The next piece of fruit was aimed at him. “I will strangle you with those suspenders, Brady. Shut. Up!”
I’d just turned back with my arm cocked and loaded when I caught sight of Mark stepping in front of Joan. He plucked half a McIntosh apple out of her hand and then turned to face me.
“You two are going to stop this right now.” Mark didn’t raise his voice, but he did sound like he meant business, like a teacher at the head of the classroom, disappointed in his troublemaking pupils. “You’re going to ride on this float and act like adults.” He glanced between me and my sister. “And then you’re going to sit down and have a conversation like rational human beings.”
Surprisingly enough, we did stop.
Giving me a death glare and a wide berth, Joan hopped up and took her position at the front of the sleigh without her costume and covered in the remnants of our apple battle.
Brady ran over to Burke Hardware and borrowed a staple gun to fix the garland bunting on the side of the float.
My parents climbed aboard and produced Oscar-worthy North Pole smiles and waves.
Mark plucked the missing eyelash from my hair, handed me a handkerchief for my face, and squeezed my arm. Then he got behind the wheel and shifted into drive.
In the end, we only delayed the parade by six minutes.
However, the event had lost some of its luster. My excitement waned to practically nonexistent due to the fight with my sister. I felt embarrassed by my actions, but underneath the shame and guilt was still a fresh dose of hurt that we’d gotten to that murderous, apple-slinging point in the first place.
I still smiled and waved and tossed candy to children and neighbors. Marveled a bit over the lights and music and the sense of community. But I felt dim around the edges, fuzzy and indistinct—like a chandelier that’d blown half of its bulbs.
When the parade was all over and we’d hauled the trailer back to the farm, my father ushered Joan and me onto the screened porch of the farmhouse and left us there. Side by side, we sat in cold, awkward silence on the wicker love seat. It was dark save for the light coming from the kitchen inside. My mother tossed two blankets at us and told us we couldn’t leave for at least twenty minutes.
I didn’t know what kept my sister from just getting up and going. Maybe it was the fear of disappointing our parents. It was one of the few things that proved wewere actually related. Or perhaps Joan was feeling a little bit of the guilt-shame combo that was currently hunching my shoulders and restraining my tongue.
When it was clear she was going to be as pigheaded about this conversation as she was about everything else, I decided to start with honesty.
“I got fired from my job in New York. That’s why I came home.”
In my periphery, I saw Joan turn to look at me. I could feel her gaze, heavy and questioning, on the side of my face.
I swallowed. “Well, I didn’t technically get fired. I was forced out. I got involved with my boss who stole my ideas and passed them off as his own. Then I found out he had a wife and a baby I didn’t know about, and it just fell apart from there.”
Joan was quiet for a moment before saying very matter-of-factly, “That guy sounds like a dick.”
A surprised laugh shot out of me.
The silence stretched between us again, not quite as tense this time. Less like a tightrope between two skyscrapers and more like a game of tug-of-war.
With her eyes fixed forward again, Joan said, “I always wanted to work on the farm, not in the passive way that Brady is involved, like he has nothing better to do. But like I felt it in my bones. I loved the land and working with my hands, being a part of something—a cycle, nature, a legacy. I always knew that this was where I belonged.”
Somehow I could tell she wasn’t done talking, just ordering her thoughts. So I stayed quiet.
Finally, she glanced at me. “I loved it here and you never did. You couldn’t wait to get out of this town, away from the farm. It felt like you needed to be rid of all of us, too.”
Heat flooded my cheeks and shame slithered in my belly. Every argument I could have made died on my tongue. All of what Joan said was true. Ihadbeen eager to escape. At the time, making something of myself meant something bigger and better than Kirby Falls. Ivy League, big city, sophistication, career-driven professional. All the things I thought equaled success. A dream that felt juvenile now in the face of Joan’s hard work and dedication.
“You swooped in here this summer with your pantsuits and your big ideas, acting like you belonged here when, for the longest time, you thought this place was the worst place someone could be.”
I considered my determination and my forced positivity over the past few months. I’d been the physical embodiment of fake it till you make it. Joan had seen through all that. Of course, she had.
“But I realize now,” my sister said, “that you were young and...so different than me. It’s hard not to remember the girl you were. Maybe it’s the age difference, but I have a difficult time seeing you as anything but my baby sister.”
I nodded because I got that. “I have a hard time seeing you as anything but my perfect big sister.”
Joan scoffed. “Perfection is just an idea. Something people kill themselves trying to achieve. It’s not any more attainable than world peace or being universally beloved—unless you’re Dolly Parton.”
I smiled. “I guess I thought Mom and Dad already had the best daughter for the farm. I felt like I needed to chart my own path to stand out.”
