The People We Choose

by Katelyn Detweiler

  He does come, finally. Just as pink and orange streaks are swallowing the sky.

  It seems too early for the sun to be setting, but that’s how it goes, isn’t it? This summer will end, one way or another. That much is inevitable. Life will go on around us.

  Max sits in Mimmy’s yellow rocking chair.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d ever come here again,” I say, watching him. He stares straight ahead, off toward the trees. “But I’m glad you did.”

  He nods slowly. “I wasn’t sure if I would either. I haven’t slept since you told me. I haven’t done much of anything. Cried. Punched my pillow. Almost punched through your tree painting, but I stopped myself.”

  “Yeah. I haven’t been sleeping much either. I think I’ve drunk more coffee in the last few days than the rest of my life combined.”

  “Same. Black. All day.” He’s rocking hard in the chair, the back-and-forth making heavy, rhythmic thuds against the wooden boards. “I’m afraid to dream. Before, I dreamed about you every night.”

  He dreamed about me every night. The thought makes me nauseated.

  “I told my moms,” I say. “Saturday. After you and I talked.”

  “Yeah? How did that go?”

  “Oh, you know. Shock. Horror. Sadness. How about you? How are things at your house?”

  “Pretty ugly.”

  I wait for him to say more. But when the silence stretches and it’s clear that’s all I’m getting, I take a deep breath and clench my hands around the arms of the rocking chair. “So… what’s next then? Who are we to each other now?”

  “I’m so confused.” Max sighs. “But sitting on this porch with you? It feels like the most real thing in my life right now. I look at you, and I remember how it felt to fall in love with you. I don’t want that feeling. It’s not right. It’s… disgusting.” He turns to face me, and his red-rimmed eyes look so empty and hopeless, my breath hitches. “I don’t think I can do this. I don’t think I can do us. Friendship. It’s too hard.”

  “But—” I reach, grasp. “You’ve barely had any time to process it all. You said yourself you can’t sleep, so nothing is clear right now. We don’t have to make any big decisions yet. There’s no rush.”

  “Maybe. But I think it’s for the best. Easier in the long run. For both of us.”

  “Why do we have to take the easy way out? You’re my brother. Half brother, but still. Doesn’t that mean something?”

  Max flinches like I’ve slapped him. “Please don’t call me that. Just because we share DNA doesn’t mean we get to play brother and sister. It doesn’t work that way. Not for us.”

  “Maybe it could work that way, though. If we both try hard enough. I don’t want to not know you.”

  “I’m sorry, Calliope. I really am.” He stands up, eyes fixed on the woods ahead. “But I’m not as strong as you.”

  “So that’s it? Just like that?”

  “Goodbyes are hard no matter what,” he says quietly, still not looking at me. “Let’s not make this one harder than it already it is.” And then he turns and walks down the porch stairs.

  I stare as I did that first day—my eyes tracing his every movement, each graceful swing of his limbs, until he fades into the trees.

  I’m sad. I’m angry. I’m disappointed.

  I thought the truth had already done its worst. I’d fully understood the consequences. But no.

  This—this is the moment my heart fully breaks.

  Ginger comes over, and she holds me that night until I fall asleep.

  She stays all of Tuesday, too, and sleeps over for a second night.

  Mimmy and Mama take turns checking in, but they give me space.

  I’ve never lost anyone close to me—never felt grief in that sense before. But this feels like a death. The funeral has ended. The real mourning has begun.

  Ginger and I lie around mostly. Pool, hammock, sofa, bed. She’s there for the company, not the conversation. There’s not much to say: The entire summer was an ugly mistake. Max is out of my life, and I have to learn how to un-love him. As a boyfriend, as a friend, and as the half brother he was never supposed to be.

  Ginger looks guilty this morning at the kitchen table as she scoops a second helping of Mimmy’s homemade granola into her bowl. “I could call off my shift if you want. Really. I don’t mind. I’ll say I caught some weird face rash. They’ll beg me to stay home.”

  I take a small bite of granola and yogurt. My stomach turns as I swallow. “It’s fine. Seriously. You gave me a full day of pity party yesterday. That’s enough. Life can’t be all about me. Your eighteenth birthday is a week from today. Let’s talk about that.”

