Tastes Like Winter Read online

  But isn’t that the way the Internet works? You can’t read too much into all of the pauses. If he doesn’t respond right after saying “Hi,” well, he probably went downstairs to fix himself a sandwich, right?

  Anyway, our work conversations these days more than make up for the less-than-stellar online messages. We’ve started using downtime at the store to play a new bookish game I created. It goes like this: When it’s your turn, you select a book from the shelves. Then, the other person has to try to figure out what that book means to you and why you choose it. I was hoping it would be a good way to learn more about Jake.

  Since our night in the city, he has closed down on talking about himself again, and I am desperate for him to open up to me so that I can continue learning and unraveling his mysteries. Secretly, I hope he will pick up Ethan Frome one of these days, giving me the opportunity to challenge him on it. Too much time has passed at this point to randomly bring it up in conversation, myself.

  My game choices include a lot of nonfiction and travel books, which never surprise him. After my first few picks of this sort, I asked what he thought of my selections. He replied simply, “I get it, kitten. You’re an explorer at heart.” I never thought of myself that way, but after he said it, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, I adopted the title happily.

  His picks, on the other hand, leave me dumbfounded more often than not. Sometimes, I spend a half hour debating the plot of the book he is holding out and various connections I can hypothesize on that made him choose it, and his real reason is something dumb like “This one is green and that’s my favorite color” or “I like sharks!” while he points to a picture of a hammerhead on the cover.

  When he picks up a book of poetry and I comment that I am surprised he has selected an insightful choice, he responds, “I can be when I want to be.” And I’m left stumbling again.

  But today is not an insightful day, and today we are not playing that game. Instead, I’m sitting at my desk, waiting for a reply that I don’t think is coming. He must love sandwiches this time of night.

  I finger the inked lion head Jake sketched earlier yesterday evening on the front pocket of my bag. I voiced some weak pleas during his moment of vandalism, but he didn’t stop until the drawing was complete and he was satisfied with his shading of the lion’s wild mane. I didn’t know he had artistic tendencies, but the doodle, while simple, was nicely drawn. I like having a piece of him on my bag to carry around with me. I have already taken to carrying around the books he’s given me, plus my copy of Dante that served as the opener for our first real conversation together.

  When I look up at the glowing monitor again, I am surprised to find a response flashing on my screen. So, what’s on for this week? One Christmas? Two Christmas?

  I respond. Red Christmas? Blue Christmas?

  Jake: Wouldn’t it be Red Christmas? GREEN Christmas?

  Me: Touché! Dr. Seuss would approve.

  Me: One Christmas. Dad is out of town on business so it will be Mom and me.

  Jake: Business on Christmas? Curious.

  I don’t want to imagine that he may be spending his holiday cozied up with his assistant instead of busy working like he says, so I push his comment aside and ask, what about you?

  Jake: Same as last year I suppose—watch Sam open a mountain of gifts and pretend to look interested.

  Me: No gifts for you?

  Jake: I’ll get some I’m sure, but Aunt B knows I like it simple and will probably stick to clothes and books.

  Me: Will I see you around at all before you go back?

  Jake: Maybe. Do you want to?

  Me: Yes.

  Jake: Well, your wish is my command. Meet me at Harbor Side Park tomorrow at noon.

  Me: Isn’t it supposed to snow tonight and tomorrow?

  Jake: Exactly.

  ***

  The next day, I dress carefully in thick black leggings and a long cashmere sweater. As predicted, it stormed last night, and while the weather has already tapered off, there are a good five inches of snow coating the ground. I pull on my black, fur-lined boots and down parka to keep away the chill. After all, I don’t know what Jake has planned. Mom is out doing last-minute Christmas shopping, so I jot down a quick note telling her I went out and will be back before dinner.

