Tastes Like Winter (17 page)

“Oh, okay. Do you want me to make you breakfast?” She is extra chipper
this morning.

“No, I have to hurry. I’ll grab a granola bar on my way out.” I reach
to close the door to signal the end of the conversation, but she sticks her
hand in to block me and smiles. This time, her expression shows a touch of
questioning.

“How was last night with Dad? You guys have a nice discussion?”

“It was fine, but I can’t talk now, Mom. I need to get ready.”

I brush her hand aside and shut the door. I press my forehead against
the wood. I hate pushing her out, but I force myself to remain silent as I
listen to her feet shuffle outside for a moment before eventually moving away
and down the hall.

When I emerge a record seven minutes later, she is gone. I breathe a
sigh of relief, grab my backpack along with the coffee mug and granola bar that
she has laid on the counter for me, and head out for the day.

The shop greets a constant stream of customers throughout the morning.
Fourth of July brings crowds to the ocean town, and they are all looking for
their next beach read. What’s good for business is good for Betsy, and I am happy
to work harder for her. It’s good for me, too, since I have been too busy all
day to dwell on my own problems (read: Jacob Thomas Addler).

At the end of the day, I flip the sign on the door to read “Closed”
and begin filling a basket with any books that were misplaced so that I can
re-file them. A group of spoiled brats were in earlier and decided to pull the
whole children’s shelf apart while their mothers were off perusing the romance
section. While unsupervised, they deposited the books in random scattered piles
throughout the store.

I am sitting in front of a shelf, surrounded by brightly colored
animal illustrations, trying to put the books back into alphabetical order,
when I hear the bell above the door sound. Crap! I must have forgotten to lock
it. I clumsily struggle to rise from beneath the piles.

“Hey, sorry, but we’re closed.” I shout
while trying to peek my head around the corner.

It’s Sam. I roll my eyes and lay the stack of books I was holding down
on the carpet. I stand slowly and brush my hands off on my jeans, more for
effect than them actually being dirty.

“Look, I don’t know what you want, but
I am not in the mood for your attitude at the moment. I have a lot of cleanup
to do around here before I can close for the night, so if you don’t mind…”

I meet her eyes. She is frowning, and her face is painted with
distress.

“What?” I ask.

She struggles for words.

“What, Sam? What? I wasn’t joking about being busy.” I let my
impatience come out with my words.

She brings her hands together and begins nervously picking at her
cuticles. She mumbles, “I… think I need your help… I don’t know what to do, but
I think I need to do something… and I think I need your help.”

“Oh, you need my help? That’s interesting. And what, pray tell, can I
help you with?”

“Jake…”

The look she gives me has me terrified. Her words hit me, and my mind
races back to last night, a knot instantly forming in my stomach.

“What about Jake? Did something happen?”

It’s funny how, no matter how angry I am at him and how little he
deserves it, I still care.

“No, he’s fine. I mean, well, he’s not fine, but no, nothing specific
happened. Like, he didn’t get into a car accident or anything.”

I relax marginally.

“But he’s not doing well at all lately. He didn’t come home until five
a.m. this morning, and even then, he stumbled in smelling like all hell and
looking even worse. I woke up to the sound of him tripping on his way to the
bathroom. He fell flat on his face, and it took me a while before I could get
him up. I haven’t seen him like this since—well, I haven’t seen him like
this in a while, and I’m getting worried.”

She stops, and I can’t tell if it’s because she wants me to say
something or if she is taking time to form her next words.

I gesture for her to continue. “And what do you want me to do?”

“He needs you. He’s been going downhill since you guys broke up or
whatever it is that happened, and—”

“You can’t break up if you’re never going out to start with. Besides,
he isn’t talking to me, so what makes you think I’m the solution here?”

She hesitates a moment then blurts outs, “He stopped talking to you
because of me!”

I narrow my eyes and look at her sideways. “What do you mean, ‘He stopped
talking to you because of me’?”

“Well…” She gets the nervous look in her eyes again. “I sort of told
him that you were too good for him and that he didn’t deserve you. I told him
that he would mess it all up, like he does everything else in life.”

“What? When?” I shake my head, confused, trying to put the pieces
together. What is wrong with this girl? “Why the hell would you tell him that?”

“Remember that fight we had at school?”

“How could I forget?”

“Well, I was angry and jealous.” She looks guilty for a second and
then switches back to the mean girl expression I have grown to recognize on
her. “He gets everything so easily! Straight As in school without even trying,
my parents’ constant love and devotion. They baby him so much. Gas money,
clothes, movies—whatever he wants! No problem! I’m their own kid, and
they don’t even notice me since he moved in!”

“His parents died!” I yell back with fire.

“Yeah, and it was his fault they died, not mine! Why do I have to pay
for it?” she retorts. She sounds like such a snob.

“You know, Sam.” I stop short, trying to control my temper. “You sound
like a spoiled, little bitch right now.” I spit the words. “It wasn’t his
fault! Besides you think he doesn’t already blame himself? His fault or not,
you don’t think he already punishes himself everyday?”

She slinks back, looking afraid and remorseful, as if
maybe she never did think of that
possibility.

“No amount of gas money makes up for the death of both of your
parents. Are you that selfish, that you would begrudge him the comfort of your
parents’ love when that is all he has left?”

She shakes her head feebly. “No, no. I’m sorry.” She sounds genuine.

