The People We Choose Read online

  Because how can I possibly decide what’s worse, wondering or knowing? I can’t.

  The gong sounds as the door swings open. It’s our regular mailman, delivering a stack of bills and promotional flyers. I make small talk with him about the heat, the holiday tomorrow. After he leaves Ginger is watching me, and I’m relieved to hear Mama harmonizing the closing chant. Sweaty, dripping women start filing into the lobby, towels wrapped around their necks. Beverly stops to say hello on her way out, and Ginger keeps up the conversation for the both of us, luckily, describing an unruly drunk diner from the morning in vivid detail. I wonder if Noah has told Beverly about Max. If she’s worried about any romantic inclinations.

  Ginger hangs around until the next class starts—no Mrs. Park or Penelope, sadly—and then declares the coffee buzz is gone and she needs some sleep.

  “I’m being forced into a family dinner out tonight for my parents’ anniversary. Ugh. But I will see you tomorrow,” she says, hugging me tight. “And tell Max he’s not done winning me over yet. Maybe some delicious holiday treats will help the cause.”

  “I will pass that message on.”

  The afternoon is quiet without Ginger. Too quiet.

  Mama chats with me between classes, Mimmy calls two more times. Noah texts me a picture of a vegan cheesesteak he had for lunch in Philly during his lesson break. I remind him that our plan for the Fourth is the same as always.

  But I can’t stop thinking about the conversation. Frank. Wondering versus knowing.

  If wondering means this awful endless loop forever, maybe that gives me my answer.

  Max is the first to arrive.

  The Fourth is the hottest day of summer so far, the air like fierce, hungry flames licking at my skin. I’m sprawled in the hammock when he emerges from the woods, my red-and-white polka-dot dress hitched up around my thighs for an extra sprinkle of air. I yank it down. The sun hits Max straight on, and he reaches up to shield his eyes, looking for me. I give a lazy wave, and he smiles as he starts toward me.

  He took Ginger’s message to heart, his arms filled with bags—an arsenal of treats that he proudly displays when he gets to the hammock. Red-white-and-blue-iced cupcakes, red and blue raspberry Twizzlers, blue corn chips, star-spangled sugar cookies, and an alarmingly bright red soda that most definitely does not come from nature.

  “It looks like you cleared out the festive shelves at Walmart.”

  “It was quite an expedition. I feel like a real suburbanite now.”

  “Don’t be too proud. I’m not sure discovering Walmart is a badge of honor. Mama would kill you, by the way, if she saw those nutrition labels. You’re lucky she and Mimmy are at a barbecue right now—some of their yoga students begged them to come. But we have to eat all the evidence before they get home.”

  “We’ll dump any leftover cupcakes off the top of the hill. Promise.”

  He drops the bags on the ground and sits next to me. I instinctively move closer to the opposite side.

  “Do you realize we only met a week ago?” I ask. “And now we hang out every day.” I’ve been thinking about that since my talk with Ginger yesterday—how has it only been a week? I’ve known classmates for twelve years and I know them far less than I do Max.

  “No. A week and two days.”

  “How could I forget those two days?”

  “Two days can change everything. One day I lived in Philly. The next day I lived here, across the woods from you.”

  I bite my lip. I don’t want to overanalyze, but I can’t stop myself from saying, “Do you think it’s weird, though? How quickly we became friends?”

  “Weird? No. Normal? I don’t know. What’s normal? Maybe sometimes it just happens this way. People just… click.”

  Something is definitely clicking. I want to say I feel like I’ve known you forever, but I can’t stand the idea of sounding so cliché, no matter how true it might be. “I’m okay with not being normal,” I say instead.

  “Yeah? Good. Me too. I think—”

  The sound of a throat clearing cuts in, stopping whatever Max is about to say.

  I startle and push myself more upright, nearly toppling from the hammock as it swings back. My dress has hitched up again in the shuffle, my legs flailing in the air. I frantically tug the dress down with one hand as I attempt to balance against the ground with the other. Max is reaching for me to help, but he tumbles over the side, crashing to the ground in a remarkably loud and ungraceful way. We both burst out laughing.