  I head outside and lock the door behind me before navigating my way slowly down the icy drive. I manage not to slip before reaching my car, which to my delight has already been cleaned off. I suspect Mom is responsible, and I send up a blessing of thanks. Cleaning snow off my car is one of my least favorite activities. My short arms can’t reach the center of the roof so my tactic is a rather unsuccessful jump and swoop motion that usually ends with me frozen and damp, and the car still unclean.

  After waiting a handful of minutes for the car to warm up and giving any remaining ice on the windshield time to defrost and melt away, I ease the car cautiously away from the house. Growing up in New England has made me more comfortable driving in the snow than I would imagine most people my age are, but I still like to be safe. I drive the short distance to Harbor Side, and when I pull into the park, Jake’s sedan is already there, idling in the empty lot. He doesn’t notice me arriving, so after I get out of my car, I go around to his driver’s side window and tap on the glass.

  He is fiddling with the buttons on his dashboard, and my knock startles him. He recovers quickly and grins, throwing me a thumbs-up through the glass.

  I back away, allowing him to open his door and greet me. “You ready for some fun, my little snow leopard?”

  I’m not sure why, but he loves referring to me as various types of cats. I also can’t help but notice that he called me “his,” which, I must admit, I do enjoy the sound of. “I sure am. Are you going to tell me what we’re doing here?”

  “Your pick. Traditional snowball fight? Or sledding? I have a sled in the trunk and that hill”—he points to the far edge of the park—“looks like it would work.”

  If I choose the snowball fight, I might end up with a face full of snow, quite the risk, but flinging packed balls back at him sounds like fun and might end in snow wrestling, which would be more than worth the chill. However, if I pick sledding, there will be a lot of tiresome hiking up and down the hill, but also a good chance I can ask him to go down with me, allowing me to feel his body pressed up against my back.

  I look at him devilishly. “Prepare for battle!”

  And I dart away from him before he has the chance to process my answer. I decide to play tactically, using the jungle gym as a barrier. I throw myself behind the cover of the slide and begin packing together snowballs as quickly as I can. He runs after me and copies my strategy by positioning himself behind the playground’s merry-go-round.

  I thought I had time and the element of surprise on my side, but he is fast, and before I know it, he is flinging balls my way. The first one smacks the slide beside my head and explodes into icy dust. Crap! He has good aim. I wasn’t counting on that.

  “You’re gunning for blood, aren’t you, Addler?” I taunt, throwing one back at him. While it doesn’t come quite as close as his, it’s not a bad first attempt.

  We continue tossing snow back and forth from a safe distance, trash-talking and egging each other on. I land a solid hit on the side of his face that leaves him stunned, and seeing a window of opportunity, I charge at him. I don’t have another ball prepared, so instead I throw my whole body at his, knocking him away from the merry-go-round and down into the snow. I childishly and triumphantly bury his face, shoving heaps of powder down into his jacket as I go. Once he has sufficiently paid for his smack talk, I sit up, my knees on either side of him, straddling his body. The position is intimate, and despite the fact that his face is still covered and he must be freezing, I feel a stiffening in his pants.

  I gasp at the contact. My momentary distraction gives him time to recover, and he twists, pulling his body over mine and throwing me to the ground. He hovers over me, lockin
g my wrists above my head and pinning my body down, sinking us deeper into the snow. I cower, afraid of his retaliation and waiting for my own onslaught, but he doesn’t move to enact his revenge. Instead he pants heavily over me, trying to catch his breath. His cheeks are spotted with redness, and his hair sticks up from the dampness of the snow.

  “You little hellcat, you. You are so lucky you’re a girl, or I’d totally be annihilating you right now.”

  I squirm under him, trying to free myself before he changes his mind and stops taking pity on me. The movement presses my hips up against him, making contact again with his physical excitement. It doesn’t go unnoticed, this time.

  “Fuck! Are you trying to kill me?”

