The People We Choose Read online

  Max walked through the woods to my house in June, and life changed. Simple as that. It was going to happen with or without my permission. How naive, to think it was ever my decision to make.

  “Can I keep it?” I ask quietly.

  “Of course. If I can keep yours.” He pauses for a beat, and then: “What were you thinking just then? Was it really about keeping my painting?”

  I shake my head.

  “So…?” he asks, taking a small step closer to me. “What then?”

  “I was thinking…” I swallow. “Maybe I was wrong to have a rule about dating. To think I could control whether or not I met the right person at the perfect time.”

  “Are you saying…?” His face is blank with surprise. I can’t tell what’s buried underneath—excitement or terror or disappointment or hope.

  “You? Yes.” I breathe out as I say these two words, feeling instantly lighter. Somehow this confession feels like both the biggest secret and the most obvious truth.

  “It’s funny you say that, because”—he says, breaking out in a smile—“I was reevaluating the idea that high school relationships are silly. Sometimes, sure. But not always.”

  I take a step. He takes a step. I step again.

  He reaches out and takes my hand, twirls me closer until my face is inches from his. My breath hitches.

  I lean in before there’s any risk of letting this moment slip away.

  Our lips meet.

  My first kiss. I’m glad it’s here, in our woods. I’m glad it’s with Max.

  I open my eyes for a second, and I am certain the sun is shining brighter than before, the branches radiant and illuminated above us, a grand glowing archway.

  The sun is shining for us.

  I’m not sure who pulls away from our kiss first. It’s short and sweet. Enough to start.

  We grin at each other. Wild, loopy grins.

  My brain feels pleasantly hazy. Like all of life’s edges are rounded and softened. It reminds me of last winter, when Ginger made Noah and me take swigs of her dad’s whiskey with her during a bad snowstorm. A foggy, giggly, snowed-in blur.

  Max takes my hand and says, “Time to leave these here to dry so we can move on to birthyear activity two.”

  I forgot there was more. That this day has even more surprises.

  We walk farther through the woods. Past the log bridge that leads to the hill.

  It’s not until I see the vibrant dark green water that I realize where we’re going.

  My pond. He remembered.

  He squeezes my hand. I squeeze back.

  This is happening. This is really happening.

  “I can’t believe you haven’t taken me to your second-favorite place yet,” Max says. “I had to venture out and find it all on my own. Trespassing on your property, sorry about that. I was proud of my navigational skills, though—only took me about three hours of wandering to find it.”

  I laugh. “It’s six or seven minutes, tops, from your house.”

  “The trees confuse me! There are so many of them. Everything looks the same. I swear these woods are bewitched, because it feels like they might go on forever. Even though I’ve seen a map of the town and I know that can’t be possible. Still. It’s freaky.”

  “I used to pretend that was true when I was little. That these were endless magical woods. Borders on the outside, but never on the inside. I would wander around for hours by myself.”

  “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me. Sounds very Calliope- like.”

  The water looks intensely green today. Probably for very unromantic and scientific reasons having to do with the extreme heat and algae growth. Or maybe it’s just a trick of the light, the water mirroring the deep green leaves framing the pond. Whatever the cause, it is completely mesmerizing. Almost impossible to look away.

  “I hope you’re hungry,” Max says, motioning to a blanket and basket to our right that I’m only seeing now. “Hopefully no pesky woodland creatures ravaged our goods. I left my bow and arrow at home.”

  “The idea of you shooting an arrow is terrifying. And I don’t mind sharing my birthyear feast with other creatures. Particularly if it’s some friendly pixies.”

  “You’re a better person than me. Or at least a less hungry one.”

  We sprawl out on the blanket, just along the pond’s edge. I feel a slow ache building in my neck and shoulders, strain from painting for so long in the same position. But it’s a good ache. A happy, accomplished one. Like the feeling I get after doing an inversions class with Mama or Mimmy.

