Free Tastes Like Winter by Cece Carroll Page B

and follow him in.
    We spend the next thirty minutes trying to avoid the giant elephant in
the room as best we can. I give my dad credit for making an attempt, but almost
wish he hadn’t. Gramps is flinging a stream of passive-aggressive comments his
way, while Mom and Aunt Ellen nervously keep trying to coax the conversation in
another direction.
    Things have improved since Dad moved out, and Mom is stronger every
day, but all the hurt is coming back now, and it is bringing back that feeling
of bitterness deep down in my gut. I should be used to it by now, and I suppose
I am. It was always there, but has become less biting.
    Regardless, my grandfather’s ruthless comments anger me. However true
they might be, voicing his opinions like this isn’t helping anyone.
    The pent-up tension comes to a head when Ben, Ellen’s youngest son,
asks my dad why he likes his secretary better than his Auntie Martha. “Mommy and
Auntie Martha said it’s because she has better toys for you to play with.”
    Everyone in the room collectively slaps their hands over their mouths
and freezes in shock. Ellen stammers out an apology as my dad rises from his
seat and leaves the room with balled fists, fighting to control his anger. My
mom rushes after him, and I can hear them argue in the foyer.
    “What the hell, Martha! I figured you would tell your sister, but you thought
it was appropriate to inform her in front of her five-year-old son?”
    His disgust is palpable. I can’t tell if it’s the pound of potatoes
and dinner rolls I dumped in it earlier or the constant strain of the past half
hour, but I instantly want to hurl. I beg an apology from my remaining family
members who are perched on the edges of the couches looking alarmed, and go
through the kitchen and out the back door.
    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