  When I finally pull myself together, I realize Noah is standing just a few feet away. He looks like he would rather be anywhere else in the world but here, watching me with Max.

  “Noah! Happy Fourth!” I say, too enthusiastically. Noah lifts his hand in a stiff wave.

  “Hey, buddy,” Max says, still flat on the grass next to the hammock. He gets a subtle nod in response.

  I run to Noah, wrapping him in a hug. “I’m glad you could make it.”

  “It’s tradition.” He pulls back, his eyes on the ground.

  “Ginger should be here soon.”

  “Cool.”

  I feel it then, the awkwardness I told Ginger wasn’t possible. Not after so many years. But I somehow cannot think of a single thing to say that isn’t about the weather. Noah nods listlessly as I ramble on about the heat-wave pattern sweeping in for the week, quoting the meteorologist Mimmy had playing during breakfast this morning. Max sits up, his head tilted in amusement as he studies me with his artist eyes. I turn away from both of them to tear open the cookie packet and shove a patriotic star into my mouth.

  Chewing is much better than talking. Noah and Max take my lead.

  We’re all a few cookies and Twizzlers deep—sugar rushing through my veins—when Ginger emerges from around the side of the house. I run to her and hug her like we’re reuniting after months apart. Ginger laughs and picks me up, spins me until we both flop onto the grass.

  We carry blankets and snacks and speakers on our trek across the creek and up the hill. Max sings a loud song about tramping through the dark woods that I’m fairly positive he is making up as he goes. Ginger hums along with him, chiming in with her own creative words for the chorus. They swing side by side up the narrow path like old friends. Noah and I follow quietly in their wake.

  When we all make it to the top, Ginger and I lay out the blankets. Max sets up the speakers, fiddling with the cord that attaches to his phone. Noah stares out over the valley.

  I could pull him aside. Ask what’s wrong. But I don’t. I’m pretty sure I already know the answer.

  Max was smart enough to bring a pack of cards. We play rummy and war and take turns DJ’ing bad nineties songs. I eat more cookies and smile and make jokes. I fill any silences Noah leaves trailing behind him, and pretend that we’re a happy group of friends with no awkward complications.

  There shouldn’t be any complications. There aren’t any. Noah and Max are both my friends. I’m allowed that, aren’t I?

  I’m allowed to not feel guilty for not being in love with Noah.

  It’s a relief when the sun finally dips below the hills on our side of the valley. Darkness settles in thickly around us, a comforting veil of obscurity. I watch as dots of hazy light flick on in town like a giant, messy constellation.

  The first firework goes off.

  I hear the bang shudder against the hills before I see the spark arching above us. My favorite kind—white-gold shimmers that erupt gracefully into the shape of a sprawling weeping willow. Flickering embers do a lazy dance against the black sky for a moment before slowly blinking out, like they were never there at all.

  We rank them, one to ten, though only Max has ever seen fireworks outside of Green Woods. Our scores are relative. I’m still picky, though—I reserve my tens for the handful of other willowlike displays.

  It feels like the show has only just begun when the world around us goes silent and dark. The holiday is over.

  “Decent year,” Ginger says as w
e pack up our supplies, “though I wonder how many thousands the town shelled out for that? I would have voted for a new town pool or something, personally. But no one asked me, did they?”

  Our descent down the hill is more subdued. We’re careful to watch our steps, shining our phone flashlights on the rocky path ahead of us.

  Noah says goodbye as soon as we’re at the bottom.

  Ginger follows soon after with a suspicious smirk and a yawn that feels entirely forced.

  I feel wide awake still, probably from the overdose of sugar. I’m not ready to end the night. I tell Max he’s welcome to stay.

  He does.

  I unfold the blankets and spread them out in my yard. We lie on our backs, each on our separate blanket. I close my eyes, and this—the night creatures serenading us, the heavy, honeysuckle-soaked air, the person lying next to me—is the perfect ending to a long summer day.

  “Even without the fireworks, the sky is pretty magical here,” Max says. “I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to seeing so many stars.”