  “Planning something extravagant will be a great distraction for you.” She gives me a big openmouthed grin, crunching down on the granola. “And by the way, not to make a big deal about this or anything, but…”

  She pauses, making a show of her chewing for dramatic effect.

  “I didn’t want to mention it earlier. Because, well, you know. Didn’t feel like the best timing. For example, when you came to the diner to tell me about Elliot. Nope. Not the right moment. And I didn’t want to jinx anything. But… I might have met someone. I mean, I definitely met someone. She’s real. She exists. She’s amazing. But I’m not sure if I’m in the friend zone or there’s more. Very early days.”

  “What?” I drop my spoon. “When did this happen?”

  “Last week. She was a customer. Couldn’t stop complimenting my red lipstick and my cat-eye glasses. I thought she was just a makeup junkie at first, but then she ordered some pie after she finished her burger and asked for two forks. One for her. One for me. And it was key lime, without me telling her that was my favorite pie in the world. Obviously, I took a break. And I left my number on the receipt—for zero dollars, of course, because I picked up the tab. She called me the next day. We’ve been talking and texting ever since.”

  I’ve never seen her face so bright. There’s a halo around her goofy grin.

  “Wow. I am so happy for you, Ginger.” And I am. Mostly. All the best, selfless parts of me. I refuse to acknowledge the tiny evil voice that says, Why now, why her. I shove that down deep. “What’s her name? Does she live here?”

  “Vivi Rodríguez. And no, but her grandma does. Vivi lives a few towns over. But she comes to visit a lot. Her grandma needs help around the house. Which means she’s funny, cute, most likely gay, and she’s a good person who takes care of her elders.”

  “Will she hang out with us for your birthday? I can’t wait to meet her,” I say. My voice sounds strained and strangely pitched. Not genuine. I want to take it back. Try again.

  Ginger hears it, too. That goofy grin slips and falls. “I’m sorry. I knew it wasn’t a good time. It feels like I’m rubbing it in your face, and I’m not, I swear. I shouldn’t have said anything. Not now.”

  “Stop. No. I’m glad you told me. And I really am excited for you. Just because I happen to despise romantic love at the moment doesn’t mean you should, too. You deserve this. Plus, you were so patient and good to me all summer.”

  She reaches across the table, her thick row of beaded and charmed bangles knocking against the wood as she finds my hand and squeezes. “Thanks, Calliope.”

  The front door opens. A slow creak of the screen door, then a bang as it swings shut.

  I turn in my chair toward the hall, dropping Ginger’s hand. Mama and Mimmy are at the studio. My chest tightens. Max would knock, wouldn’t he?

  But it’s not Max who steps into the kitchen. It’s Noah. We haven’t talked since his last visit, before I told Max. I wasn’t sure where to go from there. Wasn’t sure whether he’d only come out of pity, for a one-off conversation because of the dire circumstances, or for a first step back to some kind of normalcy.

  “Hey,” he says, like it’s a casual thing, his being here. Like it used to be. But his smile is too big, more nervous than happy. He sits in the chair next to Ginger. Picks up an extra spoon, taps it aga
inst the table like a drumstick. Neither of them can meet my eyes.

  I cross my arms and stare them down. “What is this, a changing of the guards? Ginger said I shouldn’t be alone?”

  “Eh.” Ginger twirls her spoon in circles around her yogurt bowl. “No. Maybe. Yes.”

  “I’m an adult. I can handle myself.”

  “We’re just worried about you, that’s all,” Ginger says. “I’ve never seen you so sad.”

  “Sad,” I screech, and Noah and Ginger wince. “Well, yeah, I guess I never fell for my biological half brother before now. Or had my heart broken, period. I couldn’t even start out with a normal heartbreak, could I? Skipped right past those training wheels. So yes. I am sad. But you don’t have to babysit me. I’m not going to do anything drastic. Maybe cry some more. Binge-eat Mimmy’s cookie dough out of the freezer.”

  “So, should I leave?” Noah is already halfway out of his seat.

  “Do what you want. I just don’t want anyone here out of obligation.”

