Relative Strangers

by Paula Garner

“Of course it doesn’t bother me. Don’t be silly.” I hugged her. “I love you, Gab. I don’t care who you’re attracted to. I can’t believe you even worried about that!”

  And it was true, of course — it didn’t matter one whit to me whom Gab was into. But my mind still reeled as I tried to reframe everything I thought I knew about my best friends. All in a moment, nothing was as it seemed.

  “Does your mom know?” I asked her.

  “About what happened?” She shook her head. “I didn’t tell anyone. Except Daniel.”

  I paused at this, my thoughts derailed at the idea of having a brother you were so close to, you told him things you told no one else. Not even your best friends. Not even your wonderful, supportive, open-minded shrink parents. Could it ever be that way for Luke and me?

  Gab gave me a wry smile. “I told my mom a while ago that I was pretty sure I wasn’t straight. You want to know what she said?”

  I nodded, smiling in anticipation.

  “She said, ‘Oh goody.’”

  I shook my head, laughing. That sounded totally like her mom.

  “I kid you not. She said, ‘Oh goody,’ and then she said, ‘I don’t care what gender you date, but I wouldn’t mind if they were Jewish.’”

  I laughed. “M.O.T.,” I said, then immediately had a pang about almost having been one. “Your mom’s awesome.”

  “She is,” Gab said. “But I’m so sad about Leila.” She leaned on me a little. “I miss the way we used to be.”

  “But a lot of the time you two seem exactly how you used to be,” I said.

  “But it’s always there. I feel it there, all the time.”

  I felt alienated from them in new ways — harder ways. I had been in the dark for years about important events between them. But what hurt more was seeing Gab’s pain, and knowing she’d felt this way for a long time.

  She hugged me. “You’re the best, Jules. And I shouldn’t have worried about telling you. I mean, you love Eli, and he’s not even that nice.”

  I laughed. That was a true thing. I did love Eli. It was an imbalanced love, and I was okay with that.

  “Thanks for letting me come over,” she said, getting up. “I know you just wanted to go to bed. Thank you for saying yes.”

  “Of course.”

  “You always say yes,” she said, and for a moment it looked like she might cry again. “It’s one of the things I love most about you.”

  I smiled warmly at her. “I love you, too, Gab.”

  After she left, my mom came into my room. “Wow, it looks great in here!” She turned and tilted her head at the painting. “This looks pretty good with the light.”

  I turned and propped my head on my elbow. “It looks amazing.”

  She grinned, then sat on my bed and played with a lock of my hair — a gesture that, a few months ago, would have felt weird, awkward. “So what do you think of Casey?”

  I smiled. “He seems like a good guy. It was really nice of him to help us move. And build my shelves.”

  She nodded.

  “Are you thinking about . . .” I raised my eyebrows a few times.

  She looked sort of sheepish. “Maybe. He invited me to Galena next weekend. Not just us,” she rushed to add. “A group of us. Artists. Penelope Chavez has an exhibit in one of the galleries.”

  I nodded. “You gonna go?”

  “What would you think if I did?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Mom, you don’t need my permission. But if you want it, you have it.”

  “You wouldn’t mind?”

  “Are you kidding? Think about it. Teenager with the house to herself for a whole weekend.” I had to laugh at the alarmed expression that overtook her face. “I’m going to see Luke on Saturday,” I reminded her. “So I won’t even be home.”

  “Right.” She bit her lip and glanced at me. “Maybe I’ll go.”

  “Go! Don’t be silly.” I yawned and closed my eyes. “Could you brush my teeth for me? I’m too tired to get up.”

  She pulled me up, and I stumbled off toward the bathroom. The only toothpaste I could find was her weird fennel toothpaste. The taste reminded me of the absinthe we’d had that night we’d slept at Gab’s, and I had a pang, thinking of all we had shared over the years, all the sleepovers and events and laughter and tears. We had grown up together, and now we were venturing out into the world. And I was happy about the changes ahead — hopeful and excited. But my heart hurt a little to realize that this part of our lives would soon be nothing more than memories.

