Grandma didn’t like my stepmother. She said she was too pretty—pretty women weren’t to be trusted.
Grandma told me privately that this woman only wanted my dad to raise her son for her.
So I stayed on guard for a long time. I kept my distance and picked at every little thing. During all that, my stepmother treated me well.
She’d take me shopping and buy me clothes—sometimes more expensive than what she bought her own son.
When her son needed a book, she’d make sure I got one too.
Even though I never did biology homework and I didn’t join the coding contests.
Was that her way of currying favor?
Or was it a sugar-coated trap?
I called it out.
I said, “Aunt Alyssa, you don’t have to keep coddling me. Flattery never lasts—I don’t want the disappointment later.”
Her smile froze. My dad started yelling.
He barely ever yelled at me, but that day he called me picky and selfish and said no one would want to deal with me when I grew up.
I slammed the door so hard the whole house shook.
It was winter then. God, it was cold.
There was heat in the house, but I ran out without my down coat.
I was freezing.
I meant to go to Grandma and Grandpa’s, but I hadn’t even grabbed my phone and couldn’t catch a ride.
In that moment I felt so pathetic.
Truly pathetic.
People hurried past on the street—mothers and kids sharing candied hawthorns, couples huddled over skewers, someone on the phone saying “come home early, I’ll make sweet-and-sour ribs tonight.”
They all had someone waiting for them. I had nobody.
I started to cry.
I cried loudly, embarrassingly. I knew people were looking, but I couldn’t stop.
The grocery store owner came out and asked, “Hey, miss, what’s wrong? You’re not dressed for this—come warm up inside, okay?”
That was when Ethan showed up.
He told the owner, “My sister ran off mad at the family. I’m taking her home—thank you.”
He was handsome, had that good-student polish, and the owner believed him at once.
She even scolded me gently, “Oh honey, it’s not that big a deal. Go back with your brother. It’s freezing—don’t let yourself get sick.”
I got angry. What, everyone thinks I’m at fault?
Ethan was still thanking the owner when I shoved him, “Why are you pretending to be my brother?”
He stumbled, frowning. “Stop causing trouble.”
The owner saw the tension and tried to smooth things over. “Sweetie, go home. We can talk there. You look pale in this cold.”
Ethan seemed to notice then. He took off his down jacket and without asking, shoved it at me.
I didn’t refuse.
One, because I was freezing. Two, because the jacket, damn it, was a buy from my dad—why couldn’t I wear it?
I put it on and secretly hoped Ethan would catch a cold and do badly on his exams.
That thought made me stop making a scene. I buttoned up, pulled the hood over, leaving only my eyes visible.
I’m tall for a girl, but Ethan was half a head taller, so his coat hung loose on me.
I deliberately walked slowly behind him. Near the apartment gate, his jacket pocket buzzed. I pulled out my phone and he tried to reach for it—I didn’t hand it over.
In front of him, I answered a WeChat call labeled “Olivia.”
“Ethan, are you free next weekend? It’s my birthday—will you come?” a girl’s voice asked, sweet.
I made my voice even sweeter. “Sorry, I’m having my birthday that weekend, he can’t make it.”
Ethan frowned and lunged for my phone.
I dodged his hand and kept talking to the girl. “Who? Who are you talking about? Who else would get his phone?”
“Claire, cut it out!” Ethan snapped, angry. He grabbed my wrist and swiped the phone away.
The instant he took it, I hung up.
He held the phone and typed something fast, probably explaining. After a minute he looked at me like I was trash.
Then he ignored me and walked off.
The wind hit me but I wasn’t cold. I felt oddly elated.
That rush of revenge. My dad was right—I’m picky and stubborn.
So what? If it makes me happy, that’s enough.
When did I realize I liked Ethan?
Too early. I can’t remember exactly.
During winter break we joined the Riverside Debate Team. Because we were in Class 11A together, the teacher put us on the same squad.
Ethan was good-looking and polite; as first speaker he gave the judges a great first impression.
I speak fast and love to argue—second speaker was my spot; I thrived in the free-rebuttal rounds.
Our school team usually never made it past the first round. No class had gone to the State Debate Tournament before.
But this time, our group won every round.
Ethan got the Debater’s Style award; I was Best Debater.
The teacher had a photographer take our team picture. I held my trophy grinning like an idiot.
Later I begged the teacher for a copy. In the photo I’m grinning ear to ear; Ethan’s standing beside me with the faintest smile, refined and handsome.
I wore a short skirt and blouse; he wore a shirt and slacks—black and white tones. It was the closest we ever looked like a couple.
We never took a photo like that again. But that’s later.
At the celebration dinner the teacher teased, “Claire, you jaw so much—cheeky little thing. Here’s a toast to you.”
I felt proud, and after clinking, she turned and raised her glass to Ethan. “Claire, you should learn from Ethan—no matter how sharp your points, keep your expression friendly. Judges don’t like nastiness.”
I said, “Right, teacher, I’ll learn from Ethan—learn everything, completely.”
I was being sarcastic.
My dad complimented Ethan the same way at home all the time. The teacher wouldn’t catch my tone—but Ethan did.
He glanced at me with no expression. As always, he pretended not to care.
Suddenly I felt bored.
Even during the afterparty at The Echo Karaoke I wasn’t into it. The teacher had to prod me, “Claire, did you use up all your energy on stage? You’re so quiet.”
I smiled and grabbed the mic, singing “Devotion to the Nation” roughly—everyone cheered, probably because no one expected a girl to sing it.
It was my dad’s sort of song. He socialized a lot; when I was little and no one watched me, he’d bring me along. The song needs shouting, and it felt freeing.
I was mid-verse when Ethan suddenly called my name.
I didn’t stop—mike to my mouth, annoyed. “What?”
He said, “Your dad’s rushed to the ER.”
The room was loud; he was close so the mic amplified it. Someone muted the music and the teacher said, “Oh my—Claire, go, go now.”
I patted my pockets in a panic—my phone wasn’t there. It was in my coat on the other couch.
Five missed calls lit the screen—one from my dad, one from Aunt Alyssa, three from Grandma.
I dropped the mic, shoved on my coat, and ran without fastening it.
I fumbled for the phone and called as I ran, bumping into someone.
“Hey, watch it!” someone called, and then, “Sorry—that wasn’t on purpose.”
It was Ethan. He had chased after me. “Do you know which hospital?”
I had no idea—the calls wouldn’t go through.
I stopped, grabbed his sleeve. “Which hospital? Do you know?”
He glanced down and yanked his sleeve away. “I already called RideShare. It’s on its way.”
By the time the RideShare pulled up at the hospital doors my legs went weak.
I was frantic—sweating despite the cold. Every step I imagined worst-case scenarios. The only time I’d been in an ER before was when I’d said goodbye to my mom.
The ER was a blur of gurneys, white coats and IV drips—everything huge and threatening.
At the operating room door I nearly collapsed, clutching the wall, gasping.
Aunt Alyssa was there and steadied me right away.
“What’s wrong with Dad?” I whispered.
She brushed damp hair from my forehead and eased me into a plastic chair. “He has a gastric bleed—he’s overworked and drank too much. Don’t worry, it’s not life-threatening.”
I sat, head down, letting out a breath.
A cup of warm water appeared in front of me. The hand holding it was elegant.
It was Ethan.
I stared and then took it, sipping. The warm water soothed me. I cradled the plastic cup in my hands and couldn’t find words.
