The First Choice

The Adriatic sun, a brutal, brilliant diamond in a vast blue vault, hammered the ancient white stone of Split. It baked the marble of Diocletian’s Palace, flashed off the windshields of cars crammed along the Riva, and filled the air with a heavy, salt-tinged lethargy. For Luka Perić, standing in the shadow of the black granite sphinx that had seen it all for millennia, the heat felt personal. It was the weight of expectation, of history, of his own perpetual, simmering disappointment.

He was late. Again. His scooter, a temperamental vintage Vespa he insisted on fixing himself, had coughed and died halfway up the hill from Veli Varoš, the old fishermen’s quarter where he rented a tiny apartment. He’d had to push it the rest of the way, sweat plastering his dark hair to his forehead, his shirt sticking to his back. Now, he was ten minutes late for guiding his tour group.

He could see them already, a cluster of brightly colored shirts and sunhats gathered around his brother, Marko. Of course. Marko, who was always early. Marko, whose scooter never broke down. Marko, who was currently making the group laugh with some effortlessly charming story about the sphinx, probably pointing out the notch on its nose that local legend attributed to a 10th-century Slav trying to prove it wasn’t a pagan god.

Luka slowed his pace, the urge to arrive deflated by the sight of his brother in his element. Second, again. Always second. It was the story of his life, written in the limestone of his city and the infuriatingly perfect smile of his older brother.

Their tour company, “Perić Brothers Historical Walks,” was a misnomer. It was really “Marko’s Charismatic Romp Through Time, with Luka Handling the Logistics.” Marko was the frontman, the storyteller, the one who remembered names, joked with the retirees from Germany, flirted harmlessly with the students from Australia. Luka was the historian, the researcher, the one who booked the groups, maintained the website, and—most crucially—was the safety net for when Marko’s improvisational style veered into pure fiction.

“Ah, here he is!” Marko boomed, his voice a instrument of pure, projected joy. “My brother Luka, the brains of the operation! He was probably up all night verifying the exact date the Roman sewer system was completed. Sorry, everyone, he’s a perfectionist.”

The group turned to Luka with polite, slightly pitying smiles. The brains. It was code for boring. The behind-the-scenes guy. The second choice. If Marko was the dazzling main event, Luka was the useful, reliable program note.

“Scooter trouble,” Luka mumbled, offering a weak wave.

“No problem, no problem!” Marko clapped him on the back, a gesture that felt more proprietorial than fraternal. “I was just telling our friends here about the poor sphinx’s nose. Luka will tell you the actual, probably less fun, reason it’s chipped. Something about weathering, right, brother?”

Luka felt the familiar heat rise in his cheeks, unrelated to the sun. He knew the real reason was likely a combination of sixteen centuries of exposure and some long-forgotten act of vandalism. But Marko’s version was better. It always was.

The tour continued, a well-rehearsed dance of their dynamic. Marko led, captivating the crowd in the Peristyle, his voice echoing dramatically in the ancient courtyard. Luka lingered at the back, ensuring no one got lost, answering the quieter, more specific questions.

“Is that Corinthian or Composite?” an older American man asked, squinting at the columns.

“Composite,” Luka said, his passion cutting through his resentment for a moment. “You can see the acanthus leaves from the Corinthian order merged with the volutes of the Ionic. It was a late Roman favorite, a bit of showing off, really.”

The man looked impressed. “Fascinating. Your brother said they were Corinthian.”

“He simplifies things,” Luka said, the words tasting like ash.

As the group moved towards the Vestibule, a young woman hung back. She had been quiet all tour, her eyes not on Marko but on the stonework, the carvings, the shadows in the cavernous entrance hall. She wasn’t like the others; she was observing, not just being entertained.

“He’s very good,” she said to Luka, her English accented but fluent. Scandinavian, maybe.

“Marko? Yes. He’s a natural.”

“No, I mean you,” she said, turning her clear grey eyes on him. “The explanation about the composite columns. You see it. He just performs it.”

Luka was so startled he was rendered speechless. No one ever noticed him. He was part of the scenery, like the worn Roman stones underfoot.

“I’m Klara,” she said. “I’m an art restorer. Here for a conference but playing tourist for a day.”

“Luka,” he said, stating the obvious. “And… thank you.”

