Something Like Winter Read Online Free

not. Depending on how expensive the
comforter was, Tim wasn’t sure if it would go or he
would.
    “ Hey, where’s the basement
door?” he asked. “I want to check out my studio space.”
    His mother shook her head
distractedly. “There aren’t any basements down here.”
    “ What? Why wouldn’t they
have basements?”
    Ella looked puzzled.
“Because there aren’t as many tornados, I guess. No tornados, no
need to hide in the basement like rats.”
    “ Well, where am I going to
paint?” Tim huffed.
    “ We’ll find you a
space, Gordito, don’t worry.”
    “ What about the empty room
up here?”
    “ Don’t be silly. That’s the
guest room. Your old bed is going in there.”
    Tim stared at her. When did
they ever have guests? His parents didn’t have friends, aside from
his father’s business associates and their spouses. None of them
would stay over for some sort of grown-up slumber party. He tried
picturing his father having a pillow fight with some other old guy
in a business suit and couldn’t.
    “ If they think that’s
cranberry, they’re color blind,” his mother said, her attention
back on the bed.
    Tim spotted his jogging
clothes in the suitcase and grabbed them. If he wasn’t going to
find release sexually, this was the next best thing. He went
downstairs to the guest bathroom, which was completely bare and
should be safe from his mother’s inspections, and stripped off his
clothes. After flexing his muscles in the mirror to satisfy his
inner narcissist, he pulled on the navy shorts and gray Kansas
University tank top. He made a note to toss the shirt in the trash
later, rather than the laundry hamper. Then he sat on the toilet
and slipped on his blue running shoes. Half a minute later, Tim was
outside pounding pavement.
    This. Oh god, this! There
was nothing that made him feel so centered, so calm, as running
did. Not at first, of course, but as he warmed up and his breath
found the right rhythm, all his worries melted away. He’d heard
people talk about endorphins, and maybe that was part of it, but
there had to be more. Jogging was like meditation on the go. How
monks could meditate while sitting on their butts, Tim had no clue.
He needed to move, his body completely occupied, skin covered with
sweat, hair sticking to his forehead. Only then could silence fill
his soul.
    He slowed to a trot, almost
unwillingly, and stopped. Between two houses was a paved trail a
bit wider than the average sidewalk. In the summer dusk, he
couldn’t see much except the path leading into the shadow of trees
ahead. Fences lined either side, meaning it couldn’t belong to the
neighboring homes. Still panting, Tim ran toward the darkness to
see what he would find.
    * * * * *
    What Tim discovered over
the next month is that the trees of The Woodlands hid more than
just buildings. Winding throughout the city like a miniature
network of roads were bike paths—as the natives called them—that
snaked through neighborhoods, connecting everything from shopping
centers to public parks.
    Tim explored them with
caution. The only downside to the bike paths going everywhere was
that if he wasn’t careful, he could end up anywhere. Those nearest
his home led to a small park—not much more than a playground and a
small lake. Tim always began by jogging around this body of water,
returning the same way. Each time he would run a little farther,
explore the paths a bit more before retracing his steps. If he
tired of a route, he would choose a different fork and begin
again.
    With his things unpacked,
his room set up, and summer drawing to a close, Tim found himself
glad that school was starting soon, if only for the chance to
socialize. Exploring his new surroundings was becoming dull, and
with both his parents working, Tim longed for something
more.
    Of course, he still
couldn’t paint. A week before his birthday, Tim decided he’d had
enough. He set up an easel in the guest room and grabbed a canvas
he had made a rough