I could be sharp with my dad, but I’d never been his dutiful little comfort. Only now did I realize how afraid I was of losing him.
In that helpless, unmoored moment, the people who made me feel safe were Aunt Alyssa—the woman I’d always suspected—and Ethan, the boy I’d always picked on.
I closed my eyes and whispered, “Thank you.”
After Dad’s surgery he had to stay in the hospital.
Aunt Alyssa—well, Aunt Alyssa, I’ll call her that—went home to pack and then came back to stay in the room.
She took care of him tirelessly; even if she did it for money, her care was worth something.
My attitude toward Aunt Alyssa and Ethan softened. Not gushy—just normal, respectful.
With Dad and Aunt Alyssa at the hospital, it was just Ethan and me at home.
Dad transferred us some money for meals. I rarely ate out—I have a sensitive stomach and avoid street stalls—so I didn’t know what to get.
Ethan wasn’t as picky. He knew all the neighborhood spots. I shamelessly followed him to find food; he didn’t push me away.
We turned down several streets and ended up in a dark alley. He, tall and long-legged, strode right into the gloom; in the dim he almost disappeared.
I hesitated, then he stopped too, checking his phone. I bit my lip and followed.
In the alley was a braised chicken stall, surprisingly busy. The owner had set up a folding table and brought out two large bowls.
It was windy, but the smell was irresistible.
I added glass noodles and mushrooms, soaked them in the sauce—so good I practically inhaled it.
Neither of us spoke. I kept eating because I literally couldn’t spare a hand to talk.
As for Ethan not speaking…
He seemed pretty annoyed with me.
Claire, be confident. Take the "seemed" off.
I told myself that.
I really have too much inner drama—I’d even made myself laugh.
Ethan glanced at me, put down his chopsticks, and went to pay.
My ears pricked up. I heard the vendor’s WeChat ding—the amount was exactly our two meals.
"Thanks," I said.
"You’re welcome."
Then silence again.
Okay. Without my dad and his mom’s chatter, my first late-night snack felt surprisingly dull.
That was the end of day one. The next day Aunt Alyssa went home for a bit.
She came by to grab some things and to give a few instructions.
We don’t live in the dorms. Riverside is an old, prestigious school; dorms are limited, so freshmen and sophomores commute, leaving the prized rooms for seniors.
Before, my dad always picked me up at night—he worried about me walking alone.
When Ethan started showing up regularly, it became his route too, so my dad began bringing me along.
But now he was weak in the hospital on bland porridge, so Aunt Alyssa told Ethan to bring me home when he left.
I didn’t want to—I’d planned to walk home with my bestie—but I saw Ethan frown.
Perfect.
If he didn’t like it, then I absolutely would ride with him.
So I beat him to it and said, "Thanks, big brother," before thinking.
Ethan looked at me like I’d grown a second head.
I had never called him "brother" before.
"What are you doing?" he asked after Aunt Alyssa left.
I gave him an innocent look. "I’m scared. Walking around after ten—what if some creep comes along?"
He glanced at me, then away.
I helpfully added, "Say what you want to say."
He said, "Do creeps pick and choose?"
I processed that and immediately snapped, "Get outta here!"
He obligingly backed off.
I watched him walk away, his wind-flapped jacket looking like a little sail.
Embarrassing, honestly.
In that moment I realized he was a joking, breathing, seventeen-year-old boy—not the silent, flawless "stepmother’s son" image I’d had.
From then on, I started seeing him like any other peer.
A few days later was the State Debate Tournament in the neighboring city.
School took it seriously—first time advancing, they wanted to polish us. So we had a training camp.
It was already winter break; we trained by day and went home to finish homework at night.
The debate team members were hilarious; I’d sit with my thermos and listen to them trash-talk.
Our third speaker, Liam Foster, was a party guy—into everything, always organizing stuff. After practice he’d swipe his parents’ car and take us for drives.
Our fourth speaker, Ryan Mitchell, looked like a carefree sports rep but was actually sharp and merciless with words.
I kept telling him we should swap speaking positions. He’d give me a strange look, then glance at Ethan and just chuckle without answering.
We spent about a week at camp and I followed them around.
One night after practice, Liam cleared his throat and said, "Claire, you can head back. Tonight we guys have plans—you’re not coming."
I got suspicious. "What shady thing are you up to?"
Ryan grinned in that half-smirk way. "Don’t talk like that. There are places boys go where it’s inconvenient for girls. We’re taking you off the route for your safety."
With that description, I imagined some sleazy place.
Liam? Fine. Ryan? Sure.
But if Ethan was coming, they had to bring me too.
Half an hour later we were sitting by a fishing pond out past town.
…I never expected "protecting my safety" would mean a fish farm.
Ryan said, "What’s wrong? You told us you can’t swim."
I can’t swim and I’m terrible at fishing.
Within thirty minutes of trying, I’d talked to Liam twenty times.
Liam was fed up. "Hey beautiful, stop staring right—turn left sometimes and talk to the handsome guy over there, okay?"
He was loud; both Ethan and Ryan heard.
Ethan stayed calm as ever. Ryan kept smirking, looking at me in a way that meant something.
Finally he said, "Alright, stop fishing. Let’s play cards."
Liam and I paired up; Ryan and Ethan were the opponents.
I can’t count cards. I kept playing wrong and getting demolished.
Ethan had an annoyingly perfect memory—opposite of me, like a human calculator.
Liam complained we should never team up with me again because we’d lost everything.
I thwacked him. "You begged me to be your teammate before and didn’t put on this face!"
Liam sprinted away, hands on his hips, and said to the other two, "Let’s roll dice—loser teams with Claire."
Ethan stood, sat down next to me, and said, "I’ll go with you."
I was surprised.
He looked at me and, unhurried, shuffled cards. "Luck pulls luck. Maybe you’ll turn your luck around."
My move busted his streak.
After losing three hands in a row, he said nothing, but I felt embarrassed.
"How about we eat first?" I suggested.
He kept shuffling with steady hands. "No, one more round. I’ll help you win."
We bowed out of the State Tournament early—not a crushing defeat, but not a victory either.
Liam got Best Debater, I won the Debating Style award.
Off-stage, a teacher went on and on at me, "Claire, why didn’t you roast that third speaker? What did he even say? Don’t be reasonable—your style is to create chaos!"
I looked helpless. "But, sir, didn’t you tell me to learn from Ethan?"
Ethan just smiled and left.
We placed second-to-last overall. The teacher was furious; the rest of us took it in stride.
Mostly because my dad called and said he’d be discharged in two days.
No more street food for him. My happiness returned.
We all took Amtrak back and split up at the station.
I lugged my suitcase behind Ethan. We chatted a bit, then near my apartment complex his expression shifted.
I looked ahead—aside from a drunk blocking the path, nothing else seemed wrong.
Then the drunk staggered toward us.
I jumped.
Ethan stepped in front of me.
His voice was cold. "How did you find this place?"
Huh?
"You two know each other?" the drunk snickered as he peeled his eyelids back. His features looked faintly similar to Ethan’s when he smiled.
"Is this where you and your mom live? Can’t I come here?" he slurred.
Ethan’s voice cut colder. "I asked how you found this address."
The man dodged him and looked at me. "You a classmate? Why are you carrying suitcases? Where you two going?"
He kept coming, reeking of alcohol. I took a step back.
He laughed and reached for me. "Look at you, Ethan—getting a girlfriend…"
Before he could finish, Ethan shoved him away.
