Free Tastes Like Winter by Cece Carroll Page A

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