1 THEN If you had asked me before the night when everything changed, I'd have said that I was family. That the Cohens were flesh and blood, as ingrained in me as every cell in my body. Not because I was as clueless about genetics as my bio teacher, Mr. Waters, seemed to think I was, but because we shared things that mattered: history, memories, secrets, and time. So the evening we sat around the dining table waiting to hear Mel's news, it didn't even occur to me that I could be somewhere else. That it was summer and the lake was glistening and I had my own home across town. I was sitting in my usual spot, across from Rowan and beside Luke, the same spot I'd occupied since Ro and I met at tennis camp when we were seven and became best friends. "Pass me the salad." Naomi, Mel's best friend, was sitting on my right, and she tapped my wrist to get my attention. Mel had gotten home from the doctor less than an hour earlier and, instead of answering the barrage of questions we threw at her, immediately insisted that we sit down to "a nice dinner." She said we would talk after we'd eaten. One of the things I'd always loved about Mel was that she never treated me, Luke, and Ro like kids. She told us the truth and spoke to us like we were her equals. Which made the way she was acting now all the more unsettling. She was talking and laughing with Naomi, as if everything was completely normal, as if everything was fine. But it couldn't be, could it? If the doctors had given her good news, she would have just said so. She had to know that the way she was dragging this out meant that there was only one conclusion we could reach: Mel was sick. The kind of sick you couldn't get over with chicken noodle soup and a warm water bottle and a couple of days spent watching Netflix in bed. My stomach lurched at the thought. "I need some guinea pigs for this new cupcake recipe I'm trying for the bakery," Mel said, trying to engage us, but Ro just kept vigorously chewing, violently scraping his fork against his plate. I didn't know it was possible to eat angrily, but he was doing it. Apparently he had even less patience for Mel's stalling than I did. Beside me, Luke was staring down at his plate, moving the food around but not really eating anything. Ever the opportunist, Sydney, the dog, was sitting primly beside Luke's chair, and I caught him sneaking her a cooked baby carrot when he thought no one was looking. Ordinarily, the sight would have made me smile, but Luke looked so miserable it made me feel like crying. Oblivious, Mel kept chattering about her new cheesecake cupcakes, her voice as raspy and as calm as ever. She talks the way Billie Holiday sings. I'd written those words in my journal once, many years ago, after one of the afternoons I'd spent at the Cohens', lounging around in the living room with Mel and listening to the old jazzy songs she liked. I'd doodled hearts around the words. Honestly, most days I wasn't sure whom I loved more: Mel or her sons. I was a little bit in love with each of them, in slightly different ways. "Jessi." Ro's voice suddenly cut through my thoughts. "Can you come help me in the kitchen for a sec?" His voice had an edge to it, but I stood and followed him out of the dining room. I wondered whether he'd come to the same conclusion I had--that something was very wrong. As soon as we were in the kitchen, I couldn't help it, I threw my arms around him. Ro hugged me, then patted my back like he was the one comforting me. His voice was a whisper when he finally spoke. "You have to go." I froze, then stepped back. "Go where?" His arms dropped to his sides. "Home," he said almost sulkily, staring at the ground. It took me a moment to understand what he meant. Home. As in, my home. "What? Why?" I asked. "Because you shouldn't be here." I started to laugh, but then I realized Rowan wasn't smiling. "Ro. There's no way I'm going home before Mel tells--" He didn't let me finish. "Jesus, Jessi. Do you think you live here?" he spat. "Because you don't. This is family shit." I was speechless. I'd known the Cohens for ten years. I'd spent birthdays and Thanksgivings and Christmases with them. I was there when Buzz, their old cocker spaniel, died when we were nine. A few weeks later, when Mel brought home a box with a shivering Labrador retriever, I'd been the first to peek inside. I helped them choose the name Sydney. I was at their house the day Dr. Cohen packed his things into his SUV and backed out of the driveway, never to return. Never--not once--had any of the Cohens insinuated that I belonged anywhere other than with them. "Are you serious?" I asked, my voice small. He nodded, his jaw still set. He made to run his hand through his hair but stopped halfway through the motion, as if just remembering the buzz cut he'd gotten at the start of summer. "Rowan, I don't get it," I said, starting to feel less indignant and more hurt. I