  “You are never an obligation.” His face is oddly somber as he says it. He sits back down.

  Ginger stands then, clearing away her empty bowl and mug, dropping them in the sink. “Just let us love you, Calliope. It’s what best friends are for. It’s what we’ve all been doing since the womb.” She hugs me from behind, plants a juicy kiss on the top of my head. “I’ll call you after my shift. Not to check in. But to ask what plans you’ve come up with for next week.”

  The door slaps shut behind her. We hear her wooden platforms clunking on the porch, down the stone path to her car. Noah’s playing with a lock of hair, curling it around his finger over and over again. I listen to the hum of the fan. Take a sip of warm water from my glass.

  “Are you hungry still?” Noah finally asks. “Looks like you barely touched that yogurt. And from what my informant told me, you haven’t eaten much these past two days.”

  I look at the yogurt. The granola is probably liquefied inside it. The sour smell hits my nose and I push it away.

  Noah laughs, and it’s such a familiar, joyful sound—I realize how much I’ve missed it. Missed him.

  “I am pretty hungry. Though your informant made me take a few bites of her pizza last night. That was about it.”

  “Okay then,” he says, standing up. His chest seems to swell with purpose. “Let’s see what you have in the fridge.”

  I feel hungry for the first time in so long. Ravenous, really.

  We assume our old positions. Me perched on the counter. Noah chopping and sautéing, refusing all offers of help. I watch the way he moves gracefully between cupboards and drawers as he cooks. It’s like this is his home.

  And it is.

  Or it was. Maybe it will be again.

  We eat. We fill up the pool with cold water and go in wearing our clothes. We climb the hill for sunset. We don’t talk much. But we’re together. It’s something at least.

  For a few minutes, as I watch the sun slip away, I can almost pretend life is the same as it was before this summer.

  Almost.

  Chapter Sixteen

  MY plan for Ginger’s birthday isn’t necessarily extravagant, but it’s the best I can do. And it feels nice to have a distraction, just like Ginger said. Something and someone else to think about.

  The morning before her birthday, Noah and I pack up his car with our duffel bags and food supplies—Mimmy made not one but three different baked goods for the occasion—and drive into town to pick up Ginger. She’s waiting for us on the porch, Vivi already there with her. A spontaneous invite. Ginger was shocked when she actually said yes. Still just friends, Ginger reminded us no less than fifty times, so you better not make things awkward. Sophie waves at us from the kitchen window.

  It’s just two nights at a motel in Wildwood, New Jersey—the only one not completely booked for the week by the time I started searching. But based on the website pictures of fake palm trees and flamingos by the ancient outdoor pool, it has a level of Ginger-approved kitsch that felt suitable for her one and only eighteenth. She’ll be completely delighted by the decor.

  Vivi smiles at us as she lugs both of their bags down from the porch. She’s cute, but in an understated way, far more subdued than Ginger’s brand of cute. Medium height, medium build, medium length dark hair in a straightforward, simple cut, no makeup or jewelry or bedazzling of any sort. Her denim shorts—not short-shorts, more conservatively cut—plain green T-shirt, and foam flip-flops are in stark comparison to Ginger’s cheetah-inspired romper and neon-pink platform sandals. But they look happy walking down the front steps together. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but Vivi is giggling over something Ginger says. They both blush.

  The two days go by too fast. The beach is long and hot and crowded with screaming babies and kids tossing Frisbees in every direction, flinging sand on neighboring sunbathers. The boardwalk is even more hot and crowded. But none of that matters. I’m with Ginger and Noah, and Vivi feels like a natural fourth. She listens and laughs when we go off on long tangents about old memories, and if she’s bored, she’s polite enough to never let on.

  We take a long walk along the water after the masses pack up for the day. It’s easy to lose yourself looking out at the ocean—easy to think too much. Max’s face comes to me first. Then Elliot’s. I close my eyes and listen to the waves, and I think I feel just a little bit better.

  I am here. We are here.

  When Noah puts a lit candle into a funnel cake for Ginger to blow out, she clamps her eyes shut tight and focuses intently on her wish.