  I open my eyes and stare out at the woods in front of us, the trees wispy silhouettes against the pinpricks of moonbeams filtering through the leaves.

  Our woods.

  They’ve always felt like mine—and Mimmy’s and Mama’s. A magical bubble. But not anymore. These woods belong to Max now, too. The trees, the creek, the hill, the stars. Ours.

  Chapter Seven

  “I’M excited to meet your dad,” I say, because it seems polite—and because the silence in this broken sunroom is too deafening.

  Max grunts in reply and stares off into the scraggly backyard.

  He was unusually sullen this morning when he came over bright and early to invite me to his house for dinner. With his family. His whole family. His dad’s idea, he made sure to clarify up front. Not his. And he’s still sullen now.

  It’s a Max I haven’t seen before. And it’s also a stark reminder that although we seem to have a lot in common, there’s still a lot you can’t know about someone in two weeks. Two weeks to the day—the anniversary of his first appearance in our clearing.

  I’ve always understood Ginger and Noah inside and out, without having to try. But I like this—learning about someone from scratch. Like putting together an infinity-size puzzle.

  “Should I go see if your mom needs any help?” I am desperate to make time pass more quickly—I want dinner to start so it can be over. I want Max to be Max again.

  He snorts. “Help unpack the takeout boxes? I think she’s got it covered.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I pick at the fraying seat bottom of the lawn chair, pulling at a long string.

  The front door closes with a loud thud. An unfamiliar male voice calls out words I can’t decipher. Max’s whole body stiffens, hands clenching the rusted armrests. Heavy footsteps move through the foyer, start up the creaking stairs.

  “Is he really that bad?” I ask quietly.

  “Yes. No.” He shakes his head. “Sometimes. You’ll like him, probably. He’s charming. That’s the problem. He’s friendly enough—it’s not like he beats us or anything like that. But he’s a snake. You’ve noticed he’s never really around?”

  I nod. We spend more time at my house than his, but I’ve been here enough now. Joanie, Marlow, no dad.

  “Yeah, well, part of the deal when we moved here was that he’d work remotely, at least most of the time. That hasn’t happened yet. He’s going in every day, working late. He claims he needs to be there right now to help with some big case… I don’t know, though. We’ve only been here a short time, but I’m not convinced he really ended things with his extracurricular special friend. I have no proof. We’ve just heard it all before. And I am personally over trusting a single thing he says.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, because I’m not sure how else to respond. The idea of Mimmy or Mama cheating is as inconceivable as the idea of aliens coming to attack Green Woods.

  “I’m sorry for my mom. She deserves better.”

  I blink at a shadow in the corner, the scalloped edges of a broken pane. There’s sunlight outside still, but it’s dim in here. Like the light is afraid to trespass. I haven’t seen any ghosts here yet—though even without this house, Max’s family is haunted. They have enough ghosts of their own already.

  “Dinner.” Joanie has suddenly materialized in the doorway, head cocked to the side as she watches us. Her bare feet made no sound on the hallway floorboards.

  We both jump up from our seats. The chairs scratch against the tiled floor.

  “Apologies. I didn’t mean to scare you.” She stops talking, pinches her lips shut. And then she turns and leaves the room.

  Max is silent for a moment. I wonder how long Joanie was standing there, and if she heard what we were talking about. I wonder if Max is wondering this, too.

  He sighs then, takes a step toward the door. “And so the night begins…”

  There’s a white man standing by their kitchen table.

  He’s ordinary looking—neatly gelled salt-and-pepper hair, slight beard, medium build, wearing the standard middle-aged-man work uniform, a plaid button-up shirt and khakis, both slightly wrinkled.

  I look from Joanie to Marlow to Max. It’s true that they’re both lighter skinned than Joanie, but I hadn’t thought about their father’s genes before now.

  “Well, hello there, Calliope.” He grins at me. He has a gap between his teeth, too. And Max’s pronounced jawline, his heavy brows and wide-set eyes. “Elliot Jackson,” he says, extending his hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

  Elliot Jackson. Not Martz. Elliot Jackson.

  Max is a Jackson.