felt breathless, like we'd been sparring and someone had suddenly thrust something sharp and lethal between my ribs. Had I done something wrong? This had to be Ro's way of lashing out because of everything that was happening with his mom. Right? "There's nothing to get," Rowan said, his voice a whisper. "Just like . . . imagine if this was your mom." He walked out of the kitchen, leaving me standing there, stunned. The last thing he said was the worst. Imagine if this was your mom . Was he fucking serious? I didn't need to imagine anything. I didn't love Mel any less because she hadn't given birth to me. I didn't need to be a six-foot-one prick named Rowan Cohen to feel how devastating even the thought of a world without Mel would be. I stormed back into the dining room and sat down. Beside me, Naomi was refilling her glass of water. I stole a glance at her, at the white-blond hair she wore in a stylish bob. She and Mel had been friends for twenty years. She didn't need to pass a freaking 23andMe test, and no one was asking her to leave. Who the hell did Rowan think he was? As I scooped more pasta onto my plate, I felt Ro's glare bouncing off the top of my head, but I kept going until I had enough food for two people. Even though my stomach still felt unsettled, I shoveled a forkful of pasta into my mouth. "This is really good. Thanks, Mel," I said. For the next few minutes I ate in silence while Naomi and Mel kept the small talk going. When I felt Rowan's gaze on me again, I met his eyes, expecting to see the same annoyed look he'd been giving me for the last five minutes, but instead there was something I couldn't place. Something like desperation. Pleading. His eyes were pleading. I shot him my own look, one I hoped conveyed my hurt and anger at everything he'd said to me in the kitchen. I can't believe you asked me to leave. He lowered his gaze then, as if he could no longer meet my eye. I couldn't understand it. Was he ashamed? That made no sense--what did he have to be ashamed of? This was about Mel; it had nothing to do with him. I kept staring at Ro's bowed head, imploring him to look at me. This wordless conversation wasn't over yet. But his eyes stayed fixed on the table, and in that moment, all his anger and bravado and Ro-ness was gone. He was just . . . sad. And something else I couldn't explain. Shit. I could deal with Rowan if he was just being a bully, hurting me because something bad was happening with his mom and he needed somebody to take it out on. But this wasn't that. I didn't understand what was happening. I'd never seen him like this. He seemed desperate for me to do this for him. For me to go. My instinct was to stay and make him tell me what was wrong, to stay and hear what Mel had to say after dinner, but Rowan's sad eyes kept avoiding mine. Until I heard myself standing, pushing my plate away. "Oh God, Mel," I said. "I'm so sorry. I just remembered I have this really big assignment due . . . and also a quiz . . . and my dad will kill me if I fail." I heard myself mumbling a string of excuses. In the end, I couldn't even remember everything I said. I just knew that Ro still wouldn't meet my eye as I packed up and that Luke stared at me, confused, the whole time. I remembered feeling that I was making a mistake, that this wasn't how any of this was supposed to go. Mel wasn't supposed to be sick. But if she was, then I was supposed to stay at the Cohen house until after dinner. I was supposed to sit on the slightly lopsided living room couch, wedged between Luke and Ro, while Mel told us her news. Ro and I were supposed to find ourselves in the dark of the backyard shed afterward, the place we always went after big moments to collect our thoughts. We were supposed to lean back against the metal walls, whispering truths too heavy for a bright summer evening in July. We would talk and cry and hurt, and it would suck, but we would do it together. Because we were family, and that was what families did. I remembered hugging Mel before I got on my bike to ride home, tears streaming down my face the entire time because I couldn't shake the feeling that I was going the wrong way. And I didn't even know why. THEN In the end, my mother had been the one to tell me. As soon as I got home, I'd taken the stairs two at a time to my parents' bedroom, where I knew my mom would be if she wasn't at work. Everything was blurry through my tears, but I saw her right away. She was a lump in the bed, a blade of light slipping through the crack in the curtains just enough for me to make out her form. I padded over to where she was, touched what I thought was her shoulder. I'd spent seventeen years trying not to disturb her when she wanted to be alone, but tonight was an exception. Tonight I actually needed her, and for once Mel couldn't take her place. "Mom," I said to the mound of blanket that still hadn't moved. She pulled the covers