Don’t Make Me Turn This Life Around by Pagán, Camille (dar e dil novel online reading .txt) 📕

out of the box for this,” I said—except I didn’t sound even remotely convincing, even to myself. I tried again. “I agree that it’s a wonderful idea, and I would have loved something like that when I was a kid, too. But I thought you were going to suggest doing a one-day event, maybe, or a conference. This is a huge initiative, Rupi. A summer camp requires so many things we simply don’t have.”

“I totally get that, which is why I’m willing to figure out a lot of the logistics before we discuss it again. I know it’s not something we could pull off this year, or maybe even next. But three years from now, Camp Charlotte could be open and operating,” she said.

Camp Charlotte had a lovely ring to it; my mother would’ve been thrilled with it. Which meant I should have been, too. But mostly it felt like one more thing.

And what was wrong with that? After all, I wasn’t about to start cancer treatment again, as I’d been secretly preparing myself for since Dr. Malone’s office called to say I was due for another CT scan. Charlotte’s diabetes was relatively well managed, even if I wished she’d take it more seriously. And I’d gotten through the worst of grieving over my dad’s death. Wouldn’t a new project be just the thing to reinvigorate my career zeal, if not my lust for life?

“Please say you’ll at least think about it, Libby?” said Rupi. “I know it’s wildly ambitious, but I’m more excited about it than I’ve been about anything in a long time, and I really believe we could get buy-in from the whole team.”

I was glad someone was excited. Because after I promised Rupi that I would be happy to review her proposal when it was ready, then watched her bounce down the hall toward her desk, a terrible thought kept echoing through my mind: I don’t really want to do this anymore.

FOUR

Paul had already been seated when I arrived at the restaurant. He slid out of the booth and stood when he saw me, then gave me the twice-over.

“You know I stopped dyeing it a few months ago,” I said, referring to my curls, which were threaded with silver. I didn’t really like it myself—it was less Steel Magnolias and more steel wool—but I didn’t want Paul to dislike it. Especially when I had zero motivation to make an appointment with my colorist.

“No, I actually love it,” he said, still eyeing me. “There’s just a lot more contrast than when I last saw you.”

Translation: I looked awful.

“You can pull off anything,” he added as he sat down again.

“You’re lying through your teeth, but I appreciate the intention behind it,” I said, sliding into the booth across from him. “Now if only I had your immunity to grays.” Boyishly lean with a full head of brown hair, my brother usually passed for a decade younger than he was. But as I examined him more closely, I realized the bags under his eyes were even darker than Shiloh’s, and his skin was just as sallow as mine had been in the mirror that morning. Forget wrinkles; apparently the true marker of middle age was looking like you were in immediate need of a blood transfusion.

He slid back into his side of the booth. “So your tests came back clear.” He said this as a statement rather than a question.

“What if they didn’t?” I said, but I was smiling.

“I would have picked up on your distress—but I also know you would have called me immediately,” he said, arching an eyebrow. When I’d first been diagnosed with cancer, I’d hid it, telling myself I was protecting him and our father. No surprise, that ended up causing more pain than it spared either of them.

“Learned that lesson the hard way.” I hesitated, then said, “I did call Dad by accident.”

“I’m sorry, Libs,” he said, frowning. “Did you end up listening to his voicemail?”

I shook my head. “No, I hung up before then, thank goodness.”

“Thank goodness for what? I call his number all the time just to hear his voice. I suppose at some point I’ll have to stop paying his cell phone bill, but for now, that’s a hundred dollars a month well spent.”

“That’s nice of you,” I said, not adding that it was also a bit morbid, if not downright depressing. “Now that you know my news, how are you?”

He held up a finger to me, then motioned for the waiter. After he’d ordered a glass of wine for himself and club soda with lime for me, he looked at me intently and said, “So when are we burying Dad?”

I blinked—and here I thought we were going to have a pleasant conversation. “Soon.”

“Define soon. Next month?” said Paul, pulling up a calendar on his phone.

Our father had died five months earlier. Long after Paul and I reached adulthood, our father had admitted that seeing our mother in a coffin had been one of the most traumatic experiences he’d lived through. “She looked like a complete stranger, a melted wax version of herself,” he’d told us. Which is why he’d asked to be cremated and have his ashes beside her in the cemetery just outside of Detroit where the rest of her family had been buried. We’d followed his wishes on the first part and had held a small memorial dinner with Paul’s and my family and Aunt Patty, my father’s sister, and her husband a week after he died. But we had yet to make it out to Michigan; his ashes were still sitting in an urn over my non-functioning fireplace.

“Next month is nuts for me,” I said. “Half the office is on vacation.”

“Most of North America is away in August, including all the wealthy people who would otherwise be inclined to write you checks,” he said. Of course Paul would know this—his net worth was that of a small developing nation, and he’d made many insanely