted into a more relaxed position, my body angled towards him. He has his legs spread wide and an arm placed on the couch back behind my head. I didn’t notice before, but I soon become hyperaware that our knees have been touching. The physical contact with him puts my senses on alert, and a full-body chill courses through me. I pray silently that Jake doesn’t notice, but I make the mistake of glancing down at our joined knees.

  He follows my gaze, and he immediately jerks and leans forward to grab his phone. Our legs separate.

  “It’s late. I should probably get you on that train.”

  I rub my hands together reluctantly. “Probably should, but don’t worry, I can walk to South Station by myself. You don’t need to.”

&nb
sp; “It’s my pleasure. Besides, I promised Martha I would.”

  He ends with what I am learning is his signature wink.

  I grab my bag and deposit my now-empty cup in the bin by the door. South Station is a fifteen-minute walk away, and after covering most of the distance in silence, I’m afraid weird Jake has returned. I don’t know what set him off this time, and as I am about to work up the nerve and ask if it was something I said or did, he speaks.

  He stops himself, searching for the correct words, and for a moment, I pray he is going to mention my mysteriously gifted book. Yet when he starts again, he instead surprises me in a different way.

  “Your mom reminds me a lot of my own.”

  “You mean annoying?” I bite my tongue as soon as the words are out, realizing how insensitive I sound. God, I’m an asshole.

  “No.” He continues, unflinching, “Kind. Well-meaning. I was so angry with her, thinking that it was all an act. I’m beginning to realize that it wasn’t.”

  His moment of openness gives me pause, but curiosity gets the better of me. Since he is sharing tonight, I want to take advantage.

  “What happened?” When he hesitates, I add, “I’m sorry. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll tell you.” He stops, considering his words again. “She and my dad died in a car accident. It was my fault.”

  He stops, and I’m afraid he is done talking. I want to know him so bad, not the surface things that make up our discussions so far, but the real him, his past, his strengths, his weaknesses.

  I can see him deciding to close himself off again, so I probe him slightly before he has the chance. “You must know that it wasn’t actually your fault, Jake.”

  He shakes his head. “It was. I was a messed-up kid, Em. Still am. During their divorce, I turned into more of an asshole. I was drunk or high all the time and often stayed out late. One night, I didn’t come home at all. They were out together looking for me, thought I’d gone too far this time and gotten myself in trouble—or worse, hurt.”

  He continues talking, but his eyes have shifted, and instead of looking in front of him, he is inside of his head, reliving the tragic events.

  “They hit a deer and wrapped around a tree. Those fuckers are always sprinting across Shore Boulevard, and knowing my parents, they were probably distracted, fighting about me. They were always fighting about me.”

  His shoulders slump under the weight of the memory. “I was walking home from a bonfire party up at Cliff Beach when I found the crushed car on the side of the road. It must have just happened because there weren’t any police or anything yet. I should have called someone for help. But at that point, coming home from the party, I was three sheets to the wind and too fucked up to have the sense to call anyone.”

  “I’m so sorry.” I am filled with compassion after hearing his first-person recount of the night. It sounds like too much pain for one person to carry, and my heart swells as I realize how much I want to help shoulder his burden. Instinctively, I reach my hand out to touch his.

  He looks down, analyzing my hand before looping his fingers through my own.

  “Jake, do you still use?” I know it probably isn’t the best time to ask, but I have to know.

  “Never.” He shakes his head, and we cover the rest of the distance in silence.

  He doesn’t volunteer any additional details, and while I am desperate to know more, I am too afraid to overstep any boundaries by asking. Jake usually avoids talking about himself, and with his tendency towards being hot and cold, I don’t want to push him too hard and give him a reason to turn on me and close up again.

  We approach South Station, and with the big stone terminal looming before us, he stops me short of the doors. “Well, here you are, as promised. Would you like me to walk you in?”

  “I’ve got it from here,” I say, but I am reluctant.

  He too delays in saying good-bye. His eyebrows scrunch together, full of unasked questions. He looks like he is trying to make a decision, but what he’s deciding, I am unsure of. I wait, filled with anticipation as he takes another moment before leaning in. He curls his arms tight around me, and the embrace covers my skin in goose bumps.

  After a prolonged moment of savoring each other’s warmth, he loosens his grip and brings his hands to rest lightly on my shoulders. My heart pounds loudly in my ears, the force of blood through my veins gently rocking me back and forth. I have to struggle to keep myself standing.

  He looks me in the eye, and I know he is reading my thoughts. My eyes drop slowly to his lips, and I am focused and anxious. I struggle to swallow, to breathe. He is going to kiss me, and I squeal inwardly at the thought. I move in. My jaw trembles slightly with anticipation.

  He comes closer.

  Closer.

