Tastes Like Winter (16 page)

While chopping peppers and carrots, the phone rings. After wiping my
hands on a nearby dishtowel, I answer. “Hello?”

“Emma? It’s Mrs.
McCallister
. How are you,
dear?”

Mrs.
McCallister
is the woman who asked me to
babysit this summer. With the end of the school year and the Colorado trip, I
have been too busy to be called on yet.

“I’m good. How are you?”

“In a bit of a bind, actually. I know it’s last minute, but I was
hoping you might be able to come over and watch the kids tonight?”

I glance down at my half-prepared meal before asking, “What time do
you need me?”

“Seven o’clock, if that’s all right? We shouldn’t be too late, maybe
till eleven?”

It’s five now, which gives me time to finish cooking and eat with Mom
before I need to head over. “No problem. I would be happy to help.”

“Fantastic! Emma, you are a lifesaver!”

“It’s my pleasure. I’ll see you soon. Bye!”

“Bye.”

We disconnect the call, and I resume my cooking while shouting, “Hey,
Mom, I’m going to baby sit for the
McCallister’s
tonight, okay?”

“That’s fine, sweetie. What time?”

“From seven to around eleven. I’ll finish dinner, and we can eat
before I head over.”

“Sounds good. Thank you for helping out by cooking tonight. I won’t be
much longer.”

“Yup.”

I turn the pot of water on to boil before moving back to the pantry to
collect the supplies needed for a simple vinaigrette. These past few months of
lessons have increased my comfort in the kitchen tenfold, and I mindlessly mix up
the dressing while mentally debating which book I should bring tonight to read
after I put the kids to bed. I have been in a bit of a literary funk, and I
need something good to pull me out of my rut. Romance is still off limits, so I
decide a nonfiction title is best. Perhaps I will get a head start on my summer
reading stack.

As I am finishing up and beginning to plate dinner, Mom walks into the
room. “Smells yummy. I’m hungry.”

“Perfect timing. I just finished.” I hand her a plate and follow her
to the kitchen counter, where I have already laid out forks and drinks for us.

“It’s nice that the
McCallisters
thought of
you to call. Jenny asked for your number weeks ago. I wasn’t sure if she found
someone else.”

I nod, shoving down another mouthful of pasta. “Yeah, their two boys
are cute. I hope they aren’t a handful.”

“They don’t call it the terrible twos for nothing. That reminds me.
Dad is going to take you to see the fireworks this year.”

I stop mid-bite and look at her, cross. “Why?”

“Because he’s your father, and he loves you, and you need to spend
time together and talk.”

It takes a lot of effort not to roll my eyes. “Hmm. I bet.”

“Don’t fight me on this, Emma. Go with an open mind.”

“Okay. Sorry.”

I wonder if she will be there. She better not be. Mom pats my hand
approvingly and takes my now-empty plate.

“I’ll clean, this time. You go get ready for tonight.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I head upstairs to change and find a book.

JULY

Fourth of July weekend is here, and as promised, Dad is taking me to
go see the fireworks. Despite Mom’s warning, I was surprised to receive his
call so soon after getting back from Colorado. I was even more surprised when
he said he thinks we should spend more time together this summer. Since he
moved out, I have seen him three times: Thanksgiving, Christmas, and our
disastrous dinner last month. All the occasions were unpleasant, and I am
perplexed as to why he might want to get involved in my life now. At least
tonight, with the darkness and loud booms of the light show, there won’t be
much pressure to talk.

I stare out the car window as we drive
to the water’s edge. The fireworks are set up on a barge in the harbor, and
everyone in town gathers at the docks to watch the show. The car slows as we
approach the parking lot. A police officer is directing traffic and shows us
the way into a small spot on the far edge.

Dad makes a fuss of throwing the car into park and cutting the engine.
He takes a look in the rearview mirror, clearly trying to stall and buy himself
some time before we need to exit the car and officially start our
father-daughter date. I roll my eyes and shake my head with annoyance, a look
that I am not yet sure I want him to see. I push the door open and step out.
The car door slams behind me, and I wince, not meaning to have shut it so hard.
I look over at Dad and give him a weak smile as an apology, even though he
deserves more than a slammed door, especially after that dinner and his
preoccupation with Miss “Nobody Important.”

We push through the crowd and make our way towards the waterfront. Dad
stops at a hot dog stand and buys us each one—mustard and relish. At
least he remembers how I like my dog. I slide out of my flip-flops and sit down
on the dock, letting my feet dangle over the edge. I close my eyes and take a
bite. It tastes good, so I savor it slowly; besides, the longer my mouth is
full of food, the less I can talk.

We sit in silence as the sky darkens and the excitement builds.
Children run around, waving snow cones in one hand and glow sticks in the
other. I miss being that carefree.