away from her face and squinted at me like she was staring directly into the sun. "What's wrong?" she asked. "Mel's home from the doctor," I said. "Can you call her and find out what they told her?" She blinked up at me, probably wondering why I couldn't call myself or where I'd come from, if not the Cohens'. "Okay," she said finally, slowly pulling herself into a sitting position. I grabbed the phone on her nightstand and held it out to her. Her fingers brushed mine as she took the phone, and I wondered how her hands could feel that cold in the middle of summer. "Melanie, hi." Her voice was bright and breezy, as if she hadn't been lying in a dark room for what was probably hours. "Oh, me too. I meant to call and congratulate you on Luke's graduation." I sat at the foot of her bed, hugged my knees to my chest, and listened to my mother's side of the conversation. To her laughter and easy banter. She couldn't always pull it off, but sometimes, for short spells, she could pretend to be okay. She somehow managed to pull it together for the things that were really important to her. Like work or the occasional parent-teacher meeting, though those were more Dad's territory. But I wondered for the hundredth time why Mom bothered pretending for Mel, who easily knew more about me than either of my parents did. Mel, who knew about the days my mother spent in bed, the medication she wouldn't take, the therapists she wouldn't see. You wouldn't think my mother would be opposed to medicine; she was an optometrist, for God's sake. But she was one of those people who believed it was okay for everybody else, but not for her. She was just tired, overworked or under the weather, or in need of some alone time. So we lived with it, this nameless, shapeless thing that had hollowed out my mother. Mom got quiet now as Mel talked on the other end of the line. I was far enough away that I couldn't make out distinct words, but Mel's voice sounded somber, like the melody of something in a minor key. While she was talking, my own phone vibrated in the pocket of my cutoffs. It was a text from Luke. Why'd you leave like that? He didn't text me very often, and when he did, he did so frustratingly. In complete sentences, with punctuation and zero emojis. It was so aggressive. Usually, though, I knew him well enough to know he wasn't mad. But tonight he sounded like he could be mad. At the very least, he was confused. I considered telling him the truth--that his brother had told me to leave--but I couldn't bring myself to do it. Something was going on with Rowan, and even though I wasn't sure he deserved it right then, I felt like I had to protect him. If I told Luke what had happened, he would confront Ro, and Ro would . . . well, no one ever knew what Ro would do. There was something I forgot to do, I texted back. I knew how lame it sounded, but I couldn't think of anything better. It couldn't wait? Luke texted back immediately, and despite myself, I felt vindicated. He didn't think I didn't belong there. I wasn't an idiot. I had brown skin and a thick, curly mane of hair, courtesy of my black father and white mother. Mel's parents were from the Philippines, and maybe that was what drew us together--that we both stood out in our mostly white town. But still, it meant I looked nothing like her. I looked nothing like Luke and Ro either, Mel's raven-haired boys who loomed over everyone. Nobody would look at the four of us and think we went together, but I'd always known--or I thought I knew--that inside, we were all the same. That we'd chosen one another, Luke and Ro and Mel and me, and that made us family. Whatever Ro was going through didn't change that. A wave of anger mixed with regret washed over me. I should have stood my ground tonight. I shouldn't have left. And honestly, I hadn't needed Luke to tell me that. I'd known it in my bones that I belonged with the Cohens on the worst night of all our lives so far. My mom was finishing up her phone call with Mel, so I didn't respond to Luke's text. I shoved my phone back into my pocket and walked over to the side of the bed again. "Take care of yourself, Melanie." Mom's voice had gone all somber now, and a lump formed in my throat. When she hung up, she told me. She said it quickly, like she thought it was kinder to just rip the Band-Aid off, and if I was capable of thinking at that point, I would have appreciated it. As I buried my face in my hands, blubbering like I was all water, my mother did something she'd never done before. She slid over into the middle of the bed so I could slip in next to her. Lying there in my parents' room, I cried as if I'd never see Mel again. Mom said nothing, running her hand through my hair while I snotted all over her sheets. As I was growing up, there would be days on end when I didn't see my mother. She would be just a lump in a bed or a figure hunched in the dark of her room. She needed