  Later that night when I see Vivi and Ginger kiss on the moonlit beach, I feel confident that her wish came true.

  Eighteenth-birthday wishes really do have a special power.

  Thursday night, Noah drops me back off at home. We’re sunburned and sleepy and happy, smelling like salt water and vinegar fries. I don’t want to wash the ocean out of my hair. People make fun of the Jersey Shore, but it’s the only ocean I’ve ever known, and ocean is ocean.

  I eat dinner with Mama and Mimmy, and after they head to bed, I pick up my phone.

  I’m not sure why I do it, but I do.

  I call Elliot. I ask him to get breakfast with me on Saturday.

  “I didn’t think you’d actually call.” Elliot is flipping absentmindedly back and forth through the ten sticky laminated pages of the diner’s menu. I’ve always wondered how they could possibly keep so many different ingredients constantly stocked. Sometimes I want to order the most obscure item on the menu, Delmonico Steak or Dijon Pork Chops, maybe, just to call their bluff. I only ever see breakfast platters and burgers and fries on the tables. And pie. Lots of pie.

  Ginger’s not on duty today—a fact I knew, of course, when I suggested this morning for breakfast. If she was here and caught wind of our conversation, she’d take a break at the next booth over. She’s not really missing anything juicy so far, though. Just a run through the basics: College. My moms. Friends. Hobbies. I’m afraid we’ve run out of subject material and we haven’t ordered anything but our coffees.

  “I didn’t think I’d call either,” I say.

  “I’m glad you did.”

  “Really?” I put my menu down. I always order the same thing: Two poached eggs, two blueberry pancakes, home fries. Extra maple syrup. “You didn’t offer out of obligation? I’m not looking for a dad, you know. I don’t need anything from you. My moms have it covered.”

  “I know that. And maybe it was partly out of obligation, at first. Guilt. It felt like the right thing to do. But as soon as I said it, I knew I meant it. I really did want to talk. Learn a little more about you beyond being Max’s…” He lets it dangle and die, for both our sakes.

  “How is he?” I clench my fists under the table. “Max?”

  “Locked away in his room, mostly, sneaking out to steal food at odd hours when he doesn’t have to interact with any of us. But he’s probably painting up a storm at least—that’s his usual fixer-upper when he’s
down.” He frowns. “Though he’s never been down quite like this before. If there’s a silver lining, it’s that he might paint his way into college with all the new material for his portfolio. Quite emotional material, too, I would imagine.”

  “So, you want him to study art?” I steer the conversation away from how down Max is. My heart is still too sensitive—the messy stitches too loose and easy to tug right back out.

  “Sure, if that’s his dream. I want him to do what makes him happy. He deserves that, especially after nearly eighteen years of living with me.”

  I admire his honesty at least. His self-awareness.

  “It’s none of my business, I know, but—why do you stay?” I ask. “From the outside at least, it doesn’t seem like you want to be there. Maybe you’d all be happier apart.”

  “Very direct. Must have gotten some of my lawyering genes.” I can tell from the twitch of his lips that he hadn’t meant to say it—to compare our genes. “Sorry. I don’t mean to say you’re anything like me. I actually hope you’re not.”

  I shrug. Wait for him to talk more. That’s why I’m here. To learn about him.

  “Why do I stay?” He laughs, but his blue eyes are sad. “Because I love Joanie. I do. I love her deep in my bones. And the kids, too. They are my bones. Funny for a guy who didn’t think he’d want kids, I can’t imagine a world without them. But I know I have a peculiar way of showing it to all three of them.” He pauses, takes a long swig of coffee. Chases it with some lemon water. Clears his throat. “I’ve never been good at that. Real affection. Commitment. Devotion. I had a pretty poor role model of a dad myself, and a mom who never learned how to stand up for herself. Or maybe she did, ironically, but she picked the wrong time to do it.”

  This feels like dangerously slippery terrain. We’re edging along to what Max has hinted at. The great mystery and horror of the Jackson house.

  “I’m sure it’s very personal. I don’t want to pry—about your family.”

  “They’re your family, too, I suppose? Depending on how you look at it. Biology does matter. It leaves a mark. Nature and nurture, hand in hand.”