Tastes Like Winter (7 page)

I blink, unsure of myself. I look right, then left, half hoping for a
fellow observer to agree that that reaction was not only cold but also strange
in light of yesterday’s flirting session. “What’s up? Need help? Let me throw
my bag down.”

“No. It’s okay. I am done anyway.” He turns from the shelf and walks
towards the front.

I follow behind.

“Now, that you’re here I’m actually going to head out. I have to write
a paper.” He pulls his jacket on and picks up the
Moleskine
journal he is always carrying about, folding it in half and shoving it deep
into his pocket.

“Oh. What on?” I push.

“Nothing interesting. See you later.”
He passes through the door, and it shuts abruptly in my face.

I freeze. What the hell? My mind flashes back to the previous
afternoon: playing with his shoes, exchanging commentary on the Damned, flirting
over text. I didn’t dream that, right? No, definitely not.

So, why the cold shoulder today?

Maybe he is busy.

But even as the thought forms, I realize it doesn’t feel right.

***

The next day after school, Genna drives me home and, since she has the
day off from practice, decides to stay and hang out. I lie across my bed,
flipping through channels, half watching and half talking. Genna is on the
floor with her back pressed against the nightstand, painting her toenails a sea
foam green.

“So did you work this weekend?” she asks.

“Yup.” I change the channel during another commercial break.

“You’re always working these days.”

I sense a bit of attitude and move my gaze from the television to her
face. Her head is down while she runs the brush delicately along her big toe.

“You’re always at practice!” I snap back.

She looks up, surprised by my sharp tone.

“Well, I’m not at practice now!” She arcs the hand holding the brush
in a gesture around my room as proof.

I follow the brush with my eye, hoping it won’t drip polish on the
carpet. “Yeah and I’m not at work.”

She huffs and goes back to painting. I click the channel button a few
more times before settling on a sitcom rerun. I toss the remote back down on
the mattress and try to look interested in the scenes flashing on screen.

Genna finishes the last nail and screws the bottle shut before looking
back up at me.

“Sorry,” she says meekly, adding, “But I feel like we don’t see much
of each other these days, and it sucks.”

I frown. “I suppose we should get used to it, considering you’ll be
graduating and going off to college soon.”

I didn’t realize how much her past and future absence has been
bothering me, but the dread slips out with my voice.

Genna frowns now. “Yeah, it sucks.”

She buys a moment by glancing at the television screen before putting
on a smile, and with determination says, “We’ll be fine. We always have phones
and the Internet, plus weekends.” She fixes her face to display her usual
confidence. “You’ll never be rid of me completely. Don’t worry.”

“No matter how hard I try?” I tease.

“No way!” She grabs the pillow I have been resting on and smacks me
over the head with it before settling back down. Her eyes dart to her toes to
make sure she didn’t mess up the impromptu pedicure. Once she establishes that
no damage has been done, she asks, “Any chance Jake was working this weekend?”

She waggles her eyebrows at me suggestively, and I lift mine in
return.

“Well? Spill! Have you seduced him yet?”

“Ha! Seduced him? Hardly…” I go on to explain the flirting step
forward and the cold shoulder step back.

“Hmm… a bit weird, but maybe you’re overreacting?”

“Yeah, maybe. But he’s so hard to read. Sometimes I’m sure he’s
flirting, others times I think maybe he’s teasing me.”

“You think?”

“I’m a couple of years younger than him, and I do work for his aunt… Maybe
he sees me like a kid sister? A silly high school kid?”

“Yeah but don’t you guys talk about literature and philosophy and
stuff? That’s pretty deep. Sounds to me like he sees you as an equal. Plus I
saw the way he looked at you at Ryan’s party, and how close he was standing to
you…”

“No, the party was crowded, is all.” I wave the observation off.

“Not that crowded.” Her eyes tell me she thinks I am being
purposefully dense.

“Yeah, I don’t know. I guess he will remain a mystery for now.”

“A very sexy mystery!”

And it’s my turn to whack her over the head with my pillow.

After she’s recovered, she asks, “Sleepover at my house, next Saturday
after the game?”

We haven’t had a sleepover since before the field hockey season
started, and it sounds nice. Having her here this afternoon reminds me how much
I miss our time together. How much I miss talking and joking and being
carefree. I have known Genna forever, and I have never felt as though I need to
put on an act for her. That is, not until lately, but I remind myself that
that’s not her fault.

No matter how much time I like spending alone, I like spending time
with Genna more. We are a good fit, despite our differences. We can talk for
hours, but even in silence, it is never uncomfortable between us. I can be my
sometimes goofy, sometimes neurotic, always nerdy self, and she doesn’t judge.
I wonder briefly how her field hockey friends perceive our friendship.

As if reading my thoughts, she timidly adds, “Some team members are
coming over, too. Since I’m co-captain this year, Coach wanted me to reach out
to some of the younger players and bond.”

Ugh. I groan, and after I finish cringing, she adds, “Don’t worry. It’ll
be totally fun. Movies and pizza.”

Missing my best friend and not wanting to miss out on Genna time
because I am anti-social, I accept the offer by saying, “Okay, next Saturday.”

***

That week at work, Jake is noticeably absent. I do, however, see Sam a
few times. We haven’t yet worked a full shift together, but we have been
overlapping here and there. Mainly, she has been coming in with Betsy to drop
off shipments, and each time, she ignores me completely. With holiday season
nearing, Betsy and Dan have been bringing in extra stock, additional copies of
bestsellers and Christmas-themed books, and little trinkets. We have set up
special gift displays and even a small rack with handmade greeting cards from a
local artist.