  Saturday. Luke day. We were meeting at the house in Milwaukee to make the drive more manageable for me. Buddy, he told me, was visiting his sister in Arizona. It brought a flutter in my belly, the idea of our being alone, that I immediately tried to vanquish. Instead, I wondered for the umpteenth time if Buddy knew what had happened. Sometimes I was sure he must. Otherwise, why did he never reach out to me? He was grieving, yes, but it had been weeks. . . . Didn’t he want to be in touch with me? Or was it just Mima who had missed me, who had wanted to know me?

  Mom let me take the car, since she was off to Galena with her friends anyway. It only took about an hour to get there, a little over, and I was thrilled to see not only Luke’s cute blue car in the driveway, but him sitting on the back of it, watching me as I pulled in.

  When I climbed out of the car, we both hesitated. “Hey,” I finally said, reaching out to give him a fairly quick friendly-but-not-too-friendly hug, which he returned at an equal level. His damp, freshly shampooed hair was cool against my cheek, and it smelled so goddamned good. Ignore, I coached myself. “You doing okay?” I asked softly.

  He stepped back and shrugged. “One day at a time. How are you?”

  I nodded. “I’m okay.”

  We went inside. “I realize you’re probably starving,” Luke said, closing the door behind me. He grinned. “So, do you want choice A or choice B?”

  I smiled. “Do I even get to know what they are?” I followed him to the kitchen and stopped short when I saw the banquette, remembering the other time I’d walked in, and Mima was sitting there, trembling at the thrill of seeing me again.

  “What is it?” Luke tilted his head, his brows furrowed. “Jules?”

  I breathed, my hands pressed against my solar plexus. “I just . . .” I glanced at him, then turned my eyes to the floor. “I just was remembering the first time I saw Mima. She was sitting right there.”

  At the mention of her, his face changed, and I was overcome with regret. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I was just caught off-guard.”

  He took a deep breath, and then offered up a wobbly smile.

  I felt terrible — I arrive and immediately upset him. “So what are these lunch options?” I ask, hoping to put us back on happier ground.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Okay. Ready?”

  I nodded. “Yes sir.”

  “We can either go out to lunch — I know a few places you’d totally lose your shit over. Or . . .” He smiled and pointed to a basket on the kitchen counter.

  “Iron Chef Ramen!” He opened the basket and gestured toward it. “You have thirty minutes and you must use at least four ingredients in the basket!”

  I started to laugh. “That’s Chopped, not Iron Chef.”

  “Whatever.”

  I looked from him to the basket and back. “Can I survey the ingredients before I decide?” I asked.

  “Be my guest.”

  I peered into the basket. “Really, Luke? Jelly beans?”

  He shrugged. “Creativity is the hallmark of a true Iron Chef.”

  “Mm-hm.” I set the jelly beans on the counter and poked around in the basket. I pulled out the remaining ingredients: Ramen, of course. Spam. American cheese. An apple. An onion. Peanut butter. Oreos. Tomato paste. Tabasco sauce. Celery. “You’ve got to be kidding,” I said, staring at my choices.

  “Hey, if you’re not up to the challenge, there’s no shame in that,” Luke needled.

  I snorted. “Oh, I ca
n rock this challenge. But . . .” I grinned mischievously at him. “You have to compete against me.”

  His jaw dropped. “You wouldn’t.”

  I bounced a little. “You have to! Otherwise there’s no challenge. C’mon, it’ll be fun!”

  He squinted at me. “You have a very twisted idea of fun,” he muttered.

  I laughed, but the word “twisted” caught at me. It was a reminder of what I’d done, what we were trying to move past.

  If Luke realized how it hit me, he didn’t show it. “Okay, fine. But when you have to taste my creation, you’re going to be sorry.”

  “That seems certain.”

  I eyed the motley assortment of ingredients. “How do we decide who gets what?”

  “By arm wrestling, of course.”

  I laughed again, but I felt an overwhelming rush of love. I struggled to contain the vastness of my feelings for him. I prayed it was just a matter of adjusting, that down the road I’d get used to how wonderful he was. Maybe things would get more real — maybe he’d even annoy me sometimes, like a sibling. I couldn’t decide if that sounded depressing or like the greatest possible thing ever.