time, my father would say. She needed space. Sometimes he'd make her bundle up and go for a walk in the fading sun. She'd look gaunt and pale and hollow-eyed. She needed fresh air. There was never a time when she needed me, but every time he had the chance, my father told me that she loved me. She just needed to get better, but she loved me. I don't know if I ever really believed it. But if I hadn't, tonight would have shown me that he was right. My mother hugged me and listened to me cry about the woman I would have--and always had--picked over her, time and time again. NOW Summer in Winchester is a bitch. This time last year, I was taking calculus at summer school and dealing with the kind of news that rocks the foundation of your life. But at least it was air-conditioned. Sweat makes a lazy trail down the back of my neck as I feed tennis balls over the net and try to avoid getting whacked by a bunch of hyper nine-year-olds. Maybe the time would pass faster if I hadn't emptied my water bottle within the first half-hour of lessons. Or maybe the time would pass faster if I got paid for what I was doing. There are a lot of reasons why I'm probably not the ideal teacher, but when the tennis club was down an instructor last year, I volunteered to help out, and I don't intend to break my promise. "Looking good, Madison!" I call out to the newest girl in my group, a toothy kid dressed in all-pink everything. "Nice! Make sure you bring your racket back all the way, Lewis," I tell the next kid. I reach into my cart and toss another ball over the net. It comes whooshing back with interest, and I don't have enough time to jump out of the way before it pelts my right knee. "Oof. You okay, Jessi?" Derek winces in sympathy from the ad side of the court, where he is also feeding balls to a lineup of kids. "Yeah. I'm good." I rub at my knee, trying to erase the pain. Derek walks over and holds a tennis ball to his mouth to hide what he's saying. "That kid's got a forehand. If only he'd tone it down a little and occasionally try to get it in the court." "No kidding," I agree. Derek is in his forties, a former college player with a massive serve. He started at Tennis Win only a couple of months ago, but he's already a far more dedicated head coach than the string of coaches the club has hired in the last year, since it's been under new management. If he didn't keep a running commentary throughout the day, he wouldn't be half bad. I miss the husband-wife duo who taught us when Ro and I were kids, but they retired and moved to Florida two years ago. I manage not to get hit again for the rest of the morning lessons. After cleaning up the courts, Derek and I head back to the club building. My knee is throbbing at this point, so I grab an ice pack from the freezer in the kitchen and fall into a chair in the mercifully air-conditioned lounge room. As soon as I sit, I am hit with all the reasons I tend to avoid the lounge room like the plague. A grinning fifteen-year-old Rowan stares at me from one of the portraits in Tennis Win's Hall of Fame. He sports an identical smile in three other pictures that are interspersed among the photographs of past "Winchester stars." There's even one of both of us at a tournament we won when we were about ten and playing mixed doubles together, beaming at the camera as if it's the best day of our lives. A lump forms in my throat, and I pack up my stuff and quickly leave the lounge, dumping the ice pack in the freezer on the way out. I'm in the parking lot of the tennis club, back out in the scorching sun, when my phone vibrates with a text. Come to the lake with me and Brett this afternoon! It's from Willow Hastings, whose dad owns the tennis club. She usually hangs around Tennis Win on Saturday mornings, watching lessons, and I feel relieved that I missed her today. I'm not in the mood for her cheeriness and relentless optimism. Frankly, it's a miracle that we're friends--for me, anyway. Because of everything that happened last year, I was basically friendless my senior year, until Willow came to Winchester. Thanks to the brutal luck of having to move just before the last semester of her senior year, Willow and I were the only two untethered planets in the Winchester High galaxy, and we soon found our way into each other's orbits. I doubt we would be friends if she'd grown up here like everyone else. I text and walk at the same time. Can't. I have to work. I add a sad face emoji, as if this pains me greatly. With the grandpa you babysit?? she writes back. I smile, but don't dignify her text with a response. I climb into the car my parents bought me at the start of the year. All Saints Assisted Living is only a couple of miles away from the tennis club, and I arrive fifteen minutes before my shift starts at one. I make my way inside anyway, swiping my badge over the door and going up the elevator and down the hallway to