Tastes Like Winter

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Copyright

Dedication

September

October

November

December

January

February

March

April

May

June

July

August

Acknowledgements

About the Author

When home no longer feels like home
- where can you go?

When your best friend won’t listen - who can you turn
to?

When love makes you feel weak - how do you protect your
heart?

With constant fighting at home, Emma decides working at
High Street Books and practicing avoidance is the best method to save her from
more heartache.

She doesn’t expect to meet Jake, the shop owner’s
nephew,

who makes her stomach do crazy things.

But Jake is intent on pushing her away, and Emma must
ask herself:

Is he scared? Or is he hiding something?

Tastes Like Winter is a story of love, family, and
friendship and,

when everything is uncertain, trying to figure out where you fit
in.

TASTES

LIKE WINTER

CECE CARROLL

This is a work
of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of
the author’s imagination or are used factiously, and any resemblance to
business establishments, events, locales, or any person, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.

TASTES LIKE
WINTER

All rights
reserved.

Copyright ©
2014 CeCe Carroll

Cover art by
CeCe Carroll

All rights
reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or
transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or
other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of
the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical
reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

WWW.CECEWRITES.COM

To
my husband for all the years of love and support

 
SEPTEMBER

The wind rushes past me, tickling my cheeks as I soar higher and
higher, flying through the air. Squeals of childish delight bubble out of me,
mirrored behind me in my mother’s own sweet, high-pitched laughter. She pushes
my swing again, her gentle hands guiding me forward on my journey onward and
upward. My chubby hand loosens its grip on the chain, and I reach for blue,
convinced I can touch the sky if I push hard enough. I am determined to reach
the clouds. Another push from behind, another pump of the legs, and as soon as it
comes into reach…

Beep, beep, beep, beep!

The screech of the alarm jolts
me out of my dream, and I let out an automatic groan. My hand darts out
from beneath the comforter, searching for the hellish device, and as soon as my
fingers touch plastic, I slam it off and pull my arm back below the safety of
the covers.

My eyes stay shut as I refuse to acknowledge the morning, wishing I
could sink back into that beautiful carefree memory from a lifetime ago. I
don’t often dream these days, don’t sleep much at all, but when I do, I’m
frequently visited by glimpses of those better times when I was young and
ignorant.

I open my eyes and stare at the white ceiling above me, steadying
myself. Glow in the dark stars stare back at me in the dim morning light,
mapping out constellations and telling stories of the wicked ways of men and gods.
My mother helped me arrange them years ago, and while much has changed, they
still hang, though now their bright color has faded and taken on a greenish
tinge. I reach up to touch them as if I am still on the swing and I still
believe it is possible to touch the sky. My arm isn’t long enough—it
never was—and I contemplate the extra and empty distance for a moment
before dropping it back down to the mattress with a thud.

It takes me a minute to force the rest of my limbs to move enough so I
can crawl out of bed. After I stand, I jump up and down and do a quick shimmy
in an effort to wake myself up and shake enthusiasm into my bones. School
starts today, along with my new job down at High Street Books, and that’s most
definitely something to look forward to.

Most kids my age dread the end of summer and the return to class. They
cut back on their work hours or quit their jobs altogether so that they can
focus on homework and friends. This year, it will be the fun junior-year activities
like homecoming and prom. I, however, didn’t quit my job. Instead, I got a new
one. And unlike my classmates, I’m glad to get back to class and start working.
As little free time as possible, that is my goal.

I spent the summer babysitting, which at fifteen dollars an hour is a sweet
deal for me. Put the kids to bed nice and early and spend the rest of the
evening laid out on the couch, devouring the books I brought and raiding the snack-filled
pantry. But my parents have been fighting more and more lately, and escaping a few
nights a week is no longer cutting it. I can’t stand to spend another minute
locked in my room, listening to them argue through the floorboards. I’ve
decided that this year I’m going to stay extra busy while taking full advantage
of the thirty percent discount as I go. I will use anything to distract myself
from the inevitable collapse of my family life as I know it.

I head for the bathroom and turn on the water, then step into the
shower and let the warm beads rain down on me. I shampoo my hair, and as the
water flows over my head, rinsing the suds away, I wish for it to wash away the
weight pushing down on my shoulders. Last night’s argument comes back to me, and
the nausea brought on by my guilt and despair worms its way back into the pit
of my stomach, a sickness I’m beginning to grow used to.