She smiled, a quick, genuine thing, and then moved to catch up with the group. For the rest of the tour, Luka was acutely aware of her presence. He found himself speaking a little louder, adding more detail, not for the whole group, but for her. He pointed out a nearly faded fresco most guides ignored, explained the subtle difference between original Roman brick and later Venetian repair. He was no longer just the backup; he was teaching. And she was listening.

At the end, as the group dispersed with generous tips and thanks directed mostly at Marko, Klara approached Luka.

“That was the best tour I’ve ever been on,” she said. “You have a real gift. The depth, not just the flair.”

Marko, counting cash nearby, overheard and laughed. “Careful, he’ll have you down in the archives for a week! He’s a glutton for punishment.” He winked at Klara. “Can I interest you in a drink? I know a great place in the palace cellars.”

The offer was smooth, practiced. The first-choice option. Luka’s heart sank. Of course.

Klara looked from Marko’s dazzling smile to Luka’s hesitant, hopeful face. “Actually,” she said, “I was hoping to ask Luka about the conservation efforts on the cathedral. I saw some cracking on the southern facade. Maybe he could show me? If he has time.”

The world tilted on its axis. Marko’s smile didn’t falter, but it became fixed, a mask of confusion. Someone had chosen Luka. First.

“Uh, yes. Of course. I have time,” Luka stammered.

That afternoon was a revelation. They walked through the narrow, cool streets of the palace, and Luka talked. He talked about the porous nature of Dalmatian limestone, about the damage caused by centuries of salt and mistral winds, about the painstaking process of cleaning and repair. He wasn’t competing with anyone. He was just himself. And Klara was fascinated. She asked intelligent questions, offered insights from her work on Nordic stone, and listened as if his words were the most important thing she’d hear all day.

They sat at a small cafe tucked away in a secluded square, the noise of the city a distant hum. The setting sun painted the stone walls a deep gold.

“Your brother is… a lot,” Klara said gently.

“He’s the sun,” Luka replied, swirling the dark coffee in his tiny cup. “I’m just… a moon. Reflecting his light. That’s how it’s always been. Better at football, better with people, better with our parents. He got the family business. I got the job of helping him run it.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” she said. “What you know, what you see… it’s valuable. It’s not second best. It’s different. It’s deeper.”

For the first time, the narrative of his life, the one he’d accepted as immutable as the palace itself, seemed to crack. What if he wasn’t second choice, but a different choice entirely?

The next few days were a whirlwind. Luka showed Klara a Dalmatia beyond the touristic facade. He took her to the Mestrovic Gallery, and instead of just listing dates, he spoke about the sculptor’s anguish and pride, the way his figures wrestled with the very identity of their homeland. They drove his beaten-up car down the coast to Trogir, and he explained the racial—the complex interplay of Croatian and Venetian history etched into every street. They ate grilled fish at a konoba in a hidden cove, the water impossibly blue, and he told her stories of his grandfather, a fisherman, not with Marko’s theatrical flair, but with a quiet, poignant respect.

He was, for those days, not Luka the second-best, but Luka the expert, the guide, the interesting one. He felt seen.

It couldn’t last. The conference ended. Klara was leaving.

They stood on the Riva at dusk, the sea a sheet of dark silk, the lights of the palace glowing behind them. The air was soft and warm.

“I meant what I said,” Klara told him. “You have a gift, Luka. Don’t waste it playing second fiddle to anyone. Not even your brother.” She kissed him on the cheek, a soft, final gesture. “Start your own thing. The ‘Luka Perić Deep-Dive History Tour.’ I’ll be your first booking next year.”

He watched her walk away until she was swallowed by the crowd, a strange ache in his chest. It wasn’t just the ache of a romance ending before it began; it was the ache of a door opening, of a challenge issued. She had seen a potential in him that he had never dared to acknowledge.

He walked back into the palace, his mind racing. He could do it. He could break away. He could design tours focused on Byzantine art, on medieval fortifications, on the socio-economic impact of the Roman retirement community here. He was bursting with ideas they never used because Marko said they were “too niche.”

He found Marko at their usual bar, holding court with a group of Australian backpackers.

“Brother! Where have you been? We missed you!” Marko said, though his tone suggested otherwise.