Ernie's room. When I knock, he calls for me to come in. I open the door and step into the kitchen of his small apartment, the lights on even though it's the middle of the afternoon. "Hey, Ernie. Are you decent?" "Enough," he retorts, his usual answer, and I smile. I find him in the living room, sitting in front of the TV, watching a curling match with no volume. "How are you doing?" I plop down on the couch next to his beloved rocking chair. "Better than the alternative," he says. "Which is what?" I ask, knowing I'm walking right into the trap of a carefully orchestrated joke. I know he spends all of the days before I come thinking of jokes he can try out on me, so I always play along. "Six feet under, like my brother Gareth Richard Solomon IV, the unlucky son of a bitch." "Ernie!" I say in mock horror. "Don't make me call your mother." "Why not? I haven't been to a good seance in some years." I laugh. "I can't, when you're like this," I say, even though he is always like this and that's what keeps me coming back. That, and the fact that I get paid for it, which honestly feels like a con, since most times he is easily the best part of my week. I was nervous to apply when I first saw the ad Ernie's family posted online late last year, looking for someone to keep him company a few times a week. I didn't have a lot of experience with older people. We live far from Dad's parents, and I've never even met Mom's. Thankfully, it has turned out to be the perfect job for me. I literally get to sit and exchange barbs with the funniest old man I've ever met, and I make money from it. "Want to go for a walk?" I ask while I tidy up his small table. Ernie scoffs. "I didn't do all that exercise when I was young just to get old and do even more. When do I reap the benefits of what I sowed?" "The fresh air will be good for you," I insist. He shakes his head. "Put on some music," he says, "and then I want to ask you something." I've been here enough times that I can hook up my phone to the wireless speaker Ernie's kids bought him last Christmas, and within seconds Ella Fitzgerald's voice comes spilling out into the room. I let myself listen to the old jazz classics only when I'm with Ernie. First, because he's old enough to appreciate them. Second, because with him as my audience, I can usually manage to keep my tears back. Today the ache in my chest is dull but bearable. "What's up?" I ask when I'm back on the couch. "I'm always wondering, but I've never asked," he says. "What's a girl like you doing hanging around all afternoon, three days a week, with an old fart like me?" "First of all, you're not--" "Save it. I know what I am. A goddamned piece of flatulence," Ernie insists. "Well?" "Well, what?" I ask. He is quiet a minute, and then he speaks, his eyes serious, "Why do I get the feeling that I'm replacing something for you?" I swallow hard. "You're not replacing anything," I say when I manage to speak. But the truth is, we both know he's right. He's replacing the family I thought I'd never lose, just the way Willow is replacing the friends I thought I'd always have. "Hmph," he says, clearly dissatisfied with my answer, but we go back to listening to the music and not speaking. As I'm leaving Ernie's place just after three, my phone vibrates in my pocket and I answer it. "Hi, honey!" The cheeriness in my mom's voice is even more unexpected than the call itself. It really shouldn't surprise me, because that's a thing my mom does these days. Call me. "Just wondering when you're coming home," she says. "I'm just leaving All Saints. I had to work, remember?" I probably should have texted to remind her, but I'm still not used to checking in with anyone about where I am. "Are you sure you're not working too hard, Jessi? Two jobs and volunteering at the club?" "I'm fine, Mom," I say. "All right." There's a short, awkward silence; then she sighs. "Well, I just wanted to see where you were. Drive safe, okay?" I tell her I will and hang up. My mother has changed so much this past year that I still have trouble believing that this new version of her, Mom 2.0, is here to stay. The memories of our quiet house and the dark of my parents' bedroom gives me whiplash, and it's easier to focus on my conversation with Ernie than to remember how things used to be. So I go back to what Ernie said about the people he's replacing, and soon I'm in a sinkhole made of the past. I'm drowning in thoughts of Mel and Ro and Luke, and even Sydney. I'm usually good about not acting on my impulses, but on my drive home, I break. I let myself do the thing I rarely ever do. I drive by the Cohen house on the far east side of town. Slow down to get a good look at the car I don't recognize and let myself wonder, for just a minute, what my life would be like if last summer never happened. Excerpted from Some Other Now by Sarah Everett All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