“Something is seriously wrong with you. But please, don’t apologize to
me. Apologize to him. He feels bad enough. He doesn’t need you throwing it back
in his face whenever you’re feeling ignored. You need to grow the hell up.”

“Ugh. I know! I know I messed up. That’s why I’m here. I’m trying to
fix this.”

“You need to fix it with him, not me.”

“Fix it how?”

“I don’t know how. Just fix it! Tell him the truth. Tell him you lied.
But don’t let him go around thinking you blame him, too!”

I try to put my part of the equation aside for the moment. That is
another issue entirely, which isn’t as important right now.

Sam disagrees. “You’re good for him, you know?”

I look her straight in the eye.

“He has a funny way of showing it,” I reply, more to myself than her.
“In fact, you have a funny way of showing it, too.”

“Yeah, well, that’s how he is. He always has been. More so since the
accident, but before that, too. He closed up during his parents’ divorce. He
can be nice and sweet, but he can also be a real ass.”

I find myself chuckling out loud and bite it back.

“It’s like a constant push and pull with him, like he can’t decide
what is worth his investment.”

I scrunch up my nose, dumbfounded. Because Sam has gone from naïve
brat to psychologically observant in five minutes flat, and because she is
reiterating everything that I, myself, had noticed throughout our entire messed-up
relationship.

I blink, and she is still talking.

“…But when you guys were hanging out, he was… I don’t know… lighter. A
little less brooding, a little more upbeat, happier. I’m stupid for letting my
own jealousy get in the way, but you were good for him. I saw it. Mom saw it
too, and she was always teasing him about you. It made me crazy.”

She smiles at me for the first time, and again, it looks genuine. “I
guess he’s becoming like a real brother to me. Hell, I definitely have the love-hate
part of the relationship down.”

She laughs, and I find myself joining her.

“All right, I guess I’m going to go try to find him. Thanks, and
again, I am really sorry.” She steps forward, as if moving in to give me a hug
before deciding against it.

I appreciate the thought but agree that not hugging is probably for
the best. Sam and I have a long way to go before I can forgive her attitude and
act civil enough for physical contact.

She heads to leave but before she reaches the door, I call out, “Hey,
Sam. Was that stuff you told me that day at school true?”

She turns back. “Half true. He was in the car and he was driving, but
he swears he wasn’t high and the stuff they found in the car wasn’t his.”

“But he got arrested…” I push for more of an explanation.

“I guess the owner of the car automatically gets charged with
possession. They tested him at the station and his test came back clean, so the
judge reduced his sentence to probation. Mom says Jake could have fought it,
but he refused. He took the blame so his friends wouldn’t get into any
trouble.” She shrugs. “Loyal, I guess. Stupid, but loyal.”

“Does he still party like he used to?”

“Not until last night…”

I nod.

“Okay, I’m going to go talk to him.
I’ll see you around.”

And she is out the door.

I stand for a few moments, unable to move while I process this new
information. I’m angry with Sam for what she did, but I’m also optimistic that maybe
we can now get past our differences once and for all and become some semblance
of friends.

Ha! Okay, not friends, but maybe not
enemies? I do have one more year with her at school before I graduate, and it
would be nice to no longer have so much hostility accompany me down the halls.

I let my thoughts move to Jake. Maybe the past few months of me being
ignored weren’t another one of his games. However, my conscience tugs at me.
Even though what Sam did was wrong, unbelievably wrong, he still had a choice
in all of this. He could have talked things out with me. We were close enough
for that, weren’t we? I understand that he is fighting with himself, but does
he need to keep fighting with me on top of it? You don’t do that to someone you
care about, demons or not.

I plop back down on the floor amongst my stack. The piles have grown
exponentially with my thoughts, and they become endless. I pick up another
book; this one is about barnyard animals. There is a picture of a giant,
bubblegum pink pig on the cover. I tap the cardboard, wondering if I should
text Jake. My heart plays tug-of-war as I place the book along with a few
others back in their appropriate spots on the shelf.

Confused once again as to what to think or do, I let out another
silent scream, ending the day in much the same manner as it began.

***

The next morning when I arrive to open the shop, the temperature has
dropped, chilling the air. The sky is dark with clouds, and while it is not yet
raining, the outlook is not good. Poor weather makes for slower business, and I
guessed that the store would be quieter today.

I throw my bag in a cubby under the counter and reach for the keys to
unlock the register. I plop down on the chair and realize that I have sat on a
book. I pull it out from underneath me and see it is a copy of
Shel
Silverstein’s The Giving Tree. I spring back up and
begin walking it over to the children’s section. I must have missed this one
during last night’s clean up.

I make space next to the other
Ss
, and as I
position the book to shove it in its place, a piece of paper falls out and
sails to the floor. I pick it up.

On the other side, in familiar handwriting, it reads:

I talked to Sam last night. Meet me
after work. Harbor Side Park? Please
.

It wasn’t really a question, and the please was more of an
afterthought. I take the book and note back to the front counter, set them down
beside the register, and get down to work.

Five minutes later, I turn the book and note over, face down.

Another minute passes, and I shove them in my bag. Out of sight, out
of mind.

I swear that tree was giving me a funny look.

***

I get to the park a few minutes after eight. The sun didn’t make much
of an appearance at all today, but the sky is still gently lit on the horizon,
and the moon hasn’t yet made its ascension above.

Jake is waiting for me on the swings. His back is towards me, and his
head hangs down. He twists side to side, pushing himself half-heartedly with
his left foot.