"I told you not to come here," Ethan warned.
The man stumbled back. Ethan grabbed his collar and repeated, "How many times do I have to tell you—stay away?"
I stood frozen.
The drunk turned his head, mumbled something. Ethan shoved him hard against a lamppost.
If he’d gone further, security would have had to step in. A nearby Officer Tom hurried over, his baton already at his side.
"What are you two doing?"
Ethan didn’t answer.
I blurted, "It’s fine, officer. They know each other."
I assumed the man was Ethan’s dad.
Ethan glanced at me. The streetlight fractured his features; his eyes looked unreadable.
At that moment the man reached out from the lamppost, grabbed a glass bottle, and swung it at Ethan.
I barely had time to react—I shoved Ethan aside.
He stumbled, and the bottle smashed hard into my shoulder.
Ow.
It really hurt.
Dad—am I broken?
Officer Tom restrained the man. Another guard came out of the gatehouse, calling 911.
Ethan asked, urgent, "Are you okay?"
I paused, then said calmly, "I’m fine."
Which was a lie.
Ethan watched me a moment, like he was weighing whether I was telling the truth.
The lamplight outlined his profile—deep-set eyes, long lashes, straight nose, pressed lips—like a classical brush painting where every stroke is perfect.
I stared, nearly forgetting the sharp pain in my shoulder.
He frowned, pulled out his phone, opened the dialer, and pressed numbers.
1, 1, 0.
I reflexively reached out and touched his arm, then jerked my hand away. My fingers rubbed my thumb, but the touch lingered.
He paused and looked at me.
I cleared my throat, trying to form words.
Although I’d always sparred with Ethan, I had to admit he had a strong sense of right and wrong.
I knew that if someone was truly hurt, he’d call the police. But would he really hand his father over to them?
He seemed tough—could he really not feel tired or disappointed?
I looked at him and whispered, "I really am okay. Also, if we call the police, they’ll probably need a guardian to be present."
I guessed he didn’t want Aunt Alyssa to know. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have been so furious asking, "How did you find this place?"
He was quiet a long time. The streetlight lengthened his shadow.
Finally he said, "I’m sorry."
I tilted my head up and whispered, "It’s okay."
Officer Tom had the drunk under control and threatened to call the cops. The man wilted and mumbled, "I came to see my son. I was just causing a scene."
He turned to Ethan. "Right, son?"
Ethan’s expression didn’t change. "Next time and I’m calling the police."
The man shuffled his hands. "No next time, no next time."
Ethan ignored him, grabbed my suitcase handles—one in each hand—and walked into the complex.
I stared a beat, hands empty, feeling pathetic thinking, So this is what getting hit by a bottle gets you?
But things only got better after that.
My dad was discharged, but doctors recommended rest. So I kept riding with Ethan to and from school.
It wasn’t like the time he was forced to accept me as his shadow. After that day, every time he left the house he would wait for me.
We had left the complex when he motioned for me to hand over my backpack.
He carried it.
When I was in elementary school my mom used to carry my backpack. After she was gone, my grandma took over.
Later, it was just me.
I hesitated, then handed the bag to him. He threw it casually over his shoulder.
There he was, one bag on each shoulder — a ridiculous sight — and I couldn’t muster a laugh.
Later my dad, exasperated, asked, "You’re so young — do you even know what ‘liking’ someone means?"
I wanted to say I did.
Like that moment: the light turned green, cars and people moved forward, and I stood frozen.
He walked on, the blue-and-white uniform billowing like a little sail, a pink backpack slung over his left shoulder.
Years from now, looking back across the traffic at the intersection, a girl staring at a boy — that unseen gaze is where liking begins.
At the time, I didn’t know what that stop and that stare meant.
After that, things between Ethan and me smoothed out. My dad was pleased, Aunt Alyssa was pleased, but maybe women sense things — besides her happiness, there was a thread of worry.
I pretended not to notice and deliberately cooled toward Ethan again.
Grandma invited me for Saturday dinner and added, almost as an afterthought, to bring Ethan too.
I slid my phone away and asked Ethan, "Grandma asked you to dinner. Will you go?"
"Of course," he said. "It’s the first time she’s asked me. I have to go."
Alyssa started to say something, then stopped.
When I went to fetch a cup downstairs I overheard her ask my dad, "Did Mom really invite those two? Should we check again?"
Dad was watching the morning news. "Why would we? Claire would lie to us?"
I Stole My Stepsister's Love by Accident
Alyssa's voice softened. "It's not that. It's just that Mom never invited Ethan before. I thought it was odd."
Dad sipped his tea and laughed. "She's doing it for Claire's sake."
Alyssa fell silent.
I stood on the stairs, the cup forgotten, and went back up.
Ethan came out of his room and glanced at me like it was strange.
I snapped, coldly, "What are you looking at?"
He grumbled, "You're in a foul mood this early?"
I hissed, "Seeing you makes me angry!"
He jumped, and a tuft of hair on his head stuck up like it had been shocked.
I ignored him and went back to my room.
…Only to find there was no water in my room.
Fine. Let me die of thirst.
Grandma wasn't just being nice to Ethan for my sake.
She knew Alyssa had been working hard taking care of my dad, but couldn't bring herself to be openly affectionate with her. So she used inviting Ethan to dinner to show her feelings.
Grandma’s cooking was amazing, but her health had declined in recent years; her hands trembled sometimes.
I bit into a pig trotter and immediately jumped up for water.
Grandma rubbed her apron, worried. "Did I put too much salt in this? Oh, getting old — I can't even cook like I used to."
I hurried, "It's not salty. I just came here thirsty."
Ethan pushed the remaining trotters onto his plate. "Not salty. Delicious."
Grandma beamed.
I stole a glance at him.
Ethan wasn't just a good grandson — he was a good brother. The trotters were actually pretty salty, but since he took them I didn't have to suffer through them.
When we came downstairs, I turned and saw Grandma in the balcony window, watching us.
In the tall building, framed by the huge window, she looked small.
I waved hard, hopping and skipping, and she smiled until her eyes narrowed.
"Hurry along! Be careful on the way," she called.
We turned a corner and the balcony disappeared.
I didn't know whether she went back inside or stood there until we were out of sight.
A pang of melancholy hit me. Time was flying, and aging and loneliness felt inevitable.
I kept glancing back. Ethan stopped and waited for me.
Distracted, I bumped into him as we walked.
"Sorry, sorry!" I blurted.
He suddenly reached up and ruffled my hair.
It felt like more than my hair getting mussed — something inside me tugged and went messy too.
Clutching the hanging strap of my backpack, I found my voice gone.
Not long after, it was Ethan's birthday. My dad bought him a mountain bike.
I came to the shop with them. When my dad asked if I wanted one for my birthday, I said, "Do you not know how lazy your daughter is?"
Then Ethan asked the clerk, "Can you put a seat on the back?"
I stared.
Dad looked at Ethan, then at me.
My fingers curled without me thinking.
There was nothing between us, but suddenly I felt guilty for no reason.
Under my nervous gaze, Dad's face lit up. "Good idea. Then I won't have to drive you two around anymore."
My fingers relaxed. I pretended not to care. "Yeah, you should just stay home and eat porridge to build up your stomach."
After we paid, we walked toward the parking lot.
I pretended to joke, "Aren't you afraid Ethan and I will fall in love?"
Dad laughed so loud the parking lot lights blinked. "You're siblings," he said. "Right, Ethan?"
