The People We Choose by Katelyn Detweiler (any book recommendations .txt) š
- Author: Katelyn Detweiler
Book online Ā«The People We Choose by Katelyn Detweiler (any book recommendations .txt) šĀ». Author Katelyn Detweiler
āNeighbors?ā she asks, sounding dumbfounded. āWeāve heard of some interesting coincidences, butā¦ neighbors. Wow.ā
āNeighbors.ā I leave it at that. For her sake.
The phone call ends then. Thereās nothing left to ask.
I text Ginger an update: Itās him.
When she tries calling less than a minute later, I press Decline. Iām not ready to dissect all the gory details. Not yet.
Instead I practice the confession in my bedroom mirrorāstare at myself, study what it will look like when I tell Max. My expression. The shape of my lips as I try to form impossible words. The words get harder every time I repeat them. Never easier.
Iām your sister. Half sister.
Your dad is my dad. My donor.
We have to fall out of love.
Max and I didnāt grow up together. We didnāt share our childhood. We didnāt take baths together, or cry about our nightmares, or bandage each otherās skinned knees. That was me and Noah. Noah is a brother to me. In every way but blood.
But it all comes down to blood, doesnāt it?
I would be allowed to fall in love with Noah.
I donāt have the same allowance with Max. My heart was wrong for ever letting that happen.
I need to end things. Today.
A letterāIāll put all the truths and feelings into black-and-white for him to process. Write down the things that are too hard to say out loud.
I take out my journal from the drawer and start writing.
Page after page ends up scribbled over and crumpled on the floor. There are no perfect words. Jane Austen herself would have been at a loss for how to express these sentiments with any grace and delicacy. The truth is too ugly for grace. Too harsh for delicacy.
Two hours in, the morning is gone and Iām down to the last three pages of the journal. The final attempt. What will be, will be. Fate has intervened. This is it.
It all started with another letter, I write. And my own curiosity. I painstakingly copy Elliotās note. I donāt leave anything out, not even the part about how certain he was he would never have kids. I donāt think I was meant to be a dad, but so it is. Max wonāt disagree.
Copying is the easy part. Writing my own words afterābreaking down the consequences of this first letterāis much trickier. It all feels like overstating the obvious: You are my half brother. This, us, must end. Immediately.
I say these things because I have to. But I say much more than that.
I write that it was all true. It was all real for me. Every kiss, glance, word. He isāor wasāthe only boy Iāve ever loved. More specifically, been in love with. Love and in love, the difference is a hungry, gaping canyon. Love is still okay. In love will never be okay again.
I remind him of the conversation we had earlier this summer about how quickly we became friends. That sometimes people just click. That moment on the hammock, the easy happinessāit feels like another era. I have aged centuries since then. But I smile as I write this, because the heart of our exchange is still true: Maybe we clicked because weāre two souls cut from some of the same cloth. But much more literally than we thought, or ever would have chosen.
When Iām done I fold the letter into careful thirds without rereading, because I need to be finished. I tuck it tightly inside my copy of Sense and Sensibility and carry it downstairs.
I make more coffee, graze on some nuts and dried fruit. Iām not hungry, but I need to fuel myself for the torture that lies ahead.
And then I pick up my phone to text Max. Push it all into motion. Heāll inevitably come by the house to see me at some point, but I need this to be over with. And better to do it before my moms are home and potentially in hearing range. It will be a separateāalso unpleasantāconversation with them. After.
Are you free now? I type, and click send.
I go outside and lie down in the hammock. I toss the bookāwith my letterāonto the grass below me.
Itās a perfect afternoon. Too perfect. Maybe the bluest, clearest sky of the summer. Low humidity. Hot but not scorching. The perfectness is too at odds with the events of my day.
Iām staring at my phone, waiting for a response, when I hear the crunching of gravel. A car in our driveway. Damn. I should have had hours still before Mimmy and Mama got home. Iāll have to ferry Max away when he gets here, keep a straight face until weāre somewhere more private. The hill or the pond or my tree. I hate to destroy our happy memories in those places with this terrible one. But privacy is essential.
Iām feeling solid about this plan when I first see him rounding the corner of the house.
Not Mama or Mimmy. Not Max.
Noah.
He stops abruptly when he notices me watching. Lifts one hand up in a tentative wave.
I wave back, and he must take that as a sign that I wonāt snap his head off for proceeding. He takes slow steps in my direction. Itās hard to keep my patience. A sloth would beat him in a landslide victory. When heās a few feet away, he pauses. Hovers. Still uncertain if itās okay to join me on the hammock.
āHey,ā I say, shifting to the top of the hammock and patting the empty space next to me.
āHey.ā He sits down carefully, making sure to leave enough space between us that we donāt risk skin brushing skin.
He wonāt look at me. That much is obvious. But I study him. I try to decide if he looks different after this much time apart. We havenāt gone this long without seeing each other since I was a newborn and he was still in the womb. His hair is particularly unruly todayāhis golden-brown curls in clumps sticking out in odd directions, like a tufted bird. Heās
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