  Max unpacks his spread, mostly “heat-resistant” foods—or “relatively heat-resistant” he amends after seeing the way a pile of chocolate chip cookies has turned into a soggy molten brown clump. But the croissants and blackberry jam taste even better warm, and so do the buttery confetti cupcakes that melt in my mouth. He did think to use ice packs to preserve the cheese and grapes, fortunately, and the sweet tea from his thermos is still so cold it shocks my parched mouth.

  We eat until there’s nothing left, just a few crumbs we sprinkle into the pond for the pixies to enjoy after dark. And then we lie on our backs, staring up at the canopy of leaves.

  I yawn, sleepy from my heavy stomach, the warm sun, this day. “Did you pencil any birthyear naps in?” I ask, my eyelids suddenly too heavy to hold up for much longer.

  “The next and final official activity requires the sun to go down, so you’re free to do as you wish until then.”

  “I wish for a nap. Here with you at the pond.”

  “Then a nap it is—whatever the birthyear girl wants.”

  I kick off my sandals and scoot closer to him, curling up against his side. He tucks his arm under my head as a pillow. It’s strange, how not strange it all feels. Like we’ve been in this position a thousand times before. Sun filters in lazily through the leaves above, bright splashes across my closed eyes. Max tucks loose curls behind my ears, humming as he does it, low and steady. Before I drift away, I think:

  I hope I dream about this, right here, because it’s the only place I want to be.

  Max’s golden-brown eyes look more gold than usual, flickering in the tall, dancing flames of the fire. He’s focused intently on his darkening marshmallow, bubbling and crisping, too close to the heat for a perfect, even roast. I fight the urge to pull his stick back to a safer distance.

  Birthyear activity three started off well enough, a campfire Max set up in his backyard with hot dogs and lemonade and, of course, s’mores. But it’s as if the house’s energy is seeping outside its dark walls, stealing away all his good spirits. Draining him of happiness.

  I hope it’s the house, at least—not regrets about this day. The kiss. Us.

  His marshmallow ignites in a ball of flames. He makes no effort to snuff it out, watching as it burns, bigger and brighter, melting off the tree branch he’s using as a fork.

  “You must like your s’mores charred,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “A hearty dose of ash with each bite. Delicious.”

  There’s a pause before he says, “Yep. Sure.”

  “Okay.” I pluck the stick from his hands and set it down. “Please tell me what’s wrong. Is it… what happened in the woods? With me?” The two s’mores I’ve already eaten feel sickly sweet at the back of my throat.

  “No!” He turns to face me, his eyes instantly clearing. “No. Definitely not. Today was the happiest I’ve been in a long time. Maybe the happiest. Period.”

  “Oh.” The happiest he’s ever been. Because of me. I’ll replay those words at least a hundred times before I sleep tonight. But still, I need to know: “Something changed between the afternoon and now. What was it?”

  He looks back at the fire. “It’s nothing. I don’t want to ruin this amazing day. My parents were just fighting when I ran inside for the food. Same as always. No big deal.”

  “What were they fighting about?”

  “I only heard snippets. I tried to get in and out as fast as I could. My mom�
��s upset he’s not here enough, that he’s not fixing the house up for us like he should be. She also suspects he’s not as monogamous as he’s claiming to be, and that’s why he’s still doing the Philly commute. I don’t know. Maybe this will actually be the end. She’ll kick his pathetic ass out, or he’ll leave on his own. He was swearing up and down that he’s been loyal, that it’s not about anyone else. But it’s pretty hard to trust anything he says anymore.”

  “I’m sorry, Max.” I cringe, saying it. It’s my default. Overused. Those two words, I’m sorry, don’t say enough.

  “Don’t be. It’s our fault for letting him pull the same shit over and over again. It’s like he can’t help himself. He can’t stop. He messes up, but then he comes crawling back, saying how much he loves us.” He grabs the stick again and shoves another marshmallow on it so forcefully the sharp tip of wood pokes out from the top end. “If he loved us, he’d actually be here every day, following through on all the shit he promised to do. Making this nasty shack a real home.”

  I’m desperate to say something, anything, that might be more helpful than I’m sorry. “Even if your parents do decide to separate,” I start, “maybe your relationship with him would be better off? People fall out of love and get divorced sometimes. But that doesn’t mean he’d stop being your dad. I’m sure he loves you, Max. He’s not that terrible, is he?”