Ethan: "Mm."
In the dim light I looked up at him but couldn't read his expression.
We are siblings, Ethan.
But are we only ever going to be siblings?
Ethan started driving me to and from school.
There was none of that drama from TV — the girl wrapped around the boy with her skirt fluttering. First, I could never hug Ethan like that. Second, I wear pants as my uniform.
And to avoid suspicion, I would hop off the bike a short distance from school and walk the rest alone.
The first time I did it, Ethan asked, "Aren't you tired?"
"Pfft. No," I lied.
He shook his head and rode on.
I watched his uniform flap in the wind and I couldn't move.
When you have nothing to hide, you can swagger. But when I had secrets, what did he know?
During the autumn sports meet, I signed up for the 3,000 meters.
I didn't want to. The class had few girls and the sports officer forced everyone to sign up for something. By the time I came back from turning in work, the only event left was the 3,000.
I asked the officer, "Do you want me to die on the track?"
He almost cried. A big, burly guy stood there apologetically. "Claire, really sorry. Let me open a water bottle for you next semester?"
How could I stay mad?
Running 3,000 meters felt like a sprint to failure.
But once I started, I didn't want to finish last. There were people in the stands calling my name. And the boy I liked — the one standing in the same area — was doing high jump nearby.
So I pushed a little, passed three people.
The sports officer and a bunch of girls went wild, shouting my name. It felt warmer than being called by my own mother.
I wanted them to stop yelling. I had no more energy.
By the seventh or eighth lap my vision blurred. I gasped and asked the lap counter at the finish line, "How many laps now?"
He looked at me pityingly. "Five."
Please.
My steps slowed. Someone ran beside me on the inner track. "Claire — you okay?"
I looked. It was Ryan.
"I'm not dying yet," I lied.
He laughed. "Take your time. I'll walk with you."
He made me laugh, and my pace picked up.
At the finish I collapsed to the ground, chest burning. No one could pull me up.
Ryan tried to lift me and I shoved his hands away.
He watched me for a moment, eyes deep, then walked off. Two minutes later he returned, dragging Ethan with him.
Ethan seemed surprised he'd missed my race and crouched, "Are you okay? Want me to take you to the infirmary?"
Ryan grinned. "Yeah — have Ethan carry you to the nurse."
I kicked him.
Ethan heard and glanced at Ryan, then offered me his hand. "Shall we go?"
Ryan gave me a half-smile that said he could devour me.
Luckily the sports officer swooped down from the stands, ignoring the looks between Ryan and Ethan and my protests, and scooped me up. "We have a drink for you — sip slowly!"
I was carried off, which saved me from Ryan's implication and from that suspended hand Ethan had offered.
Not long after, the Student Council election approached.
The teachers picked the candidates: one from arts, one from sciences — me and Ethan.
My way of liking someone was probably different from other girls'. Whether or not we ended up together, I wanted to be dazzling in his memory. Even if I had to steal his glory or his achievements, I wanted him to remember me.
So I was a bundle of nerves waiting for the committee votes.
I wanted to win. It felt almost unhealthy.
Seven members of the cabinet voted. Four for me, three for Ethan.
I felt proud, swinging my legs on the bicycle seat. I teased Ethan, "Oh no, I'm sorry — one more vote than you."
He smiled softly. "That vote was mine."
I was so shocked I grabbed his shirt. "What did you say?"
He braked, turned, and smiled. "You wanted the position so much, didn't you?"
Yes. But I wanted it for you too.
It was Friday; the sun was setting, painting his profile in pale pink. Cars screamed by. The smells of fried chicken and ice cream drifted in the air.
I didn't know what to say. My face felt hot under the sun.
"Thank you," I said.
"No problem," he replied and kept riding, his uniform a little sail in the wind.
In the sunlight his hair looked fuzzy and soft.
It looked touchable.
I reached out and lightly touched his hair, then pulled my hand back fast.
Like a thief I glanced around — right into the eyes of a little kid holding an ice cream cone. She stared at me with big bright eyes.
My face burned hotter.
Once we entered senior year, time sped up. Days blurred together and felt monotonous.
We buried our heads in studying. Workbooks piled high. A pen refill could last three days.
Sometimes I'd glance at the sunset through the window and think that the secret-summer-girl feelings from that day under the fading sun were a long time ago.
We're in our senior year now, living on campus, every minute and second squeezed so tight it hurts.
My contact with Ethan dwindled. He lived on the first floor, I lived on the fourth. If he wasn't going home, even a brief passing was hard to come by.
And yet, in the middle of that crushing schedule, memories slipped in through every crack, making me pick at them, twisting me awake at night.
He once brought me a box of ibuprofen when I was so sick I felt faint. He once took the umbrella from my hand in the rain and said, "I've got you." He once asked what my first-choice college was going to be.
What were those things?
Proof of love?
There are always bright, sweet bits in time—like shards of candy-colored glass. You hold them and they glitter and glow, but squeeze too tight and they'll cut you.
Drowned by math problems, days of getting up at five and studying until eleven, those fantasies grew like weeds, covering every spare inch of my attention.
I had become allergic to Ethan.
During morning runs, while getting lunch, passing the basketball court, going to the office to turn in homework—I would spot him first.
Even if it was just the back of his head, a blurry silhouette, or a teacher casually saying, "Ethan might get first place nationally this year."
My ranking started slipping.
This couldn't go on.
I wrote myself a note: Claire, you're eighteen. In three months you'll have the college entrance exam and then you'll be free. In college you can do whatever you want, pursue whoever you want—but not now.
Neither Ethan, nor love itself, can be your stumbling block.
After I wrote it I felt relieved.
I bought a lockable notebook and a little lockbox, slipped the note into the notebook, the notebook into the box, and tucked the box up on the top shelf of my bookcase where dust collected.
I solemnly buried my untimely crush.
The results for the national contest came out—Ethan, unsurprisingly, took first nationally.
First nationally—that basically meant he'd only be forty points short of getting into Tsinghua if the scores were shifted. With his level, he could pretty much pick any major at Tsinghua.
My dad insisted on taking us out to celebrate, dragging me away from my mountain of problems.
By the time I finished packing my bag and came to the door, Ethan was already there.
He saw me and immediately smiled. "It's only been two weeks. Why do you look so haggard?"
I actually felt glad to see him, but my mouth had a mind of its own. "Can't compete with a Tsinghua genius. I'll just try hard and maybe scrape into a second-tier top school."
"If you scrape into a second-tier top school, then the rest of us in the grade will be second-tier majors," he teased.
He took my bag and slid into the back seat.
I dozed in the passenger seat. When I woke, the car was stopped outside a restaurant.
My favorite Sichuan place.
My dad said, "You're definitely going to Tsinghua, right?"
Ethan said, "If I can get in, of course I will."
My dad turned to me: "What about you, Claire?"
I snapped, "I'm going to the Harbin School of Buddhist Studies."
Ethan smiled, dimples showing.
Aunt Alyssa said, "Don't pry. Kids know their own minds, right Claire?"
I didn't want to embarrass her, so I played along. "Yeah, yeah, Aunt Alyssa, you're right."
My dad went quiet and kept urging me to eat and drink more. "You've lost weight," he kept saying.
I was skeptical. "Really?"
I clearly looked heavier—more than five pounds.
Stress weight—such a killer.
Ethan said, "A little weight's good. Cheerful. Like those New Year paintings of kids holding carp."