Almost on cue, he starts, “I’m glad we
could spend this time together. I know things have been tough on you since your
mother and I separated…”

This is getting painful fast, and while I knew it was coming, it
doesn’t make it any better.

“I haven’t gotten a chance to ask yet, but how was Colorado? Did you
and your mother have fun? I thought since you went on a trip with her, maybe
you’d like to join me on a trip. I’m always travelling for business. Perhaps,
one of these days you can come along. I want to make sure you know that we both
love you very much, and—”

Suddenly the sky erupts with red and blue lights. It’s so loud that he
has to stop speaking. I let out a sigh of relief and quietly thank God for the
interruption. That was worse than dental work without Novocain and sounded as
though it would become more painful as he continued on.

We sit side by side, faces pointed up to the sky, for the next thirty
minutes, watching the beautiful display.

Fireworks bring out the kid in me. There is something about the way
the colors throw themselves at the night’s sky and melt into the ocean below
that usually makes me so giddy. I try to hone in on that feeling and relax. My
favorites are the gold whistlers, and tonight there are plenty of them to
enjoy. They screech with the delight of a child jumping up and down on a
trampoline.

The finale does not disappoint, and the last five minutes of the show
are a constant explosion of lights—blues upon reds upon greens. And with
a pop and a flash, the night comes to a blackened end. There is a moment of
silence as the crowd waits to ensure it is complete, before everyone bursts into
applause. Dad and I stand. I slide my feet back into my shoes and adjust my
tank top so it falls properly over my jeans. Without a word, Dad drapes his arm
over my shoulder and directs me back to the car.

We cross the parking lot. Most of the crowd is dilly-dallying on the
dock, not wanting to admit the night has drawn to a close.

We reach the car, and as I open the door, I look to the horizon and
see him.

Jake.

My heart clenches. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him, and longing
flows through me. I drop my head, trying to push my feelings down.

Dad follows my prior gaze to see what I was looking at, and his face registers
a sense of understanding and relief. “Is that a friend of yours?”

“Umm.” I bite my tongue. “Yeah… Yes.” I try to play it cool.

“A boyfriend of yours?”

His tone surprises me. He sounds curious and pleased, not wary like I
assume many dads would be.

“No. Not a boyfriend.”

“Have you known him long?”

“Long enough.”

“If you want to go hang out for a bit, be my guest. You can walk back
to your mother’s from here, no? It’s a few blocks. Or maybe your friend drove,
and you catch a ride?”

I notice the way he says your mother’s instead of home. It isn’t the
first time he has referred to Mom that way, and I don’t know why it bothers me
so much, but it does.

“Umm. Yeah. I think I might actually, if you don’t mind?”

“All right, but text your mother and let her know how and when you
will get home.”

Again calling her “my mother”. Jesus. It’s Mom. Good
ol
’ Mom. How quickly he has separated himself.

“Don’t worry. I will.”

“Night, sweetie. I will talk to you soon.”

I say good-bye, not knowing when I will see him next and, if I am
honest, not caring. I pray he wasn’t serious about that father-daughter getaway.
Sounds like a whole lot of him working while I entertain myself in a hotel
room.

I watch him drive off while I work up enough nerve to glance back over
to where Jake was sitting. When I drum up the courage to look over, he isn’t
there. I scan the area, searching for him.

I spot him walking up the block away from me. Did he not see me? He
must have.

Before I can second-guess myself, I head after him. I pull out my cell
and start texting Mom that I’ll be home a little later than expected, per my
dad’s instructions, looking up every other second to make sure I don’t lose Jake.
I hit send and shove the phone back in my pocket.

I don’t know why I’m doing this. I’m tempting fate, but I guess I want
closure, after everything that has happened. I haven’t reached out to him since
that day at school with Sam—that is, if you don’t include the little
message I sent last month, which I can’t even be sure he received. He obviously
hasn’t made an effort either. But even if he was online when I was or
responding to my texts, I wouldn’t have wanted to confront him any way other
than face to face.

It doesn’t help that his name has dropped completely off the schedule
at work. I am not sure how he explained that to Betsy. High Street has adopted
an unspoken “Don’t ask; don’t tell” policy.

Now that he is here, in sight, I want to talk to him. I want to look
at his face and see in his eyes that he doesn’t care and be done with it, once
and for all.

“Jake!” I yell. “Hey, Jake! Wait up!”

He registers my voice a block away and slows to a stop. I jog to close
the remaining distance between us.

“Emma… How
arrre
yu
?”
He slurs as he makes a large sweeping motion and turns to face me. “
Lonnng
time no
speakk
!”

I tilt my head and look at him crossly. “Jake?”