  “Calliope?” His voice is small and low and almost lost in the night. I wait. Frogs sing out from the creek, crickets chirp, an owl hoots somewhere high above us in the trees. “I care about you. I do. I am so happy today happened. So happy to be here with you right now. And I appreciate your opinions. But… can you just be angry together with me? Not defend my dad? I’m not there yet. I might never be there. You don’t know him like I do.”

  My stomach coils and burns. “You’re right,” I say, reaching up to lay my palm against his lightly stubbled cheek. “You feel whatever you need to feel. I’ll shut my mouth.”

  He smiles, but it’s a sad one. The roasting stick slips from his hand.

  He’s quiet again then, and my mind wanders to the inevitable. I hear dad, and I think: the donor. Frank. Even though he’s not my dad. Will never be my dad. I still can’t stop myself. The thoughts come on their own. I’m powerless against them.

  I haven’t asked Max for his opinion on what I should do, and I certainly can’t ask now. Because at least I still have two parents who love each other. Two parents who would probably die before they’d move away from me, shared blood or no.

  “It’s okay,” he says after a few minutes. “You don’t have a dad and you turned out pretty great. So maybe I’ll be fine, too. I just know we can’t keep pretending like this.”

  I nod and he leans down, lips grazing my forehead. What he said is true: I have everything I need. Everyone.

  Maybe it’s selfish to need more. To want more.

  What would Frank add to my life?

  “I’m sorry to ruin your birthyear with this,” he whispers in my ear. There’s a tickling sensation against my skin that makes it harder to breathe.

  “I had the best day. You didn’t ruin anything. Being together is just as much about sharing life’s bullshit drama as it is celebrating birthyears and birthdays.”

  “So wise,” he says. “And also, you just said we’re together…?”

  I did. Accidentally.

  “That slipped out. I’m sorry. I don’t want to be… presumptuous.”

  “Oh, I want to be. Together. With you. Only you. I was just clarifying.”

  “Yeah?” The butterflies—they’re back. Fluttering so fast I can barely catch my breath.

  “Yeah.”

  And then his lips brush mine, and we’re kissing, and there’s no room to think about anything else. No family drama, no broken hearts, no disappointments.

  When we pull apart, he leans his head on my shoulder. We sit like that, not talking, for a long time.

  It’s just moonlight and flames and him, me, us.

  Chapter Ten

  “EIGHTEEN!” Mama cheers.

  “Eighteen,” Mimmy echoes, sounding notably weepier.

  Mimmy has outdone herself this year. Chocolate chip cookie dough cake, with a cloud of marshmallow icing—lightly torched to give it toasty brown tips—and crumbled graham crackers and chocolate shavings on top. My birthday cake is served for lunch, as it is every year—so I can appreciate it fully as a meal of its own, and then have a second serving later at night for dessert. A Silversmith tradition.

  Ginger slides an arm around my waist as I lean in to blow out the flickering flames. Two tall, sparkly purple candles—a one and an eight.

  Max stands across from me, Mimmy and Mama on either side of him. Three big grins shining down on me, full wattage.

  There is so much love here in this kitchen, but I can’t help but feel the absence. Noah.

  I haven’t seen him since the night at Max’s. I was hoping he’d come over to celebrate—that we could all act normal. Be normal. At least for this one day. But he told Ginger he had a last-minute Wawa shift he couldn’t skip because there wasn’t anyone else to sub in. I did get a happy birthday text from him this morning. Just like that—no exclamation points, no capital letters, no emojis. It’s the first year of my life that Noah isn’t here next to me. It feels wrong in the pit of my stomach.

  I smile anyway, try to focus on who is here, not who isn’t. I have Mimmy and Mama and Ginger like always. I have Max. The boyfriend I vowed not to have, not before college. But no regrets. None at all. Though if I have to hear Ginger gloating about how she was right one more time since telling her the news this morning, I may be tempted to run off to a convent after all.