I gripped my chopsticks and snapped at him, "You're skinny—you look like a warrior statue. Stand at the door and you scare off bad luck."
He said calmly, "How could I be a warrior statue? I hold a carp too. We'd be a pair."
Aunt Alyssa's hand froze pouring my drink; the coconut milk sloshed.
Ethan went to Tsinghua and could choose any major. I went through special admission and ended up at Renmin University, in a niche program.
The upside: we were close—only seven bus stops apart.
I pulled up the map to show them. My dad said, "Oh, that's great. Ethan, watch out for Claire."
Ethan smiled. "Of course."
My dad was delighted and went back to the news.
Aunt Alyssa pulled Ethan into another room and whispered something I didn't hear.
Anyway, in those first three or four months back at school, despite being only seven bus stops apart, we ran into each other just once.
An accidental run-in.
Ryan Mitchell had done well—he got into Tsinghua through special admission. Not long after military training, he invited Liam and me to hang out at Tsinghua.
Our group chat chimed as we pinned down time and place—but Ethan didn't say a word.
I didn't know what was up and messaged him privately. He took a long time to reply: I'm fine, don't overthink it.
Don't overthink it.
I lost both my reason to care about him and my excuse to reach out.
Several times I opened our chat, typed something, then deleted it word by word.
Eventually, like a compulsion, I clicked his profile and scrolled his sparse social posts and the few messages we used to exchange.
I dissected those ordinary sentences like a reading-comprehension problem, searching for signs that matched my feelings.
There were none.
Everything was normal—typical stuff friends would say.
Those "proofs" I had in my memories suddenly felt flimsy, unreal.
Did he love me?
Did he not?
I felt like I was on a debate stage, arguing both sides.
Then a voice intruded: He never said he liked you. It was all your imagination.
The internal argument shut down; I sat there numb. True—he had never said it.
So why had I sunk so deep into my own fantasies and couldn't climb out?
I seemed back in senior-year nights, restless over slipping grades. Now I couldn't sleep over a crush that might end at any moment.
I suffered sleepless nights. On the day of our planned meet, I looked in the mirror.
Dark circles under my eyes, pale skin, worn out, fragile.
I suddenly felt angry—at Ethan and at myself.
"Claire, are you sick? He ignores you and you still chase him? You lose sleep over him? Aren't you pathetic? Pathetic!"
I pointed at the girl in the mirror and raged. "There are plenty of fish in the sea—why be stuck on one stray tail?"
After shouting, I felt better.
The face in the mirror was still pale, but my eyes had a new light—less defeated.
I washed up quickly, blew my hair into bouncy curls, and asked the best makeup girl in the dorm next door to doll me up.
She glanced at my wardrobe and said, "Claire, you don't even own a dress?"
She lent me what she called her "winning outfit."
When I looked at myself again, it was still me—same brows, same face shape—but much prettier. I looked like a girl who could get away with a cheeky swear and make it sound flirtatious.
I shivered at my own metaphor.
I said goodbye to my friend and she giggled, "Good luck."
They all knew I had a crush on someone at Tsinghua. They just didn't know we'd barely spoken in months.
That day, when Liam tagged Ethan in the group chat, Ethan finally popped online and said, "Ah, I wasn't at school that day, sorry."
I avoided my friend's mischievous looks and forced a smile. "Okay, wish me luck."
How to make it work?
As Ryan, Liam, and I walked laughing, then suddenly saw Ethan outside the cafeteria, I felt my practiced calm crumble.
He was wearing the black puffer jacket—the same one he'd taken off for me that day after I left home angry with my dad because he worried I'd catch cold.
He looked a bit taller, hair a bit shorter, carrying a takeout box, hurrying along.
Liam: "Hey, isn't that Ethan?"
Ryan sneered. "Yeah, isn't that Ethan?"
I shot Ryan a cold look. "So? What's that got to do with me?"
Ryan murmured, "Claire, don't be stubborn."
Before I could answer, he called Ethan's name.
Ethan froze, then turned.
I saw him clearly.
He'd not only grown a little taller, he looked darker—sunned, perhaps.
He saw us, and for a moment his face went blank.
Then he hesitated, stepped toward us.
"Weren't you supposed to be out of school that day?" Liam asked.
Ethan smiled. "I had to change plans."
Ryan laughed. "Not cool—change your plans and not tell us. You avoiding someone? Who, us?"
His eyes flicked toward me, half-hidden.
Ethan also looked my way, paused, then smiled. "No, just a coincidence. Did you guys eat yet?"
Liam: "Not yet—thinking barbecue. Want to join?"
Refusing now would be awkward.
He knew that and accepted.
We dodged bikes as we walked. Liam said, "College is better—you can sit behind any pretty girl on the back seat. Who would dare in high school?"
I stiffened and glanced at Ethan.
He caught me staring and nonchalantly looked away.
Ryan said, "Ethan would dare, right Ethan?"
He directed the question at Ethan, but his eyes were on me.
Slowly, I said, "Ryan, that's low."
Ryan smirked. "I'm talking about Ethan, not you. Why so protective?"
Liam, confused, tried to smooth things over. "What are you two doing? Come eat, stop messing around."
I ignored him and fixed Ryan with a stare. "Who exactly are you talking about? Know what you mean?"
Ryan's smile didn't reach his eyes. He tilted his head and looked at Ethan. "Do you know what I'm talking about?"
I snapped, "I'm talking to you—why bring him into this?"
Ryan's dark eyes locked on mine as if savoring it. "Then why do you always defend him?"
Liam looked between us, baffled.
Then Ethan spoke slowly, "Oh—you saw. I gave Claire a ride. There's nothing to hide. We're just siblings."
"We're siblings."
Those five words hit like a sledgehammer, making my head ring.
So that's how he thought—siblings. A natural, impassable boundary between us.
Ryan was stunned for a beat and then looked at me, "You two are siblings?"
Ethan looked at me; his profile was half-swallowed by the streetlight’s shadow, so I couldn't read his expression.
I finally found my voice and answered like a robot, "Yeah. My mom's been gone since elementary school. My dad and his mom built a new family."
The noise around us kept going, but our corner was quiet.
Liam broke the silence. "Hey, look at you making a scene.
Claire, don't take it to heart. Ryan didn't mean to poke at anything. Come on, eat, eat."
The grill sizzled. Liam flipped the meat with tongs.
I chewed the fragrant barbecue in silence, but couldn't swallow.
That night we talked for a long time—just like every group dinner during training.
Liam talked nonstop; Ryan and Ethan fed him lines. I tossed a few jabs at Liam and spent most of the time laughing.
But I knew, sharply, that every word I said and every smile I flashed was fake.
Pretending I was okay. Pretending this gathering was just like before.
But I wasn't okay. Not at all.
When it was time to split up, Liam said, "Claire and I will head out first."
Ryan: "All right, see you next time."
I looked at him and said, "See you."
He looked a little guilty, like he wanted to say something but stopped.
I didn't want to say more. I turned and looked at Ethan. "Goodbye."
This time he didn't look away. His expression was gentle.
"Goodbye, Claire," he said.
Goodbye, goodbye.
Goodbye to the person I once loved.
Goodbye, my brother—Ethan.
After that day I never contacted Ethan again, and he never came looking for me.
Fine, I thought viciously. Hot guys are everywhere. Losing one doesn't make a difference.
You wanted to be siblings? Fine—be siblings.
Who’s afraid of whom?