“Honestly, Martha, you should take a long hard look at yourself and
consider your role in all of this.”

My father often chooses to keep his mouth shut as his best means of
defense, while my mother wastes her energy yelling to an unresponsive wall. Hearing
him speak with such a hard edge last night caused my ears to perk up.

“My role? What have I ever done aside from love you and Emma with all
of my heart?” my mother pleaded, and while I could picture her on hands and
knees at his feet, I hoped she wouldn’t stoop so low.

“Maybe you should’ve saved some of that heart for yourself instead of
investing everything into us. You’re not the independent, carefree woman I
married.”

I flinched but didn’t quite disagree.

“Well, you aren’t the considerate, loving man you once were, either!” she
shouted, her tone full of desperation.

Part of me wanted to root her on, but the weakness in her voice made
her words carry less conviction. I continued listening from the top of the
stairs, hidden by the shadows as they ranted on, neither trying to solve the
problem but merely pointing fingers and placing blame. This summer, these
arguments have caused my eyes to open wide and my heart to slam firmly shut.
And this time, while I hated to admit it, to side with my father, he was right,
and I was desperate that for once she would listen.

“That’s bullshit, Martha. I haven’t changed.”

My father’s voice reflected my own thoughts.
Dad has always been a workaholic, choosing
the office over his family time and time again. When I was younger, my mother made
it her mission to fill any possible void his absence might have left. “Daddy
has to work tonight, so you and I get to have a mommy-daughter ice cream date. How
does that sound, sweetheart?” was all she needed to say to distract my
childhood self.

However, the older I grew, the harder I was to distract. I’ve long
since begun to notice the things I am sure they both hoped I wouldn’t. When
news of the affair broke and the tension between them became palpable, I began
examining their relationship with a more observant eye. I grew up thinking my
dad was an important man with a lot of responsibility, and that was why he acts
the way he does at home. Now, I wonder how much of his absence stems from Mom
smothering him and him struggling to escape her. The more he worked, the more
she clung to him as if he were a life raft that might drift away and leave her
drowning if she didn’t hold on tight enough.

I step out of the shower and towel off before throwing on a pair of
jeans and pulling a plain black tee over my head. I run a brush through my hair,
the bristles gliding through the silky brown strands, and take a quick glance
in the mirror to make sure everything is in place. My nose crinkles at the
person staring back at me. My eyes always give me a “deer in the headlights”
look, but ever since the insomnia kicked in, that deer looks malnourished and as
though it’s been struggling to survive a long, harsh winter. Maybe it’s the
matching blue circles that now shadow my lower lids.

Sleep doesn’t come easy with the full-on battle that has begun between
the two of them. Days aren’t any easier, seeing how Mom latches on to me now as
if her seventeen-year-old kid should be responsible for her, for her happiness,
since her own husband no longer wants to bear the responsibility. I love her
and I long to be that rock for her, but we are a long ways away from the days
of playing in the park as I dreamt last night.

There is a picture of Mom and Dad from their honeymoon sitting on the
mantel in our living room, and I frequently find myself studying it, wondering
how such a happy couple has come to this. When did my father become so hard and
my mother so weak? The beautiful woman in that photo turned into an empty shell,
giving blindly and searching for happiness in those around her instead of
looking inside herself. She needs to learn to stand on her own two feet.

I look at my reflection now and see so much of her staring back at me.
It scares me. “Will I end up like her?” I ask myself.

I turn away from the mirror, trying to push aside all these thoughts
that have been plaguing me for weeks. I reach across the nightstand and scoop up
my phone and the paperback I’m currently reading. I shove them both into my bag
and throw the whole thing over my shoulder.

With my hand on the doorknob, I pause and see if I can make out
parental sounds in the hallway. Greeted with silence and satisfied I am safe, I
swing the door open and flee downstairs, taking them two at a time. I add a
bottle of water and a blueberry yogurt from the fridge, along with a crunchy peanut
butter granola bar from the pantry to my bag and am out the door before my
mother can round the kitchen corner and engage me.

Genna is already parked outside, her new car idling at the curbside.