  I close my eyes and think of a wish.

  “Sweetie?” Mimmy says quietly. “Those candles might melt all over the cake soon if you don’t blow them out.”

  I take a deep breath. Blow.

  I wish to know who Frank is.

  Is that true?

  Wishes don’t matter, though. They aren’t real. I’ve wished to be as good at handstands as Mimmy and Mama both are—never going to happen. I’ve wished for a trip to Thailand—those plane tickets never showed up. And I remember wishing once that nothing would ever change between me and Ginger and Noah. That was the summer before the valentine, the rule—the first time I wondered if Noah might have too many feelings for me, even if he wasn’t bold enough to put it in writing quite yet.

  So wishes—wishes clearly mean nothing.

  “I hope you picked a good one,” Max says, walking around the table to hug me. “I hear wishes for your eighteenth have more power than other birthday wishes.”

  I wish to know who Frank is.

  “Don’t you dare tell anyone what it is!” Ginger claps a hand over my mouth. “Can’t risk it not coming true if what Max says is right.”

  “Ha ha,” I say, the words muffled around her palm. I lick her hand and she yanks it away, making a gagging face.

  “Gross. I don’t care if you are the birthday girl. Still gross. Only Penelope could get away with licking my hand like that. Or maybe a cute dog. But it would have to be a very cute dog.”

  Mama goes to the fridge and pulls out a bottle of champagne. “I think the occasion calls for a proper toast, don’t you? I’m going to assume this is the first toast ever for the three of you,” she says, smirking. “But if you’re old enough to sign up for the army or get a tat, you’re old enough to drink. Responsibly. With people you trust. And no fake IDs, please. Ever.” She turns pointedly to Ginger, giving her patented scorching squint. “And yes, I’m looking at you, Ginger.”

  Ginger gasps. “Stella! I would never. I can’t believe you would even suggest it.”

  “Right. I’ll remember that.”

  “Besides, I doubt places around here even card all that much, so we should—”

  “Nope. Stop yourself right there. Not any better.”

  Mimmy claps her hands. “Let’s eat cake!”

  �
��A toast first,” Mama says, gripping the top of the champagne bottle with a cooking mitt. There’s a brief moment of struggle before the cork flies off with a loud pop, bouncing against the back door.

  When all the glasses are filled, Mimmy passes them out. Mine comes last, and it looks like the fullest of the five. Mimmy winks at me.

  Mama lifts her flute in the air: “To my precious eighteen-year-old baby, you have made our lives richer and more meaningful than we ever knew possible.”

  “You make us complete,” Mimmy chimes in. She wipes a tear with the hand not holding her glass. “We were meant to be three. Not two. Three Silversmiths.”

  “Yes,” Mama says. “Thank god for science. And for doctors who helped bring us our miracle baby.”

  I almost think she’s going to thank Frank. But she doesn’t go that far.

  Or if she’s going to say more, it gets cut off, because Ginger adds, “And thank god for Lamaze classes that brought three pregnant women together. Even if one of those women turned out to be a total dud. Because I don’t know who I’d be without Calliope holding my hand every step of these last eighteen years. You make living in this small town feel okay. Much better than okay. And you make me happy to be myself.”

  I’m pretty sure, Ginger being Ginger, she would have found a way to be happy with or without me. But saying so feels like it would take away from her toast.

  “And thank god for old family houses.” Max steps up to my side, his shoulder pressing against mine. “Because even if that house sucks, the neighbors might not. Maybe you were always supposed to have those neighbors, and it just took nearly eighteen years to find that out.”

  Tears are springing up—happy ones—and I blink a few times to press them back down.

  “Okay, time to drink,” Mimmy says, tapping her glass to mine and tossing her head back for a sip.

  I drink and let the bubbles float in my mouth. I want to remember this feeling, this taste, everything about this moment with these people.

  We all eat cake. Big heavy slabs of it. It is Mimmy’s best cake yet.

  When we finish the first bottle of champagne, Mama opens a second. Mimmy raises her eyebrows at her, but Mama shakes her off. It’s a special day.