And then it hits me. The sour smell fills my nostrils, and I instinctively
step back. “Jake? Are you… Are you drunk?”

“That’s not all I am!” He grins and waggles his eyebrows at me. I
stare at him, dumbfounded, trying to make sense of his behavior. This is not
the Jake I know at all. My first thought is that Sam was right, which would
make me oh so very wrong.

I try to hold onto my composure. “I thought you didn’t do that stuff
anymore, Jake.”

I enunciate each word sharply and am greeted with an elaborate shrug
as his lips turn up in amusement, as if this is—as if I am—one big
fat joke.

My heart is breaking all over again.

“Jake, what’s going on with you?” I sound desperate, now. “What are
you doing? Why have you dropped off the face of the planet?” There is sadness
in my voice.

His smile drops, but the only response I get is a blank stare. I stand
on the dark street, several paces away from him, looking at his slouched-over
frame. His face is illuminated softly by a nearby streetlight.

Every single moment from this past year flashes in front of me, and
when I add the scene in front of me now, I can’t help but know that I have been
an utter fool. I watch the figure in front of me and wonder if I ever knew Jake
at all. Anger starts to form inside me, beginning in my toes and rising quickly.

Before I know what I am saying, it boils over the top. “What the hell
do you think you’re doing, Jake? I thought you were done with this stupid crap!
You told me you were done. Was that all a lie? Was Sam right? Have you been
lying to me this whole time?”

I wait for a response, but none comes. He stands in front of me, swaying
slightly, his expression confused. I challenge him for an answer with my eyes.

Nothing.

“You know what? You’re an immature, coward of a man—no, I take
that back. You’re not a man. You’re nothing but a child, a stupid little boy
who needs to get his shit together. I’m so done with this! I’m so done with
you!”

I throw my hands up in the air, confounded, and turn to walk away. He
isn’t worth it. I march several angry steps before stopping. My mind flashes
again to the last conversation I had with Sam. I whip back around.

“You know what? Sam was completely right when she said you don’t give
a shit about anybody but yourself! Your mom and dad would be so…”

I stop short and let the words fall. I can’t bring myself to throw
those daggers. No matter how much he deserves them. I shake my head with the
frustration of everything I want to say but won’t allow myself to.

“Have you learned nothing?” I ask quietly, pausing for an answer I
know won’t come. “Is this who you want to be? You can pretend to be
enlightened, but actions speak louder than words, Jake. What are your actions
saying now? You know what? Let me tell you. They’re saying that you’ll never
change.” Again, I hesitate for a moment, hoping he will object, hoping he has
an excuse, but I’m greeted with silence.

I turn around with a sigh. “I’m an idiot for thinking you would. Hell,
I’m an idiot for thinking you did.”

I breathe out hard. I am so angry with him, but I am also mad at
myself, and that makes it worse. I drop my head and walk away.

I get about a half a block away before
I hear him in the distance. He laughs almost mockingly and then quiets.

“At least I’m getting what I deserve.”

He speaks to himself, but I can hear him clearly on the empty street.
I am surprised to hear him speak at all, but I won’t let myself turn around any
more, so I keep walking. I try to pinpoint his tone. He sounded… sad? No,
defeated. That’s a better word.

There is a twinge in my heart, but I wave it off. He had his chance to
speak. He has made me feel like the asshole long enough. I’m done. How is that
for closure?

***

I awake to rays of light streaming onto my face through the open
curtain. It’s morning already? I curse the sun and roll over, pushing my mouth
into the pillow and letting out a silent scream. Last night’s one-woman fight
is still fresh in my head, and I wish I could let out some of the tightness in
my chest with a muffled yell. No sound escapes my lips—only hot morning
breath.

I surrender, and with a turn, I smack the alarm clock off before it
has a chance to begin its incessant beeping. I have a full shift at the
bookstore today. I told Betsy I would take it so that they could have the
holiday weekend off. I can’t decide what is worse: a day at the shop with only my
thoughts to entertain me or a day at home, catching up with Mom about my date
last night with Dad. I ponder that question as I pull myself upright and rub
the morning out of my eyes.

I notice that Mom must have stacked a pile of clean towels at the end
of my bed while I was sleeping. I grab the top one, along with my standard
uniform of black shorts and white tee, which are also freshly cleaned and
sitting on the stack waiting for me, and head for the shower.

As soon as I open my door, I see Mom at the other end of the hall. She
looks up at the sound and moves eagerly towards me. I try to make it to the
bathroom door before she can reach me. I’m not sure I can hide the bleeding
heart on my sleeve, and I don’t want her to see.

“Hey there, sweetie. Good morning! I see you found the laundry. I tried
not to wake you when I was putting them down.”

“Thanks, Mom. And no, you didn’t. I have to be at work in thirty
minutes.”