The People We Choose by Katelyn Detweiler (any book recommendations .txt) 📗

alarm goes off at five. For a groggy, dream-laced moment my brain can’t comprehend why it’s happening: It’s summer. My moms never give me the opening shift at the studio. There is no sane reason for me to be awake before the sun is up. Is my alarm clock glitching?

And then it all comes back to me at once, a sad, heavy wave. Max and Elliot. The need to get to the bottom of everything. The need to know.

It’s hard to decide what to wear when you might be meeting your father—donor—for the first time. Our dinner meeting doesn’t count. Those stakes were very different. But at five in the morning, I conclude anything goes and throw a yoga hoodie on over the shorts and T-shirt I slept in and shove my feet into the glitter slip-ons Ginger made for my birthday. The extra sparkle gives me a small flare of courage. It’s almost like Ginger will be there next to me, letting me borrow some of her shiny confidence. Though Ginger would never approve of waking up at this ungodly hour for anything other than a diner shift. Even then, she usually pulls an all-nighter instead, preferring to stay up late rather than wake up early.

I take the steps down as quietly as possible, one cautious tiptoe at a time. I’m expecting to breeze out the front door, but my plan is thrown off by a rattling sound in the brightly lit kitchen. Somebody is making coffee.

I’m wondering if it’s possible to still slip out the door unheard and unseen when the last stair gives an unfortunate squeak.

Mimmy pokes her head out from the kitchen doorway. “Calliope? What are you doing up so early?”

“I woke up and couldn’t fall back asleep, so—” My morning brain whirs, clunky spinning gears not yet in sync for the day. Mimmy watches me curiously. “So—so I thought maybe I’d watch the sunrise from the top of the hill. Start the day on a positive note.”

Mimmy nods and smiles in approval, which only makes me feel worse about the lie.

“That sounds like the best way to start the day! Very grounding. I’d offer to keep you company, but we have an early training session at the studio this morning and Mama and I have to scoot soon. She’s just upstairs wrapping up her morning inversions.”

“That’s okay,” I say, hoping she doesn’t hear how relieved I am to be rid of them. “I’ve never watched the sun come up alone. Maybe it’s time at eighteen.”

“Maybe it is.” Her voice sounds odd as she says it—a little sad, a little proud. “Wait there just a minute.” She disappears back into the kitchen. I hear cupboards opening and shutting, liquid splashing. “Coffee for your sunrise,” she says, reemerging with a tall green thermos in one hand. “Vanilla coffee, a healthy pour of oat milk, spoonful of stevia. And a blueberry oat bar in case you get hungry after the walk. I made them yesterday—it’s my first attempt at the recipe, so go easy on the baker if it needs work.”

“Nothing you make ever needs work.”

She shushes me and gives me a quick hug. “You’re too biased. Now get up that hill before you miss the best part.”

I leave through the back door, walk in the direction of the woods until I’m far enough from the kitchen window, and then skirt the side of the house. It’s mostly dark still, though the sky is streaked with the first hints of light. I tread along the grassy edge of the gravel driveway to avoid any crunching sounds, lucky that I know every twist and divot between our house and the road. A few early birds chirp from the branches above me, but otherwise the world is silent. Even the woods still seem to be asleep.

I realize, with sinking dread, that if I don’t see Elliot today, I’ll have to pretend to become an avid sunrise watcher so I can try to catch him another morning. It’s that, or I call the number and leave a voice mail if he doesn’t pick up. Wait for a call back.

Please, Elliot, go for a run this morning. Please.

I pick up my pace. The Jackson house is to the right once I hit the road. My moms will be driving to the left to get to the studio.

I don’t pass any cars on the short walk. But still, just in case, I hug tight to the tree line. My choice in sweatshirt color—black—and shorts—dark gray—was slightly questionable for a predawn trek.

The Jacksons’ mailbox looms in the dim light. They haven’t replaced it yet—it’s the same mailbox I’ve been passing my whole life. It looks like it was once white, based on the few flecks of paint still left, but it’s mostly exposed metal now. There’s a massive dent on the side, maybe from a car, and the pole is slanted dramatically. Like it’s a gust of wind away from toppling over. I assume it’s just one more item on Elliot’s long list of household to-dos.

I choose a spot between two thick tree trunks. There’s some privacy if I need to hide—what if Marlow or Joanie are, unbeknownst to me, devoted morning runners, too?

Mimmy’s coffee is a godsend. As is the granola bar, which—as expected—tastes perfect even if it’s Mimmy’s first go at a new recipe. I’m surprised I’m hungry enough to eat, but my stomach seems confused by the time of day and the unprecedented early movement. I drink the coffee slowly, just in case I’m here for a while. It didn’t occur to me in my sleep haze to bring my phone, which means I only have the sun to mark the passing of time. I watch as it creeps higher above the treetops, golden light chasing shadows from the woods. Morning dew sparkles. Squirrels and rabbits and other tiny creatures stir.

An hour goes by, maybe an hour and a half. Leaning against the tree trunk has me dangerously close to sleep.