Page 3 of Something Like Winter
Tim paced his near-empty room, frustrated by the lack of distraction. An inflatable mattress his mother had bought for this occasion, a blanket, and a pillow were all that remained. The only signs left of his world were scuff marks on the blank walls and patches of pressed carpet where furniture had once stood. He had nothing left to escape into. No books, music, or TV—not even his studio. His home had been hollowed out completely, empty now of all but memories.
Except the ghost of the room Tim found himself in didn’t belong to this house. Memory brought him to Corey’s room, a place on the brink of transformation, just like its occupant. Childhood toys competed with posters of bikini-clad girls on the wall. CDs of Disney soundtracks were shuffled up with grunge bands. Stuffed animals and designer clothing shared piles on the floor. Not the coolest place to hang out, but Tim was happy to escape the party. And Carla.
“Go upstairs and check on my brat of a brother,” she had snapped at him when he offered to get her a drink.
Tim happily complied, because that night he felt he could hardly breathe. Her brother’s room had been the perfect sanctuary. Fourteen years old, Corey and his world still mostly revolved around video games and cartoons, but he was changing. Most recently his glasses had been replaced by contacts, revealing eyes that matched his sister’s, so dark that the pupils were nearly lost.
With his parents out of town and none of his friends allowed over, Corey had been glad for the company. He even shut off his games and focused on Tim, watching him with transparent admiration as Tim nursed a beer. An hour passed easily. They bragged, laughed, and talked, Tim wondering if this was what having a brother was like. Then Corey spoke those crazy words that haunted him still.
“You can kiss me if you want.”
Tim’s grin had abandoned ship. Maybe the bass thumping from downstairs had affected his hearing.
“Why would I?” Tim replied.
Corey’s face had fallen, which was enough to make Tim backpedal.
“I’m almost seventeen,” he continued lamely, “and you’re— I’m dating your sister!”
“I won’t tell her.” Hope lit Corey’s face, as if there was room for negotiation. “I never tell anyone.”
Corey made it sound like a game, a secret that guys kept. Like telling your best friend about the girl you wanted to hook up with, or those shitty moments when you cry or something vulnerable like that. But kissing each other? That wasn’t a secret that guys kept. Was it?
Those dark eyes, so like his sister’s, watched and waited for Tim to give the word. What if he had said yes? Would Tim have leaned forward, or would Corey have come to him? He would never know, because Tim had stood and walked to the door. When he turned around, the hurt had returned to Corey’s face, and Tim couldn’t leave him like that.
“Anyone would be lucky to kiss you, Corey. It’s just… Your sister would never forgive me.”
When Tim arrived back downstairs, he nearly wished he had done it, just to spite her.
“Where the hell have you been?” Carla said with a withering glare.
“I was just upstairs, trying to figure out if I want to molest your brother or not.”
Of course Tim hadn’t really said that. Memory could be toyed with, twisted to suit his needs. As he flopped down on the inflatable mattress, Tim tinkered with another memory. What if it had been Corey sitting on the doorstep today? No parents at home, no ugly relationship with Corey’s sister, just them alone, the crazy offer repeated one final time.
“You can kiss me if you want.”
Chapter Two
The small sketchbook pages felt impossible to fill as the Oklahoma scenery whizzed by. Not that scenery was an apt description, since there wasn’t anything to see. Tim had grown up in Kansas, accustomed to horizons filled with farmland, but also housing developments and strip malls. Oklahoma seemed deserted by comparison, so Tim tried creating more interesting worlds on paper, but sketching wasn’t his forte.
When creating art, he found the pen frustrating, its scratching ugly compared to the silken motion of a paintbrush. Ink was stationary, permanent, and damning once on paper. A thick glob of paint could be sculpted, scraped, and moved. He missed the colors the most, the wet hues. Markers, chalks, and various inks—Tim had tried them all, but none were vibrant enough or spoke to his soul like paint did.
The SUV pulled to the right, slowing as his father guided it down an exit ramp. Tim tossed aside the sketchbook. He had managed a couple of drawings, but they would remain chicken scratches until the movers showed up with his art supplies.
“Where are we?”
Neither parent responded from the front seat, so Tim looked out the window until he spotted stores and car dealerships that incorporated the location’s name: Oklahoma City. They had returned to civilization.
“That looks like a nice restaurant,” his mother said at a stop light.
His father’s eyes met Tim’s in the rearview mirror. What was he thinking? That they usually dined out alone? That it would be awkward having Tim along for what was normally a romantic occasion?
“Thomas,” Tim’s mother prompted.
“We’re making good time, Ella. After the tank is full, we’ll get some fast food on the way out of town.”
“Well, stop there anyway so I can use the restroom. At least it will be clean.”
