“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