  He rolls off and kneels beside me in the snow. His breath continues as a series of sharp inhales before finally slowing and returning to a normal pace. I don’t even try to get up, but rather I continue laying there, the warmth in my lower belly enough to shield me from any cold. I imagine pulling him down, kissing him hard on the mouth, and having ourselves another roll around in the snow, but I already decided I wouldn’t throw myself at him and risk getting shot down again. I’d rather wait for him to make the first move. So that’s what I do, quiet on the outside, but with my mind screaming at him. Kiss me, Jake! Kiss me!

  Unfortunately, Jake does not appear to be telepathic.

  After giving himself enough time to recover, he lays back on the ground, close but purposefully not touching. “You know what would be good right now?”

  Your tongue in my mouth? I silently reply.

  “Hot chocolate covered in whipped cream and piled high with mini marshmallows.”

  Wrong answer, Jake. Wrong answer. While hot chocolate is not the first-choice liquid I’d like to be savoring right now—that honor would go to more salivary fluids—it is one of my favorite winter staples, and I happen to have all the fixin’s at home.

  I sigh louder than I want, releasing some of the sexual frustration with my outward exhale. “Okay, Jake. I wouldn’t mind some hot chocolate. Let’s go to my house.”

  We leave the park, and I instruct him to follow behind me in his own car. I still have a little while before my mom should be returning from her shopping trip, but I plan to cut the evening short so that I don’t have any untimely run-ins between the two. That would lead to a whole lot of questions that I have no desire to answer, if I even could.

  When we arrive, I shuffle him into the kitchen and park him on a barstool at the counter while I go heat up the milk.

  I pull the whipped cream from the refrigerator and the marshmallows from the pantry and set them in front of him. “You are in charge of these. No skimping.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  I pull two mugs from the cabinet by the sink and place them next to the stove.

  “Emma? You home?” I hear Mom shouting from the doorway. Damm it! She’s early.

  “Yes, Mom! I’m in the kitchen!” I glance at Jake, and he looks delighted by the possibility of another encounter with Martha, his new best friend.

  “Shut your eyes, and keep them shut! I’m bringing in gifts, and I don’t want you peeking while I carry them upstairs.”

  Jake chuckles and motions for me to comply with her orders and lower my lids.

  “All right. They’re shut. You can come in.”

  I hear her moving through the house, and once her footsteps signal that she is ascending the stairs, I open my eyes again. Jake is laughing at me.

  I narrow my eyes at him. “You wipe that smirk off your face right now, or you’ll be drinking your hot chocolate without any of those.”

  I point to the can and bag in front of him, and looking worried, he circles his arms around his treasures, and pulls them close to his body, protecting them. Mom casually walks into the kitchen as I pour the steamed milk into our mugs.

  When she sees Jake at the counter, joy overcomes her. “Jake! How nice to see you again!”

  “Hello, Martha. It’s nice to see you, too. You look lovely today. Have you done something different with your hair?”

  The way he insists on charming the pants off her is eye-roll inducing. He is so full of shit.

  “Why yes! It was time for a change, so I went bold and let my hairdresser have at it. It’s so sweet of you for noticing.”

  My mother may be more into Jake than I am. When she came home from the salon last week, I complimented the new do, and she wasn’t nearly as appreciative of my recognition.

  “What are you kids up to? Hot chocolate? Sounds delicious!”

  “Would you like us to fix you a cup?” Jake helpfully volunteers.

  I panic for a moment, afraid that she will say yes and I will have to spend the next half hour watching the pair of them charm each other and praying Jake would spend as much effort charming me as he does her. Thankfully, she takes mercy on me and politely excuses herself to take care of a few things in the office. I love you, Mom!

  But knowing now that she is within earshot in the other room makes me self-conscious. We drink our cocoa at the counter, sticking to safe topics like what the next semester has in store.

  “When will you get final grades?” I ask.

  “Not sure. Probably not for a few weeks.” He shrugs.

  “How do you think you did?”

  Another shrug.

  I raise an eyebrow at him. “Does that shrug mean you think you did good or bad?” I challenge.

  “I probably did all right.”