“Let’s go!” I spit out while shutting the door behind me, hoping she
will sense my urgency and speed away. She throws me a wicked Cheshire cat smile
and rolls down my window using the automatic controls at her side.

“Good morning, Mrs. Forrester!” she shouts through the now-open window,
adding a big wave for effect.

I turn and see my mother, now pressed against the glass of the window,
curtains pulled aside, smiling and waving, oblivious to her obvious
desperation. My eyes squeeze shut, and I turn my head away and grunt. “Genna,
please don’t encourage her.”

Her response is a laugh, followed by, thankfully, foot to pedal as we
accelerate away.

Once the house is a safe distance behind us, I allow myself to relax
and sink into the plush seat.

“Nice car.” I look around and take in the clean dashboard and the
checkered mats on the floor, obviously a new addition.

“Thanks!” Genna beams. “I love her.” She pets the wheel with more
admiration than I could possibly muster for anything with four wheels.

Genna saved for over a year so that she could buy a car when she
turned seventeen. She was ecstatic when her parents surprised her for her
birthday earlier this summer, offering to match her savings, dollar for dollar.
The beater she originally envisioned turned into a much nicer, though still
very used two-door sports sedan in cherry red. Her love for the vehicle is
unmatched, and while I have heard her wax poetic about it for weeks on the
phone, this is my first ride.

Genna plays field hockey, and after school ended in June, she spent three
weeks away at training camp in Western Massachusetts, followed by daily practice
on our home field. This has caused my best friend to be M.I.A. for the most
part all summer. Even when she wasn’t practicing, she was away at team dinners
or spending quality time with her own folks, the close-knit bunch requiring
strict and regular family-only evenings. We joined up for a few ice cream gab
sessions for old times’ sake, and one pizza/movie date, but each time felt
rushed and fleeting. My self-inflicted isolation at home and her general
distraction with the team has made this summer different, both with and without
her.

Growing up, Genna and I took trips every year, one with my mom and one
with her parents. They were the best times of my life and the reason I fell in
love with travelling at such a young age. We never went far, camping in New
Hampshire or to their lake house in Maine. One year, as a special treat, we flew
to Arizona, rented a car, and drove out to the dry and mystical lands of Sedona.

We stayed at the most beautiful resort I have ever seen. It stood tall
in the desert. The beautifully landscaped buildings were centered on a
courtyard, with a massive pool that reflected like a mirror the clean blue and fluffy
white of the cloud-spotted sky.

Her parents took us on day hikes on the red rocks, the colors of the
sand undulating with the sun. Genna and I raced ahead, jabbering on and giggling
away as we climbed higher and higher. Pointing out clay formations and
shrubbery, we pretended we were explorers discovering new land. I will never
forget that week. I will never forget the feeling of falling in love with adventure.

This is the first year we didn’t go on a trip. Her schedule was too
busy, and I was sure my mom wasn’t up to it; I didn’t need her having a
breakdown in front of Genna. Instead, I drove up to the White Mountains by
myself one weekend. Trying to regain the excitement of years passed, I hiked up
to Lafayette Lake. But I felt Genna’s absence in the sway of the trees and the
crunch of the gravel beneath my boots. I tried to call her when I reached the
summit, pausing lakeside to catch my breath, but her phone went to voicemail.
It must have been off for practice, forgotten in her locker amongst dirty
socks, hair ties, and shin guards.

To her credit, Genna has already apologized a dozen times for not
being around more, especially in light of my recent family troubles. Each time
I told her it wasn’t a problem, and each time she insisted that I was being
difficult and letting her off too easily. She promised to make it up to me as
soon as school started and things slowed down with her sport’s schedule.

Perhaps it is all for the best, since not having to talk about everything
has been rather nice. I’ve known Genna my whole life and absolutely love her to
death, but she is a fixer, and I would rather avoid becoming her next project.

We have worked out a nice routine the past few weeks, though.

She calls me at the end of the day, usually when I’m out on
babysitting duty, after I have put the kids to bed. Excitement in her voice,
Genna fills me in on the latest team gossip, which she insists on sharing
despite the lack of interest on my behalf. After rambling on for a while, she
realizes her mistake and asks me how I am doing and how my parents are getting
along.