  I pushed aside the feelings. “Rock, paper, scissors.”

  My paper beat his rock, so I went first, grabbing the Spam. Then we took turns choosing from the remaining ingredients, which was kind of pointless because he chose the worst ingredients each time. It didn’t take me long to work out that if he couldn’t beat me — which we both knew he couldn’t — he would make me eat the most foul concoction imaginable.

  Nonetheless, I took the battle seriously. I was glad he’d found something for us to focus on, something fun to do. I had been so nervous driving up, worried it would be awkward and terrible.

  With my thirty minutes, I produced a spicy Spam and cheese ramen, topped with a chopped apple and celery salad. It was actually undeniably good.

  I took the obligatory bite of Luke’s purplish-gray overly sweet and oniony glop, topped with Oreo crumbs. “It is possible I’ve never tasted anything worse in my life,” I told him, struggling to get the bite down.

  He grinned. “I guess you win.”

  “I guess I do.”

  We took the winning ramen to the banquette and ate, the afternoon sun splashing in on us. “This is seriously good,” Luke said, swirling cheesy noodles onto his fork. “Well, we can have Oreos for dessert. When you were little, you were a fool for Oreos.” He glanced up at me, a teasing expression on his face. “All the tookies.”

  “Tell me more,” I said softly. This was what we needed — to get back into that brother-sister frame of mind. “Tell me everything.”

  We watched more videos. Luke narrated hilariously, teased me mercilessly. It reminded me of Daniel and Gab. I wished Luke had a nickname for me, the way Daniel had dubbed Gab Gumby. I tried to remember to call Luke Duke. I wanted a past with him; I wanted inside jokes; I wanted shared memories. I wanted, more than anything, to lay the groundwork for a future between us.

  But several clips in, there was Mima. And neither of us was prepared for it. At the start of the video, it was dark. She whispered to the camera, This is what happens when I don’t keep an eye on Luke after I put him to bed. There was some rustling and then the camera lit dimly on Luke, in bed, sound asleep, his baby sister sitting up next to him, grinning.

  What are you doing, Jules? Mima whispered on camera.

  Little Jules shook her head hard, grinning.

  Did Luke take you out of your crib? Mima whispered.

  Little Jules shook her head, then nodded.

  The camera zoomed in on Luke, asleep, mouth slightly ajar. Then back to me.

  Say good night to Luke, Jules, Mima whispered.

  Nigh-nigh, Duke, little Jules said softly, then reached up her arms to Mima.

  Come here, you little monkey, she whispered, and the camera went dark.

  “I’d forgotten,” Luke said, his eyes welled with tears. “I’d forgotten she called you that. And seeing her healthy again . . .” Luke turned away and wiped his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” I said. “Don’t apologize for grieving.”

  “It’s just . . . When is it gonna get easier?”

  “It will,” I said softly, laying a tentative hand on his shoulder. I was nervous about touching him, but at this moment, it seemed cold not to. “It won’t always be this raw.”

  He turned his bright eyes to me. “Promise?”

  I nodded. “I promise.”

  I wanted to hug him, but I knew I had to be careful. The cues had to come from him.

  “I forgot I used to steal you,” he said, grinning weakly. “God, Jules. I’ve missed you so much.”

  My chest felt like it might burst with joy. I longed for the memories I could not retrieve, longed to remember things with him, but it was blessing enough to see them, to hear about them. And to hear him say he’d missed me . . . I didn’t know if he meant he’d missed me his whole life, or if he meant since we last saw each other. I kind of hoped the latter, but I’d take either or both.

  Out the bank of windows to the backyard, the sun sank in the sky, filtering in blinding gold streams through all the glorious trees — a sight I would have seen a thousand times or more in a different version of my life.

  This had almost been home. Almost.

  After a moment, he said, “You should go soon, before it gets dark.”

  My heart sank, but I covered it with a smile. “We may be poor, but our car does have headlights.”

  He laughed. “Even so. I’ll worry about you driving on the highway at night. And I have to get ready for dinner soon anyway.”

