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

Chapter Fifteen

MY moms suggest I skip my shift at the studio on Sunday, but I insist on working. I need to be busy, even though I’ve barely slept in three nights. I need to not be in the house. And coffee. I need lots of coffee.

But the usual studio chores aren’t enough to distract me today. My mind continues to dissect all the terrible particulars of my life. One by one, slowly, over and over again.

When Ginger walks in halfway through the shift, I’m relieved.

Until I remember—she told Noah.

“Hey,” she says, not meeting my eyes. Her outfit is more subdued today, black yoga pants and a plain green T-shirt.

“Hey.”

I try to decide, quickly, if I’m mad at her. I’m feeling so many things, it’s almost like I’m actually feeling nothing. Just a blur of loud, constant emotions rumbling in the background. Like crickets buzzing all night long, so noisy and persistent that after a while it starts to sound like silence. This is my new silence. My new state of being.

“I shouldn’t have told him. It was your secret. Not mine. It’s just—” She looks up finally, her green eyes rimmed with deep purple circles. Her whole face is tired, her freckles oddly dark and pronounced against her pale skin. It’s a rare sighting of Ginger with no makeup. No dark mascara on her white-blond lashes. No pop of red or pink or purple on her lips. She looks so young and innocent. Vulnerable. I don’t think it’s possible to be mad at this Ginger. “It’s just that it was such a crazy big truth. I didn’t know how to hold it in by myself. It was wrong to tell him, but I was going to explode without anyone to talk to about it, and I couldn’t bother you with all my questions. I’m so sorry, Calliope. I understand if you want to kill me. On top of everything else going on right now, you didn’t need me to be a shit friend.”

I walk around the side of the counter, stopping a few inches in front of her. She takes a sharp inhale, waiting.

“It’s okay.” And it is. I don’t have it in me to fight with Ginger. Without her, life would be definitively too empty.

“No. It’s really not. I shouldn’t have said a word to him.”

“Maybe not, but it’s done.” I reach out and take her hand. She tightens her fingers around mine, latching on like she’s afraid if she lets go, I might change my mind. “It’s over, no going back. I told Max everything. So the secret’s out.”

“Wait,” she says, holding up her free hand. “So much to process. Max knows he’s your half brother?” Hearing it out loud—half brother—is still a cold slap.

I nod.

“Wow.”

“Yep. Wow sums it up.”

“I’m stunned that, between you and me, you’re the one with the colorful shit show of drama in your life right now. Guess I always thought that was more my territory? Huh. Well, definitely a summer to remember.”

I dig my nails into her palm. “How sweet and sensitive of you. Personally, I think it’s a summer I’d like to immediately forget.”

She digs back, and—given her nails are much sharper than mine, filed into perfect mini-talons—her punishment is more effective. “It’s my job as your best friend to make jokes when I can. You need to laugh. This will destroy you if you can’t find a way to laugh sometimes.”

“You didn’t do a good job then. You didn’t make me laugh.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll keep trying until it works.”

“We’ll see.”

And then, before I can stop her, she has her fingers dancing in my armpits, on my neck, in my ears. I try to resist, not give her such instant satisfaction. But I’m weak when it comes to tickling. I hate it, always have—it makes me feel so powerless. And it also makes me laugh. Every time.

I let out a breathless cackle before I can stop myself.

Ginger squeals, victorious, and doubles down even harder.

I tickle back, and soon we’re on the floor, faces covered in tears, holding our stomachs from too much laughing. My abs burn. I feel like I just did one of Mama’s core-power routines.

The class ends then, and a few women trickle out, giving us amused glances. Mama is there, too, looking down at us, shaking her head as if she could possibly be angry. She spills a few drops of ice water on us from her thermos before chatting with some of the women.

“Tickling doesn’t count as real laughter,” I say, gasping for breath. “That was cheap.”

“I’ll take cheap laughter over no laughter.”

“Thank you. I love you.” I take her hand.

“You’re welcome. And I love you, too.” She squeezes my fingers tight.

“It’s your birthday in less than two weeks. We should do something fun.”

“Um. Duh. That’s kind of assumed.”

“Do you think Noah will come?”

She’s quiet for a beat. And then: “I sure hope so.”

The next day I sit on the porch for hours. Flipping through my moms’ yoga magazines without reading. Willing Max to step out from the woods. I feel restless without more resolution. I can’t stand to leave things like we did. So much anger and resentment. It feels cruel, unfair. Max is better than this. At least I hope he is.

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.