  His family moving to this house wasn’t random.

  The stories—they must be about his family.

  Old Mr. Jackson… was he… Elliot’s dad? Max’s grandfather?

  I look down at Elliot’s hand and I remember to put my hand out, too, and we shake.

  It shouldn’t matter. Martz, Jackson, it doesn’t change who Max is. I know that better than anyone. Silver, Smith, Silversmith. But I do have questions… so many questions—like why Max didn’t tell me.

  “It sounds like my son and you have really hit it off,” Elliot says. “He’s probably sorry we didn’t move into the family estate years ago now.” He chuckles, glancing over at Max with what looks to me like a loving smile.

  Max responds with a thin-lipped, “Ha.”

  “So, you grew up here?” I ask Elliot, still trying to make sense of all this new information.

  “I did. Quite a lot of memories here in this old shack.”

  There’s a pause. I want to ask more: Excuse me, Elliot, but was anyone in your family murdered in this house? Probably not polite dinner conversation, though.

  “Max said you like Mario’s,” Joanie says then, motioning us toward the table. There’s a platter of lasagna, a plate of stuffed shells, salad, garlic knots. “I wanted to cook, but I just can’t get used to this kitchen yet.”

  “You weren’t used to our kitchen in Philly after more than a decade,” Elliot says, winking at me. I look away, not wanting to displease him or Joanie with the wrong response.

  Joanie acts like she didn’t hear him, busying herself with setting out five plates. Elliot grabs a beer from the fridge, Joanie pours a tall glass of red wine. We all settle in around the table. Joanie and Marlow sit across from me, and I end up between Max and Elliot. Lucky me.

  Elliot at least speaks through most of the meal, which means I can just chew and nod. He talks first about his new passion for long morning runs, since there’s no “adequate” gym nearby. And then he’s giving us—or mostly me—an intricately detailed account of his job as a lawyer in Philly. Too intricate, maybe. And with too much justification for why it’ll be hard to work remotely in the foreseeable future. When he suggests he may need to rent a small studio apartment in the city to use as a “crash pad” on some weeknights, I think Max might choke on his garlic knot. I hand him my full glass of
water.

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Joanie says coolly, pushing away her half-eaten plate of lasagna. “The drive isn’t that far. And I’m sure once this case is done, you and the team can figure out creative ways to stay in touch while you work from here.”

  “We’ll see,” Elliot says, digging in for a second helping of shells. “So, Calliope, I’ve been a windbag long enough. I want to hear more about you.”

  “Me?” I drop my fork. It clanks loudly against my plate.

  “You’re a senior, Max tells me. What are you thinking you’ll do after you graduate? Big plans? I know when I was your age, leaving Green Woods was about the only thing I cared about. Dreamed about it every night.” He smiles fondly, shaking his head as he takes a large, cheesy bite.

  “I actually love this place,” I say, which is mostly true.

  Elliot puts his hand up. “I meant no offense. My apologies if I misspoke.”

  “No, it’s fine.” I pick my fork back up, scrape at some congealing ricotta on my plate. “I just think the simple things in life are the most important parts. And it’s easier to keep sight of that here. I’m not saying I definitely want to live in Green Woods forever. Just that it’s not the worst place to be. There are far worse in this world, I bet.”

  Max reaches over, like he’s about to grab my hand. But then he stops himself, reaches for his fork instead.

  When Elliot doesn’t respond, I keep going: “I have two amazing moms who run their own yoga and fitness studio in town—you could try it sometime, actually, if you get tired of running—and have taught me to always be me, to think for myself no matter what. I have two best friends I’d do anything for. And I live in a cozy old house in the middle of magical woods surrounded by a creek and a pond and birds and flowers and trees. That—that is what matters to me.” I stab at another stuffed shell. “I love to read and write, and I care about nature and our planet. I want to study something useful. Do some good in our too hot, dirty world.” I take an enormous bite, signaling that I’m done. We’ve covered the essentials.

  Elliot takes a minute before saying, “Well, then, I’m glad. It sounds like my son has found a strong and grounded person to date. I couldn’t have asked for anything better.”