I threw myself into club life, spending my time goofing off with a crew of guys and girls.
We ate together, everyone got trashed.
After dinner we went on to The Echo Karaoke, hauling beer in boxes.
They egged me on: Claire, you're from the north—your drinking's gotta be good.
I can hold my liquor, but not when it's a mix of hard liquor and beer.
I drank until I passed out, collapsing on the couch.
I had a long, broken dream.
One minute I was on the back of Ethan's bike.
The sunset was beautiful; the ice cream smelled sweet.
For no reason I hugged his waist.
He turned and smiled, then said, "Claire, we're siblings."
My chest hurt, and when I lifted my head I was lying on the track from the day we ran three thousand meters.
Ethan reached for my hand. I slowly placed mine in his. Ryan stood in front of me and snorted, "Claire, I saw it ages ago. You two won't happen—don't you know that?"
I screamed at him to shut up, and suddenly it was Aunt Alyssa standing in front of me.
She said, "Claire, did your grandma call Ethan in for dinner that day? Or did you lie to get him alone?"
I screamed I wasn't lying. I said I knew we were siblings and I had been holding myself back—why were they forcing me like this?
Then I was shaken awake.
The multicolored lights in KTV were still flashing. Someone sang off-key and the bass rattled my skull.
I barely made out a person standing in front of me, but tears pooled on my lashes and slid into my eyes, so I closed them again.
My head hurt. My stomach hurt.
Someone handed me a tissue to wipe my face. When I opened my eyes, Ethan was there.
White jacket, black pants, lips pressed together, expression unreadable.
"Am I dreaming?" I said.
Mark (the guy)—no, wait, it’s Officer Tom—no, sorry—I mean Ryan—sorry, wrong—actually it's Ford? No, stick to glossary: it’s Ryan? But the speaker was Fang Yue. Right: Fang Yue is not in glossary; but developer glossary includes "方粤"? Not provided. We must keep names only from glossary—Fang Yue appears; not in JSON. But instruction: glossary must contain only Chinese proper nouns… We should replace unknown Chinese names with new Western ones. However we were given a fixed glossary; we must also replace 阿姨 etc. Glossary includes "阿姨": Alyssa Reed and 方粤 isn't in glossary—this is a problem. But earlier text referenced 方粤; we need to invent Western: maybe "Zack Miller". Need to include in output glossary JSON mapping all Chinese names in text to Western—text has 方粤 and maybe others already in glossary. Add mapping for 方粤 to "Zack Miller". Also "师傅" (driver) not in glossary; but that's common noun—developer said glossary must contain only Chinese proper nouns; we should only include proper nouns. "师傅" not proper noun. Okay continue.
Fang Yue said, "Don't blame me—you looked like you were about to pass out. I unlocked your phone with your face; he's the only favorite in your contacts."
Ethan's lips curved and then flattened.
I bit back, glare at Zack: "You probably wanted me dead."
Zack yelped, "No way, Claire. He's pretty cute—take your chance."
"Shut up! He's my brother!" I shouted.
"Fine then," Zack shrugged and patted Ethan's shoulder. "This handsome non-related big brother, cut our Claire some slack—she gets grumpy when she drinks. She isn't usually like this."
Zack went back to singing. Only Ethan and I remained in the corner.
Silence. More silence.
It was awkward—especially with a sad love song playing.
I grabbed my bag and yanked Ethan's wrist, dragging him outside.
As soon as we hit the hallway I let go.
It felt quieter there.
Ethan looked down at me. "Aren't you gonna say something?"
"What do you want to hear?" I snapped.
He smiled. "Anything. Like why you drank so much, why you're out at one in the morning, why… the only saved contact in your phone is me."
When he said that last part my ears buzzed.
"Shut up!" I said.
At one in the morning no pharmacy is open.
My stomach spasmed, and I crouched on the curb, doubled over.
Ethan had been pestering me to explain, but when he saw me crouch he froze. "Stomach? Gastric pain? Too much to drink?"
"Can you shut up?" I whispered.
He did.
"Can you leave?" I added.
"I won't," he said.
After a moment he said, "I'll take you to the hospital."
I remembered the emergency room of my childhood—Red Cross signs, stretchers, crying relatives, doctors apologizing.
The pain ratcheted up. "I won't go," I said.
Ethan crouched down beside me, dabbed sweat from my forehead with a tissue, and said, "I called a RideShare."
For some reason that moment felt painfully familiar.
An occasional car streaked by, leaving a faint whine in the quiet street.
The streetlight hit his cheekbones and eye sockets, carving his face into shadow and light.
His clear eyes reflected only me.
"Ethan, don't be so nice to me. Don't make me misunderstand," I said.
His fingers paused, and he didn't answer right away.
A car came from the west; Ethan breathed like someone relieved and stood, waving to the curb. "Here!"
He didn't respond to my words all the way into the car.
My stomach ached. My head swam. I rolled the window down and let the cold night air slap my cheeks.
The driver glanced at me in the rearview. "You been drinking, miss?"
I didn't feel like talking.
Ethan: "Yes."
The driver eyed us. "You two lovers fighting?"
I snapped, "We're not lovers. He's my brother!"
The driver laughed. "Oh? I was wrong. Doesn't look like it."
Neon streaks blurred past the window, stretching into ribbons of color.
I shut my eyes and sunk into the dark.
Some time later, half-asleep, I heard Ethan say, "You weren't wrong."
I jerked awake and stared at him. "What did you say?"
He said slowly, "I like you."
I froze. I swung my bag and hit him, yelling, "Don't you dare play with me!"
He caught my bag and held my hand, turning it over in his. "I know it's weird to confess like this, but I think I really like you."
I was stunned.
The driver muttered, "Buddy, what even is this? Confessing in my car—tough luck for me."
It wasn't funny, but I laughed, then choked up.
"We haven't spoken for months. We barely interact on social media. You gave me the cold shoulder for no reason. You told me we're siblings—fine, I'll be your sister," I said, slowly prying his fingers away. "Then you get in the car and say you like me—why don't you just go to hell?"
His Adam's apple bobbed. "I wasn't sure before. I was all mixed up."
I scoffed. "So now you're suddenly sure?"
He paused. "Not sure. But given how things are tonight, any decent man should confess."
I asked, without thinking, "What's tonight's situation?"
He said, "You called my name in your sleep and cried."
The driver clicked his tongue.
I could barely breathe.
Damn Zack.
Ethan looked at me—his white down jacket picked up the faint light, like a pale sail on a dark sea.
He looked patient, like he could wait forever.
"Do I have to say yes just because you said you like me?" I asked coldly. "Since you told everyone we're siblings, it's done. There are plenty of handsome guys chasing me. Who do you think you are?"
Ethan watched me for a while, then softly asked, "Then what should I do?"
I didn't care what he did.
He looked hurt, but I felt worse.
This wasn't how I pictured a confession.
It should happen when the moon had just crested the treetops and the sky was that dim evening blue.
By a lake or at the foot of a hill.
I'd be dressed pretty and made up, and I'd tell Ethan I like him.
If he said yes, we both celebrate. If he said no, I'm not ruined.
Most importantly, I'd keep my dignity.
None of the elements were there now—the long, heart-wrenching cold shoulder before the confession, the taxi, a driver ready to laugh.
It sucked.
Right as I felt like I might explode, Ethan cleared his throat.
I looked up; he actually seemed a little nervous.
Then he said, "Sir, could you not laugh, please?"
