The People We Choose Katelyn Detweiler (graded readers TXT) 📖

god and the stars above and the whole almighty universe that I had the good sense to kick the letter under my bed. She punches roughly at my pillow to fluff it before I lie back down. Even though it’s a balmy eighty-some degrees in my room, I let her tuck the sheet tight around me, just like when I was a little girl. It feels good to be covered up. Hidden.

“It really will be okay,” she whispers, her lips pecking my forehead.

Will it be?

Can it be?

I might be in love with my brother.

Biological brother. Half brother. Though I don’t think the “half” makes it better in this case. Blood is blood.

Funny that I never thought blood mattered that much. It didn’t matter that I don’t share blood with one of my moms. Or Ginger and Noah. They were all my family.

But blood matters now.

Blood is everything.

I don’t sleep.

How can I?

All I think about is Max—Max and me. A constant loop.

How could being together feel so right?

If it’s true, if we’re related, shouldn’t I have felt it somehow? Sensed it?

Some primal instinct should have triggered in me—internal red lights, alarm bells, flashing CAUTION signs imprinted deep in my DNA.

But there was nothing like that. It felt happy. And good. And real.

It was real. Still is.

I close my eyes and picture Max, and I don’t know how I can possibly un-love him—as if it was a conscious decision to fall in love in the first place. It wasn’t a choice with Max. I met him, and I fell in love with him. Rule or no rule. That was just how it was.

My sheets are drenched in sweat, knotted up from my tossing and turning. The sun comes up and I’m still wide awake. The light seems to form a spotlight on Max’s canvas, me and my tree. I can’t look away—can’t stop remembering that golden day. Our first kiss. The painting, the picnic, dozing on Max’s shoulder.

No, Calliope. Stop.

I need to get out of bed. Away from this painting.

The smells of coffee and toast rise from the kitchen. I’ve never been less hungry, but I know Mama will be up to check on me before going to the studio if I don’t come down first. Her temporary patience might flag if I don’t at least pretend to be recovering. I swing my legs over the bed and stand. Force my feet down both sets of stairs, one step at a time.

Mama and Mimmy are at the table, sipping coffee with their plates of fresh fruit and peanut butter toast.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Mama says, watching me carefully. “Feeling better?”

“I am. Just like we expected.” I take a piece of toast and a few scoops of fruit as proof. The bread is too dry in my mouth, but I smile as I chew.

Mimmy reaches over to pat my hand. “I’m sorry I didn’t wake up last night when you were sick. I somehow slept straight through it. Want any chamomile? It’ll be easier on your stomach than coffee.”

“I think I need some coffee,” I mumble, pouring myself a full mug of it even as Mimmy pinches her lips in disapproval. Coffee is my only chance of getting through this day.

Hopefully I’ll be exhausted enough by the end of it to sleep tonight. Nightmares can’t be worse than reality.

I’m halfway through my mug when I realize with a start that Max could show up on our doorstep at some point today. Bright and chipper and fiending for a baked good. And a kiss.

I can’t. I can’t kiss him. I can’t see him.

“I think I might go to the park this morning,” I say, putting my coffee down too hard, splashing some onto the table.

“By yourself?” Mimmy asks, handing me a napkin. “No Max? Or Ginger?”

“I’m sure I’ll see them at some point. Later. I just want to spend a little time with myself. I haven’t had much of that this summer. Maybe I’ll bring a book. Journal.”

I sop up the coffee, pretending not to see the quick look Mama and Mimmy exchange.

“Everything is fine. Really.” I dip the last end of my toast in the coffee, then shove it in my mouth. “You’ve always said I need to be my own best friend first and foremost.”

“That is very true,” Mimmy concedes. “Don’t forget a blanket. And sunscreen. And water. And snacks. And—”

“I won’t.”

“You know, some time alone really might be just what you need.” Mama takes a slow sip of coffee, her eyes fixed on me as I stand from the table. “I like Max. You know I do. But you’re so young. And you two got serious pretty quickly. It’s okay to take things slow. No rush. You have all the time in the world.”

We have no time, I want to scream. No time!

Slow, fast, it doesn’t matter.

If my Elliot is his Elliot, there’s no time left.

I walk for a while when I get to the park. I walk until I reach the other side of the lake, find a small shady patch between the bank and the woods. It feels more private here.

I flip through the pages of Sense and Sensibility. Try and fail to lose myself in the Dashwood sisters’ drama. I put the book down. Pick up my phone. I open the internet app and search: donor siblings meet.

I read about a donor whose sperm created fifty children. Fifty. That seems excessive—until I find another article about a British donor who says he likely has eight hundred offspring. Maybe a thousand.

This is our reality, according to the articles I tear through frantically, one after another—these kinds of massive, sprawling genetic families, with no precedent or consistent rules and protocols, especially in America, that prevent this kind of disaster from happening: offspring of prolific donors meeting and falling in love, not knowing the truth about their connection. Not knowing the genetic risks that come packaged with their love.

I read more about online registries, and stories of donor siblings tracking