So on Saturday night, I am not surprised to walk into
Genna’s
and see Sam curled up on the living room couch with
a few other girls. I greet everyone with my friendliest hello and toss my overnight
bag by the fireplace as I kick off my shoes and nudge them into the corner.
Being in
Genna’s
house should be second nature
because I spent so much of my childhood here, but having Sam there puts me on
edge. I might be projecting my disappointment in Jake going MIA or maybe I am
paranoid, but I swear she gave me another less-than-welcoming look when I walked
in.

The evening carries on as Genna promised, with Ryan Gosling and
pepperoni. While I am not a team member, my place by
Genna’s
side goes unchallenged. The newer faces I’m less familiar with are all outgoing
and friendly, and nights like this make me wonder why I don’t open up and
extend myself more often.

I am reminded exactly why not when Sam comes into the bathroom while I
am brushing my teeth, getting ready for bed.

I meet her eye in the mirror and mumble hello around my toothbrush.
Toothpaste dribbles down my chin, and I use my free hand to wipe it away.

Instead of excusing herself, she leans against the jamb of the open
door and stares at me. “So, you and Jake, huh?”

Her question shocks me, and her tone is less than polite. Having my
name placed next to Jake’s in that way is confusing and inappropriate, after
our budding friendship was cut so short by his abrupt distancing.

I spit out my mouthful.

“What?” I ask, not sure I heard her right.

She doesn’t say anything, and I resume brushing.

She turns to leave then pivots on her heel and adds, “You know, Emma,
he isn’t as cool as everyone thinks.”

I blink, and she is gone.

***

As Thanksgiving approaches, I find myself lingering around the shop
before and after my shift to see if I might catch Jake. Sam’s comment has continued
to confuse me, and when I mentioned it to Genna, she looked concerned.

“I understand the allure of a smart and sexy older guy, but maybe Sam
is right. He doesn’t have the best reputation, he blows you off, and now his
own cousin is warning you to stay away? Be careful with him.”

“I thought you were excited for me.”

“I am excited for you, but I can be excited and concerned at the same
time. I’m not saying ‘Don’t.’ I’m saying ‘Be careful.’”

I let her lecture me without arguing, usually the best tactic with
Genna, but I’m not entirely convinced about what to do.

Betsy made it sound as though Jake would be around more during the
holiday season, helping out, but so far I only saw him once since he blew me
off almost two weeks ago. He was heading out as I arrived, and despite my friendly
greeting in the parking lot, I got little more than a grunt before he jumped
into his car and drove away.

I try to convince myself that between the pressures of school and
having to commute home to help out at the store, maybe he’s stressed. But
saying ‘hello’ is not stressful, and his not making the effort is rude. It
leaves me wondering if I have exaggerated our connection. My unease, paired
with the strain of an approaching holiday season, has created a less-than-pleasant
tightness in my chest.

When Thanksgiving Day arrives, my mother, despite a rough year, pulls
out all the stops. A beautiful table greets our guests; Gram and Gramps are up
from New Jersey, along with Aunt Ellen and her two boys.

All my favorite foods have been prepared according to family
tradition.

Green bean casserole. Check.

Cheesy potatoes. Check.

Ellen’s homemade cranberry sauce. Check.

I even saw Mom picked up a big bag of granny smith apples, no doubt
for Gram’s famous caramel walnut pie. Yet despite all the mouth-watering
delicacies, it still doesn’t feel quite right without Dad and his brother’s
family around.

Mom warned me earlier in the week that she extended an offer for him
to stop by for dessert, should he want to see me. I sensed it was nothing more
than a pleasantry to make the transition less unpleasant for us all. I had no
expectations that he would actually show, so boy am I surprised when I answer
the doorbell and see his face.

“Hey, Dad!” I reach out for a hug. “You know you don’t have to ring
the doorbell. This is your house too—or rather, it used to be.” I cringe
as the last few words slip out.

“I’m just respecting your mother’s wishes. How are you?” he asks.

Balanced in his hands is a store-bought baked good. The box is tied
with a checkered string and gold stamp signaling that it is from Lilac’s, a
bakery in the next town over.

“Here let me take that. Come in.” I point him into the living room,
where the others are relaxing, already half asleep from the effects of the
early meal. I drop the box on the counter and follow him in.

We spend the next thirty minutes trying to avoid the giant elephant in
the room as best we can. I give my dad credit for making an attempt, but almost
wish he hadn’t. Gramps is flinging a stream of passive-aggressive comments his
way, while Mom and Aunt Ellen nervously keep trying to coax the conversation in
another direction.

Things have improved since Dad moved out, and Mom is stronger every
day, but all the hurt is coming back now, and it is bringing back that feeling
of bitterness deep down in my gut. I should be used to it by now, and I suppose
I am. It was always there, but has become less biting.

Regardless, my grandfather’s ruthless comments anger me. However true
they might be, voicing his opinions like this isn’t helping anyone.

The pent-up tension comes to a head when Ben, Ellen’s youngest son,
asks my dad why he likes his secretary better than his Auntie Martha. “Mommy and
Auntie Martha said it’s because she has better toys for you to play with.”

Everyone in the room collectively slaps their hands over their mouths
and freezes in shock. Ellen stammers out an apology as my dad rises from his
seat and leaves the room with balled fists, fighting to control his anger. My
mom rushes after him, and I can hear them argue in the foyer.

“What the hell, Martha! I figured you would tell your sister, but you thought
it was appropriate to inform her in front of her five-year-old son?”

His disgust is palpable. I can’t tell if it’s the pound of potatoes
and dinner rolls I dumped in it earlier or the constant strain of the past half
hour, but I instantly want to hurl. I beg an apology from my remaining family
members who are perched on the edges of the couches looking alarmed, and go
through the kitchen and out the back door.