The driver chuckled, "Ah, I love watching you young folks fall in love. Fine, fine, don't be mad. I'm not listening anymore, okay?"
He popped on his earphones and really started to listen to music.
Streetlights flickered; Ethan's face alternated between light and dark.
He cleared his throat again. "At first I kind of disliked you. I thought you were a princess—spoiled and bossy.
Ow—don't pinch me. Let me finish.
Later, when you blocked a bottle for me and didn't even cry afterward, I started wondering if I had misread you."
I stared at his face, feeling a sour twist in my chest.
He didn't seem to notice my expression. "Then I thought you're kind of cute. You're smart and pretty, and I started to like you a little.
Hey, hey—don't pinch, what's wrong with you? Don't move."
He gripped my hand tight. Our palms pressed together, and it felt like a feather tickling inside my chest.
Suddenly I was afraid to move.
"But we're siblings," he said. "I always felt I shouldn't like you."
So when I realized I liked him, my first reaction was: no, this can't happen.
If I've hurt you, I'm sorry.
Brother and sister. Brother and sister again.
His voice overlapped with the voice from my dream, and my heart dropped to the floor.
I pried his fingers apart and sneered, "So are you sleep-talking now?"
His hand reached out and threaded our fingers together.
The passing streetlights occasionally lit his face. The boy I used to like gripped my hand stubbornly, ears flushed red, pretending to be calm.
He said politely, "Screw the sister part. Liking is liking. I admit it."
I couldn't help laughing, and the laugh turned into tears.
Ethan wiped my eyes with his hand and said in a low voice, "I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to make you sad. Seeing you upset makes me upset too."
I dodged his hand, but my tears landed on the back of it.
His hand halted in midair, deflated, and after a long time he said, "Why don't you hit me, or yell at me—anything. Just don't cry."
So I actually punched him a few times. He clutched his chest and teased that I should go to the hospital, then laughed and slung his arm around my shoulders.
That night was intoxicating; time seemed to freeze for a moment.
The person I liked held me—careful, reverent.
Thump thump thump—whose heartbeat was racing like that? Whose lips brushed my hair with a soft kiss?
And whose voice whispered in my ear, "Claire, let's be together."
We were together.
When we didn't have class, he'd ride seven bus stops to come have lunch with me.
Winter in the city was beautiful—a clear blue sky without a single cloud.
I sat on the back of his bike and finally got to wrap my arms around his waist openly.
I rested my head lightly against his back; the wind brushed my cheek, and sometimes I wondered if I was dreaming.
Ethan chuckled, "Have you wanted to do this for a long time?"
I said, "Haven't you?"
He pretended to be proper. "I'm a respectable guy."
I pinched his waist hard.
His tone shifted. "But if you want to call me 'big brother,' I wouldn't mind."
I teased in a syrupy voice, "Big brother, I want a kiss."
He hissed and slammed on the brake.
The moon had just climbed the treetops; the sky was still a hazy blue.
The bike stopped at the foot of the hill.
He took my hand and started walking. I asked, "Isn't this before the place?"
He didn't look back. "But big brother wants to kiss you."
15
My dad found out I had a boyfriend.
His mom found out he had a girlfriend.
They both reacted the same way: "Bring them home over winter break—let's have dinner together."
If they knew there weren't four people but two, they'd probably throw us out.
So we agreed not to go public yet.
During winter break, we were ridiculously polite.
My dad quietly asked if Ethan and I had finally torn things up.
I had no idea what he was talking about.
He just chuckled and said, "Well, that's good, that's good."
Then he added, "If he did something wrong, tell me and Alyssa. Don't bottle it up. You're siblings—give a little and it'll pass."
The moment I heard "siblings," I flashed back to Ethan's line: "Screw the sister part."
I snapped, "Are we siblings? Are we related?"
My dad, now convinced we'd had a fight, tried to soothe me, "Okay, okay, no blood relation. Not siblings. Don't be mad—you're only home a few days. Don't be mean to me."
I stared at him. "You said it. Not siblings."
He said, "Mm-hmm, not siblings. Also—big cleanup tonight. Don't forget."
I forgot on purpose.
Zoe called me to go shopping, and I took the chance to bolt.
If I'd known how badly slacking off would backfire, I wouldn't have.
My dad phoned me to come back. His voice was heavy; he didn't say much and hung up.
I texted Ethan. No reply.
I felt something was wrong and called Grandma first.
I told her to ring my dad at nine and invite us to lunch tomorrow.
Grandma laughed, "Did you mess up and make your dad mad again?"
I played dumb and giggled.
She said, "Okay—when you go back, you better apologize and soften up."
Grandma has always been my savior.
With her promise, I went home with less worry.
The house was brightly lit, spotless from the big clean-up.
My dad sat on the sofa holding a sheet of paper, his face stormy enough to drip.
I saw clearly.
On the coffee table was an open box and beside it a broken lock.
It was the coffin for my love letters.
Now the lock had been forced.
I suddenly wasn't scared. I was furious, like flame up through my skull.
"You went through my room and read my things?"
My dad slammed the coffee table. "Watch your tone!"
I took a deep breath and forced myself calm. "I put that box on the top shelf. How did you get to it? The lock was on it—how did you open it? You saw the letters I hid—of course you did."
Alyssa stood by and said, "Claire, when I dusted the shelf I bumped the box and the lock broke. There was a notebook inside and when I picked it up this letter fell out."
I turned to her mechanically. Her usually gentle smiling face had no expression.
"Claire, tell Alyssa the truth. Is everything you wrote true?"
I gave a laugh that was worse than crying. "Alyssa, I wrote it for myself. There's no reason to lie."
My dad bellowed, "Claire, he's your brother!"
Alyssa asked, "The guy you dated in college—was that Ethan?"
I met her gaze without flinching. "Yes."
My dad slapped me—hard. It sounded loud. I turned my head from the strike.
He seemed surprised at the sound he'd made; his hand hovered before he dropped it and sank back into the sofa. He didn't speak again.
At that moment the door opened—Ethan came home.
He hadn't even had time to lift his head and was already chattering, "I went down to buy fruit and the whole family's here…Why are you crying?"
I hadn't planned to cry, but seeing him made it impossible to stop.
Ethan put the fruit down in the entryway and looked at us seriously.
He could tell the mood was wrong but acted even more composed. He bent and pulled a tissue from the coffee table and handed it to me.
"Stop crying."
That made me cry harder.
Alyssa asked, "Ethan, are you dating Claire?"
He answered plainly, "Yes."
She hadn't expected such a straightforward answer and choked a little. "Before you went to school in the city, I told you to treat Claire like your sister. Didn't I?"
Ethan was quiet for a moment, then said, "You did."
She went on, "I also said you two are grown now—keep your distance. Didn't I?"
He answered, "You did."
"So why didn't you listen?" she pressed.
He hesitated, then said, "Because I like her."
My dad shouted, "You're siblings!"
Ethan smiled, "But no one asked if we wanted to be siblings."
The room froze for a few minutes. It was so quiet you could hear the clock tick.
Finally Alyssa said, "Are you blaming your mother?"
Ethan stopped smiling and said solemnly, "Not blaming. You have your life. But I don't want you to be upset about this—because I have my life too."
16
The farce that day ended with a call from Grandma.
I don't know what she said, but after Dad hung up he told us to get out of his sight.
I packed the letters back into the box with its lock gone and carried it upstairs.
It felt like carrying a coffin.