  I blinked. “Dinner?”

  “Yeah, I have plans with Makayla.”

  My stomach dropped to my feet. “Oh . . .” I fumbled with what that might mean. Don’t ask, don’t ask. “Are you guys back together?”

  He sighed. “It’s complicated. We’re not together, but . . . you know. It’s a hard time. She loved my mom a lot, too.” His expression softened, and I thought perhaps he was going to amend that to our mom. Instead, he said, “She’s really been there for me these past weeks.”

  His words swirled in a confusing sting. “I would have been here for you,” I said.

  Only when the words were out did I realize how they sounded. They sounded petulant and weirdly competitive. Like I thought I might have had the role a lover had filled.

  But he eyed me kindly, thankfully not hearing it that way. “I know that. And I’m sorry again that I didn’t handle that better, that I needed space.”

  It occurred to me that my actions might have pushed him and Makayla back together. That if it hadn’t been for my kiss, I might have been the one comforting him at Mima’s service. I might have been enough for him.

  I stood up. “I have to go to the bathroom.” I moved quickly across the house. I was starting to shake. I slipped into the tiny pink room and closed the door softly behind me.

  What was wrong with me? I wanted to cry. It didn’t matter if he dated or didn’t date Makayla! I was supposed to be his sister, not his girlfriend. Why was I so fucking blind with jealousy?

  I sat down on the closed toilet and held my face in my hands. I had to pull myself together. Could he tell I was upset? I hoped he saw my reactions as normal sibling stuff: hurt that he’d cut me out of his life, a desire to be included in moments that were important to him and to the family. Not twisted jealousy over things I could never have.

  I stared at the floor through blurred eyes, willing myself to be okay, be normal. I took some toilet paper off the roll and blew my nose. When I reached over to toss out the tissue, a flash of red in the wastebasket caught my eye.

  I hesitated long enough to wonder if I wanted to be the creepy girl who snooped through people’s garbage. But apparently I did, because something about that flash of red was pulling at me.

  I slid the wastebasket over and took a closer look. And then I recoiled.

  The flash
of red in the bottom of the wastebasket . . . it was a condom wrapper, poking out from a bundle of toilet paper.

  My heart started to pound. I was pretty fucking sure it wasn’t Buddy’s, so that meant only one thing. Luke had had sex — probably quite recently. It had to have been Makayla. He wasn’t exactly the casual hookup type, and he’d made it clear they’d been spending time together. But downstairs?? Had they been in such a hurry, so desperate for each other, that they couldn’t make it up to his room? Oh my God, had they done it on the couch, right where we were just sitting?

  I pushed the wastebasket back into place, my hands shaking. I tried to slow down the chaos in my head — the rapid fire of confusion and hurt and anxiety and jealousy that assembled into three clear words: How could he?

  I knew my feelings were unjustified. I knew that Luke only wanted me as a sister, nothing more. But knowing that and seeing the evidence of his intimacy with someone else right in front of my face. . . . Those were two different things.

  And suddenly I knew: I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t pretend I only felt sisterly about Luke, couldn’t force myself to “get over” these feelings. I loved Luke in the wrong ways. I wanted him with all my heart, with all my being. I wanted him in all the ways — impossible ways. I couldn’t bear the idea of seeing him with Makayla, or anyone else, for that matter. I wanted him to want me as much as I wanted him, in the ways I wanted him.

  And he never would.

  I’d been kidding myself, thinking I could somehow magically downgrade my feelings for him, pack the wrong ones away and keep the rest. I couldn’t. I was totally, completely, stupidly in love with him.

  And I had to get out of there.

  I pulled myself together, washed my hands, and finally emerged. I found Luke in the kitchen, cleaning up from the ramen. You should help clean up, I thought guiltily. You should be helpful and good.

  “I’m going to go,” I said instead.

  He glanced at me. “Hey. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah!” I said it too fast, too loudly.

  He walked over to me. “Jules? What’s going on?”

  Shit. If he was too gentle and kind and caring, I’d cry. I blinked rapidly and shook my head.