  After emptying his mug, Jake excuses himself, saying he has to head home for dinner. Betsy was making a roast. Of course, he makes sure to say good-bye to my mother before leaving and telling her again how nice it was to see her.

  “You are welcome here anytime, Jake. I’m so happy to see Emma has made such a nice friend.”

  He gives me another hug, but still no kiss, good-bye and heads out into the winter wonderland.

  Dinner that night with Mom is nothing short of torture as she riddles me with questions about Jake.

  “I didn’t know you and Jake were spending so much time together.”

  The question is innocent enough, but I am compelled to correct her. “We aren’t. It was one afternoon.”

  She raises her brow, not believing my response. “Well he comes across as a very nice boy, and I’m happy to see you smiling again.”

  Self-conscious, I try to turn down my lips and appear less obvious. “It’s nothing, Mom. Besides, I think he wants to be your friend more than mine. ‘I love the new haircut, Martha’” I tease, which earns me a laugh.

  “I doubt that!” She looks delighted by the fact that Jake and I may be more than friends.

  She pesters me for more detail throughout the meal, but I stay strong, dodge her questions as best I can, and make it out on the other side still alive. Things with Jake are still too unsure and too new to want to get Mom excited over nothing. Besides, I don’t need her lecturing me like Genna has been.

  When the night ends and I head up to bed, changing into pajamas and plugging my phone in to charge, I notice a text I missed that Jake sent hours ago.

  Jake: You’re fun.

  And there is that smile again.

  JANUARY

  Christmas comes and Christmas goes, fortunately for us, without any drama. I wasn’t sure what our first Christmas alone would be like, but it turned out not too much different than normal. The pile under the tree was larger than usual, despite the lack of gifts for Dad.

  Predictably, Mom went overboard and stocked my closet full of clothes, as well as a new pair of boots and my favorite body cream. I bought her a pretty red-beaded necklace from the same local artist selling cards at High Street, and she ohhed and ahhed over it as expected.

  I bought Dad an obligatory tie, but I didn’t place it under the tree, for fear that seeing it might set Mom off. I called him Christmas night to wish him a happy holiday and to make a plan to give him his gift.

  “Thank you, sweetie. I have something for you too. We can a
rrange a day to get together, maybe have dinner, and exchange gifts. Does that work?” He sounded about as excited to receive the gift as I was to give it.

  “Sounds good, Dad.”

  “Great. I’ll have my secretary set something up.”

  Ouch.

  No longer able to continue the charade of thinly veiled civility, I begged an apology and excused myself, saying that Mom needed my help in the kitchen.

  The extended family did not come over, which was not a bad decision considering how terribly our last meal together went. Instead, Mom and I had an intimate dinner for two at the smaller kitchen table. It would have been wasteful to cook an entire roast for the two of us, so we decided to go non-traditional and had fettuccine Alfredo with broccoli and asparagus chunks mixed in. As always, her cooking was delicious, and since she cooked, I volunteered to do all of the cleaning.

  After eating dinner and finishing cleanup, I caught her sitting in the glow of the tree lights, staring thoughtfully out the window. A Nat King Cole Christmas album played softly in the background. When I joined her on the couch and asked her what was wrong, she surprised me by pulling me into her.

  “I’m sorry I have been so nutty lately. Learning how to live without your father has been so hard on me.”

  Her honesty choked me up, and I felt it was time for some of my own.

  “I know Dad is gone now, but Mom, hasn’t he been gone for a while?”

  She looked down at my face in shock.

  “Sometimes I forget how observant you are.” She caressed my cheek and pulled me down so that my head rested in her lap and she could rub my hair, the way she did when I was younger. “But you’re right,” she continued. “He has been distancing himself for years, and I am so, so sorry for that.”

  “It’s not your fault.” The words were out of my mouth, and while I hadn’t previously realized it, somewhere along the way I’d forgiven her. It’s not her fault she fell in love with a man who couldn’t love her back the way she needed. I never should have blamed her, and I am sorry I did.