  But, in the final second, he shifts his weight to dodge my kiss. His lips graze my forehead for the briefest second instead. He wraps an arm around my lower back and cups my head gently in his other hand. I bury my face in his neck, the soft stubble of his chin scratching lightly against my cheek while I breathe him in.

  He lowers his lips to my ear and gently whispers, “Don’t fall for me, Em.” Quieter, he adds, “I don’t deserve it.”

  His hands slide slowly and painfully down my arms, leaving a trail of ice behind as he separates us. His pinky brushes my inner wrist, and the sensation causes me to snap my eyes shut.

  I thought we shared something tonight, but I must have misunderstood him. I feel like a fool. I’m afraid if I open my eyes a tear might leak out, and I don’t want him to see me weak, so I keep them closed.

  Softly he breathes his good-bye, and the air shifts and empties as he turns and walks away. Safe now, I blink into the empty space.

  I don’t understand why he is intent on fighting the feelings between us. Maybe I’ve over-thought things again and exaggerated our connection in my head, but I was sure it was clear that we have a connection, both mentally and physically. My thoughts move between scolding myself for being a stupid child, reading too deep into things, and angrily arguing that it must be Jake who is for some reason intent on denying me, denying us.

  I keep coming back to his last words. What did he mean when he said he doesn’t deserve it? Is loving someone a matter of deserving, and what has he done to not deserve me?

  I purchase a ticket at the automatic machine and walk languidly to Track 11, quietly continuing to doubt what I felt so confident in moments before. Tonight, for the first time, Jake opened up to me. Sharing that story about his parents couldn’t have been easy, and maybe it was too much for him.

  But I did everything I was supposed to. I let him talk. I listened and held his hand. Even if the memory left him shaken, he shouldn’t have brushed me off and pushed me away in our last seconds.

  Maybe he is purposefully toying with my emotions and the push-pull is another part of his game, but tonight he was serious, and I can’t quite make that explanation fit. He is clearly carrying a lot of guilt over his past, over his parents’ accident. If his display of emotion tonight was genuine, as it appeared to be, maybe his issues go further than I understand. Maybe I never will, and he won’t ever fully open up to me.

  I board the train and take a window seat, pressing my forehead against the cool glass, happy now for its cutting burn. The train departs the station for home, and I watch silhouettes of towns pass by through the darkness, my mind racing, replaying every moment of the evening for some sign of my wrongdoing. I make it home, trying not to be obviously silent with my mother in the car, but she sees through me.

  “You all right, Emma, darling?”

  “Yup. I’m fine. Just tired.” I don’t want to talk to her about Jake. My relationship with her is still rocky, and I’m still hurt. It doesn’t feel right sharing my feelings about Jake, not yet. Not that I know what those feelings are.

  What happened tonight? The question repeats in my mind.

  When I get into bed still without
an answer, sleep doesn’t come, and I spend all night staring at the ceiling, searching for one.

  ***

  The days pass by, and before I know it, Christmas break has arrived. Unlike Thanksgiving, I insist on working during my time off of school. Since it is between semesters, Jake is home too, an added benefit. He texted when he got back into town, informing me that he plans on spending a lot of time working during his break, and if I want to get together, I could ring him up anytime. I was surprised by the invitation, considering the way we left things in the city that night. He hasn’t mentioned the evening, and the events have begun to take on a dreamlike quality in my memory, blurring around the edges as if I might have made the whole thing up. To spare my fragile ego any additional trauma or risk shifting the patterns of his behavior once again, I too keep my lips sealed and refrain from bringing it up.

  While at Starbucks a few days after my evening in the city, I recounted the events of that fateful evening to Genna while we enjoyed our first peppermint mocha lattes of the season. She spent much of our coffee date tirelessly lecturing me and maintaining that I needed to ask him about it and set the whole thing straight. I am long past the days where she is simply happy for me.

  “If you can’t stand feeling like he is playing mind games with you, why do you keep letting him? It makes no sense! You have to call him on his shit. Don’t let him tell you a sad story then get so caught up in feeling bad for him that you won’t set him straight.”

  But I stick to sipping my latte and trying to focus on the chocolaty coffee goodness in front of me instead of the truth I hear ringing in her words.

  While it’s proving more and more obvious that I am a glutton for punishment, Friendly Jake is back this week, and right now, Friendly Jake is more important to me than sorting all of that out. Our relationship has even progressed as we spend more and more time together at the shop over break. Sitting at the counter talking, while I play with his shoelaces, has become a routine thing over the past week. We even went so far as to friend each other online a few days ago and have begun expanding our daytime conversations to nighttime online chats. Our Internet conversations range from the involved discussions like we have most days while we are working to smaller “Hey, what’s up’s?” that don’t go anywhere.