“Marko, we need to talk. In private.”

Marko, sensing a shift in his brother’s usually placid demeanor, excused himself. They walked into a quiet corner of the basement bar, the ancient Roman bricks cool against Luka’s back.

“I’m leaving the business,” Luka said, the words feeling foreign and powerful on his tongue.

Marko stared, then laughed. “What? Why? Because of that Swedish girl? Don’t be stupid, Luka. This is our thing.”

“It’s your thing, Marko. It always has been. I’m going to start my own. Focused on real history. Depth.”

Marko’s affable mask finally slipped. “Depth? You think people want depth? They want a story and a photo op, Luka. They want a fun hour before they get a beer. You’ll be bankrupt in a month. You need me.”

There it was. The bedrock of their relationship. You need me. The unspoken second half: Because without me, you are nothing.

But Luka, fortified by Klara’s belief and the taste of a different life, stood his ground. “I don’t need you. I never did. I just carried you.”

The partnership dissolved not with a bang, but with a bitter, quiet tension. Their parents pleaded for peace. Mutual friends chose sides, most siding with the charismatic Marko, who played the wounded brother abandoned for a foolish fantasy.

Luka spent the winter in his small apartment, surrounded by books and maps. It was a season of doubt and ferocious work. He designed three specialized tours: “Stonemasonry and Symbolism,” “Diocletian’ Palace: The Retirement Home of an Emperor,” and “The Venetian Grip: Architecture of Power.” He built a simple website, his hands shaking as he pressed “publish.”

Spring arrived, tentative at first, then with the full, glorious force of an Adriatic awakening. The tourists returned. Luka posted flyers in hostels and university departments. He waited.

For the first two weeks, nothing. His inbox was silent. He saw Marko leading large, laughing groups through the palace, his voice louder than ever. The doubt was a physical weight. Maybe Marko was right. Maybe he was a fool.

Then, one Tuesday morning, an email. A professor from Bologna was bringing a small group of postgraduate archaeology students. They wanted the full day, all three tours. They wanted depth.

The tour was a revelation. Luka was in his element, answering complex questions, diving into minutiae that thrilled his audience. He wasn’t performing; he was sharing a passion. They were enthralled.

Word spread. A journalist from a travel blog specializing in intellectual tourism joined a tour and wrote a glowing piece. Another email came, then another. His groups were small, never more than eight or ten people. But they were there for him. For his knowledge. They saw the cracks in the stone not as flaws, but as stories. They saw the palace not as a backdrop for their holiday, but as a living, breathing document.

He was sitting in his same cafe, going over his notes, when Marko approached. He looked older, tired. The perpetual sun of his smile was clouded over.

“I hear business is good,” Marko said, not sitting down.

“It’s enough,” Luka replied.

“A couple asked me yesterday about the composition of the mortar used in the fourth-century renovations,” Marko said, the sentence sounding absurd and painful coming from him. “I didn’t know. They seemed disappointed.”

Luka looked at his brother. The invincible, first-choice Marko, who had never needed to know the composition of mortar because his charm was his currency. And for the first time, Luka didn’t feel a surge of petty triumph. He felt a faint, surprising pang of pity.

“It’s crushed brick and pozzolana,” Luka said quietly. “The Romans imported the volcanic sand from Italy. It’s what made their concrete so durable.”

Marko nodded, absorbing this not as a fact to be used, but as a symbol of the chasm that now lay between them. He had the crowd, but Luka had the authority.

“Right,” Marko said. He looked out at the square, at the tourists milling about. “Well. Good luck, Luka.”

“You too, Marko.”

As his brother walked away, Luka finished his coffee. The sun was high, but the heat felt different today. It wasn’t a weight anymore. It was just warmth. He was no longer standing in anyone’s shadow, not even the long, deep shadow of a two-thousand-year-old palace. He was simply Luka Perić, standing in his own light, finally his own first choice. He pulled out his phone and saw a new booking notification. The name made him smile: Klara Andersen. Plus one. She was bringing a colleague.

He looked out at the ancient sphinx, its chipped nose a testament to time and stories. It had seen emperors and slaves, wars and peace, countless summers. And now, it was watching him. Not a moon reflecting a borrowed light, but a sun in his own right, finally beginning to shine.