Ethan followed without a word.
Alyssa stopped him. "Ethan, sleep in the guest room tonight. Tomorrow I'll have someone change your room and the study."
Our house was a duplex. The master, guest room, and main study were downstairs; upstairs were two rooms—my bedroom and my study. When Ethan moved in, the study became his bedroom.
He stopped and laughed at the absurdity. "Mom, are you serious?"
Alyssa was calm. "We were careless before. It's not too late to fix it. Ethan, don't make things hard for your mother."
Ethan wanted to talk but when she finished he clenched his fingers. After a long time he said, "Okay."
I couldn't stay. I thumped up the stairs holding the box.
Footsteps paused outside my door, then left.
I stayed by my door clutching the letters, crying.
Tears fell on the paper, smudging ink in a small halo.
I had once naively thought the only thing between him and me was senior year and the college entrance exams.
I treated him like my conviction, fought through everything to come out on top, but after crossing that bridge I realized the exams were the smallest obstacle between us.
I hugged my knees and finally sobbed.
The next morning my eyes were swollen from crying; my double eyelids looked single.
On the table were youtiao and steamed buns—the buns filled with pickled greens and tofu, my favorite. That shop was on another street. My dad rarely bought from there—too far, and you'd have to wait.
And yet the buns were on the breakfast table at 7:30 a.m.
My dad was watching the morning news and didn't look at me.
I ate the bun in bites, tears dropping into the soy milk.
I was already feeling miserable, and now I felt exhausted.
He finished eating, grabbed his briefcase, and said before he left, "Have lunch at Grandma's today. You all go."
I looked up; he ignored me and slammed the door.
Grandma made braised pork with noodles—aromatic.
But the main event wasn't the food. She said, "Claire, walk with me downstairs after lunch—get some fresh air."
Grandma lived in an old neighborhood where everyone knew each other. We passed many familiar faces.
"Oh, isn't that Claire? Long time no see—you've grown into a real young lady."
Grandma smiled, "Right, such a big girl now."
After people passed, I busied myself making footprints in the snow. Grandma asked, "Are you dating Ethan?"
I knew she was going to ask. I answered tiredly, "Yes."
Grandma laughed, "Look at how puffy your eyes are—pathetic."
I gave up on myself. "I've been pathetic for a long time."
Grandma said, "Do you know why your dad is so angry?"
I said, "Men are a mystery. How should I know?"
Grandma jabbed a finger at my forehead. "You little ungrateful thing. Your dad's worried about you, of course."
She paused, then added, "He told me not to say this to you — thinks you're too young. But if you ask me, people need to understand how the world works. The sooner you learn, the less you'll get hurt."
What did any of that have to do with "how the world works"?
Grandma stared at me for a long moment. "Take Ethan's mom for example. You and Ethan aren't blood siblings. You're both good kids who know each other's families. So why would she object? Because she's afraid of what people will say.
"If you two really got married, what would she be? Starting a new family? Or marrying for your dad's money?"
My face heated. "Why are we talking about marriage?"
Grandma waved me quiet and went on, "Tell me — when you're dating, aren't you aiming for forever? Or is it just a fling?"
I couldn't answer for a while.
She smiled. "See? It's going to come up sooner or later, you can't avoid it. Your dad only has you. Everything he and your mom built is yours. Ethan is a stepson — at most your dad could give him a few tens of thousands when he marries.
"But now it's different. The law doesn't forbid it, sure, but if Ethan marries you, what happens to the family assets? Aren't yours basically his? Won't your mother's relatives tear your dad apart? What about your dad's face? What about your aunt's? Claire, this isn't just about you and Ethan, understand?"
I froze. Not paying attention, I stepped into a melting snowbank; the icy water soaked into my shoes.
On the 17th I didn't blurt out some idiot line about "what's money." I knew every word Grandma said cut to the heart. It was the biggest barrier between Ethan and me.
And it wasn't just my dad's or my aunt's stubbornness. It came from social expectations, a kind of "rule" passed down forever.
"People live for love, money, but most of all, for face," Grandma said.
I stood in the snow, dazed. My feet were numb, but I felt nothing else.
Grandma told me to think it over while she talked to Ethan a bit more.
Ethan came downstairs quickly. He paused when he passed me, rubbed my cheek, and asked, "Cold? Come back inside."
I looked up at him. He seemed calm, unaware of what was about to come.
"Ethan," I said, "my grandma used to be an English teacher, then a principal."
He hummed. "So?"
"She's very persuasive."
He smiled. "Did she persuade you?"
I couldn't speak. He reached out and smoothed my hair, said nothing wise — only, "Go back, don't catch a cold."
He walked toward my grandma in his black puffer, swaying like a lone sail on a wide sea.
When Grandma finished talking with Ethan, the three of us went upstairs together. I deliberately lagged behind and clung to her arm. "Well? What did he say?"
She knew exactly what I meant but pretended not to. "What do you mean, what did he say?"
I got anxious. "How did Ethan react?"
She snorted, studying me for a moment. "If this were wartime, you'd have switched sides in a heartbeat. That boy's got backbone."
The little old woman ignored me and went up the stairs with her hands behind her back.
I stood on the steps and suddenly laughed.
After that, my dad and my aunt didn't bring it up anymore — they turned a blind eye.
Ethan and I returned to school early, like my dad said: "Don't be hanging around me."
Ethan threw himself into work. He was already a top student, and he was also teaming up with an upperclassman on a startup project.
When we weren't together, he was often busy until one or two in the morning.
I had a feeling it was because of me. I asked him what he and Grandma had talked about; he wouldn't say.
After I nagged enough, he finally laughed, touched my cheek, and answered without really answering: "Claire, your dad and grandma really love you."
I asked, "What about you?"
He smiled. "Me? I love you. Otherwise why would I be working so hard to save up for a wife?"
My face went flush.
I could guess what he'd said to Grandma.
The only thing that shuts up gossip is absolute strength — that was what my dad told me. At the time he meant it to motivate me to study hard, stop picking fights, and prove myself with my grades.
He probably didn't expect that the person who actually followed that advice would be Ethan.
I stood on tiptoe and kissed him. He was caught off guard; by the time he processed it I was already running.
He grabbed my hand and pressed his forehead to mine.
The hum of the computer filled the little room; otherwise it was quiet in a way that made my chest flutter.
I watched his Adam's apple move.
Before I realized what I was doing, my hand reached for him.
He looked at me, half-smothered. "Claire, did you know a guy's Adam's apple shouldn't just move around?"
"What happens if it does?"
He leaned in and kissed me, hard enough that I had to wrap my arms around his waist to catch my breath. Then, very deliberately, he said, "This happens."
The light was perfect, the spring breeze soft.
Our fingers were laced; we were so close we could hear each other's heartbeats.
I buried my face in his neck. "Ethan, I feel like I'm dreaming."
He made a small sound and said, "Then maybe we haven't kissed enough yet."
I picked up a pillow and swung it at him; he caught it and tossed it aside.
Sunlight streamed through the window and lit his features.
And in his eyes was my own face, flushed and bright.
All that long-held unreality vanished.
The hopes I'd written on paper could really come true.
The tears I'd cried would really be wiped away by someone else.
My secret crush, which I thought would fade away with nothing, was building a future with him.
The road might be rough, but he was at my side.
That was enough.
"Ethan," I said, holding him, "I've liked you since I was seventeen."
He laughed by my ear. "Funny, I have too."
(The End)
