Tastes Like Winter (19 page)

“I wish you could have found a way to say all this sooner,” I whisper.

“I know.” He shakes his head, “Fuck! I tried. All those books? That
was my way of trying to show you. I couldn’t bring myself to speak the truth,
so I prayed they would do it for me. You’re smart. I knew you would read into
them. I wished it would be enough.”

“It wasn’t enough.”

“I know. Trust me, I know.”

The sadness in his words cracks my heart, and I silence him by
reaching out and taking his face in my hands. I stare deep into him, and he
stares as intently back, and we continue the conversation without speaking.

“I love you, too,” I finally admit, and no matter how much I have
tried to deny it, I know as soon as I say it that it’s true. My voice is a soft
sigh, and before it fully escapes, his lips are on mine. It’s gentle and warm
and full of so much weight that my heart completely breaks under the pressure.

Overwhelmed, I pull away and turn my body so I am lying down against
the cold surface of the jungle gym. Jake mirrors my pose, and our heads come to
rest next to each other on the hard plastic. I stare up at the sky and paint
our story in the clouds.

I know what I have to say, but I don’t know how. The lines I practiced
earlier are all wrong after everything he has confessed. I can feel him looking
at me, searching my stern, sorrowful face for an explanation.

“Jake, I’m going to Colorado…”

I can feel his expression change, but I can’t risk looking at him.

“My parents’ divorce went through, and I’m moving with my mom to
Colorado. We’re taking a flight out tonight. I know Betsy probably already told
you, but I came here to tell you myself, in person. I came here to tell you
that I’m leaving.”

I turn to face him now. I see the news register in his eyes, and they
turn to brittle glass. Even though Betsy must have told him, he didn’t allow
himself to believe it until this moment, hearing the words from my lips.

“You can’t leave.” It’s both an order and a question. The words echo
for minutes while we both rearrange our thoughts.

“Jake, I love you. I have loved you. Why did you wait so long to let
yourself love me, too?”

The question falls empty and blows away with the breeze.

We don’t speak. We don’t need to. I rest my cheek against his and try
to formulate an alternate ending to that story of ours in the sky. The shapes
are all wrong, and they move too fast, and before I can grasp onto something
real, the clouds disperse.

I sit up to signal the end is near. “I have to go, Jake. I still have
packing to do.”

He nods in mournful acceptance, and now that he has spoken his piece
and shared with me his confession, words evade him again. I move towards the
ladder and climb down. This time he does not offer his protective assistance as
he follows behind me. I hesitate for a moment, wishing he might object, wishing
he would tell me something that would make me want to stay. I know it isn’t up
to me, but I wish anyway. Something to convince me that we aren’t over.

I am greeted with silence, but really, what words could possibly do? I
turn around, and he takes my hand as we walk back to my car. I try to memorize his
skin and soak his warmth into me. We reach my car, and he opens the door.

I stand conflicted, irresolute.

He surprises me by saying, “I almost forgot. Before you go, I have
something for you.”

He jogs around to the driver-side door of his car, reaches in the open
window, and retrieves a small package, carefully knotted with a string bow. He
hands me the package, and I look at him. My eyes ask the questions my mouth refuses
to speak.

“Sorry about my shitty timing, but I wanted to keep my promise. Don’t
open it now.”

“Okay, thanks.” I wonder what it is, but respect his request for me to
wait.

I lean in and brush his lips with mine, one last time. His mouth opens,
and I touch my tongue to his. Our mouths say good-bye in a way words never
could. His hand grazes my check, and I turn my head away from his lips and
delicately kiss his palm.

“I guess this is good-bye, Jake.” There is no question of if we will
talk or see each other again. There is no point for such empty vows between us.

“I guess so.”

I close the door and, using all of my remaining strength, force myself
to drive away. From my rearview mirror, I can see him standing exactly where I
left him, like a statue, perhaps trying to memorize my lips the way I did
moments before with the skin of his hands.

When I pull into my driveway and cut the engine, my eyes turn to the
passenger seat and rest on the small brown package beside me. My hand reaches
out and caresses the wrapping, which has wilted from the humidity. I pick up
the package and tear it open.

This time the book is Romeo and Juliet. It’s perfectly fitting. Star-crossed
lovers, never meant to be, like me and Jake. There is a note on top, and the
pages look as if they have been torn from one of his journals. The corner holds
the same date as the evening of my ultimatum, the evening when I told him to
think about what he wants, about whether or not he wants me. He must have
written it that very same night. It reads:

Emma,

I promised you that when I was able, I
would tell you how I feel. This letter is me keeping that promise. I'm sorry it
took so long and that I had to write it down instead of speaking these words
aloud to you in person, but truthfully, I am afraid.

For years, I have held myself back.
After seeing what my parents went through, how could I believe in love? And
after what I did to my parents, even if love existed, was it something I
deserved? No.

But as much as I fight it and as afraid
as I am to admit it, you have opened my eyes, and now I must accept that love
is real, and deserving or not, I feel it for you.

Maybe my parents didn’t find it and
neither did yours—and there is definitely still no love between me and
myself—but I’m working on it. You have forced me to see my mistake, and
now that I see it, I don’t want to live a life without you in it.

I promised that I would tell you how I
feel, and I can honestly say now that I have never connected with anyone as
deeply as I do with you, Em. You’re a curious kitten, always looking for new
adventure, be it a new book or a painting on some museum wall. I've seen the
greatness of Rome and felt the rush of the Colorado River. I've met peace in
the tranquil gardens of the Orient and felt perplexed at the face of Egyptian
architecture. I don’t need to travel to experience adventure; I need to be with
you.

You are a miracle, and every day I will
aspire to be like you.

I adore you, Emma, for your sharp
tongue and your even sharper wit; your sweet breath that accompanies the soft
words expressing the intentions of your tender heart. And my heart? It has only
ever felt at rest when it rested beside yours, and for those moments of peace,
I am forever grateful.

You are always growing, blossoming, and
just when I think the petals cannot be any brighter or the scent any more
irresistible—you bud again… That is your gift. I am yours.

Love always,

Jake

I read each word slowly, over and over again, tears forming in my eyes
at this unexpected gift. Why did he wait until today to give me this? The
thought is too much, and a bead breaks free and starts a slow decent down my
hot cheek.

The August heat is sweltering, but as I dart my tongue out to reach
the wet drop, my heart catches as I realize that I can still taste the last of
our winter on my summer lips.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book was a long process, over the course of many years
and with the support of many lovely individuals to whom I owe a great deal of
gratitude. To my oldest friend, Rob
Intile
; my
beautiful sister, Molly Carroll; the most kickass author, Katy Evans; and my beta
readers, Danielle @ What Danielle Did Next, Trish @ Between the Lines, and Courtney
@
MustReadBooksorDie
– I love you all and can’t
thank you enough.

In addition, there are two people that require special
recognition. Without them,
Tastes Like
Winter
would probably never have seen the light of day. Genna, thank you
for coming into my life, kicking my ass into gear, and making this dream become
a reality. And,
Aven
? There are no words to thank you
for all of the advice, encouragement, and of course the pick-me-up pictures of
hot guys, this past year. I love you both.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CeCe began writing as an escape from her days as a corporate
slave laborer. She grew up splitting her time between the beautiful beaches of
New Jersey and the bustling city of New York. Currently, she lives in
Massachusetts with her super handsome, talented husband and two adorable but often
sassy cats. CeCe gets excited easily, mostly about travelling, food—and,
of course, her first love: books.

Find out more on
http://www.cecewrites.com

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