Tastes Like Winter (8 page)

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 abruptness. 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.”

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.