The People We Choose Page 9

  Here we are then, finally.

  The conversation we’ve been carefully avoiding for so long. Maybe we should have had this discussion sophomore year. Talked about that not-so-anonymous valentine.

  “Noah.” I take a deep breath, clench my hands into tight fists. “You know I love you like a brother. That’s all it can ever be. That won’t change. Ever. You need to understand.”

  The words sound cold. Too cold. And there’s so much more I want to say: That my love for him is more important, more permanent than any other kind of love. More special.

  But I feel too tired. And frustrated. And this very sensitive conversation feels so out of place in this terrible, lonely room in this terrible, lonely house.

  “Well,” he says, rubbing his eyes, “that was direct. Message received, loud and clear.” He looks up at me finally, and I wish he hadn’t. The sadness in his eyes is too big. Too ugly.

  “This isn’t how this conversation was meant to go.” I almost say I’m sorry. Almost.

  But I haven’t done anything wrong.

  I can’t make myself fall in love with Noah.

  “I shouldn’t have come tonight.” He takes a few steps back, hovering in the doorway.

  “So then why did you? What was the point if you were just going to be miserable?”

  “Ginger said I’d lose you—if I kept skipping out on everything. That I had to step up if I wanted to keep being your friend.”

  “Maybe she’s right. You might. You might lose me.”

  I don’t mean that. I don’t think I do.

  Noah and I are supposed to be forever.

  But I have my limits.

  “I’m not even dating Max, and this is how you act? What do you want from me, Noah? If I don’t love you like that, should I just, I don’t know—run off to a nunnery?”

  “What? No.” He drops his head. “I should go.”

  “I agree.”

  I turn away, and I don’t look back until after I hear his footsteps move down the hallway, the front door opening and closing.

  After he’s gone, I drop down on the leather sofa. It’s cool and slick and gives no comfort. I feel nauseated. I want to go home. Curl up next to Mama and Mimmy on our lumpy old sofa that feels like a warm hug and watch a marathon of I Love Lucy.

  “We’re back,” Ginger announces in a singsong voice, emerging from the doorway with four tall glasses of lemonade balanced in her hands—showing off her waitressing skills. Max is behind her carrying a tray of pizza and chips and napkins.

  “Sorry we took so long,” Max says, putting the tray on the table and settling in next to me on the couch. “Somebody requested a full tour while the pizza was heating up. I’m beginning to suspect tonight was more about checking out the local haunted house than meeting my family.” He puts on a pout like he’s upset about this, but his eyes look twinkly and amused. Maybe this is good for him—having people over. Making this foreign place feel more like a home.

  “Wait. Where’s Noah?” Ginger asks, peering around the room as if he might pop out from behind a dark corner.

  “He… uh… wasn’t feeling well. He needed to go home.”

  Ginger folds her arms across her chest, frowning. “Is that so? He was sick?”

  I shrug.

  She wants to ask more. Max does, too. He’s sitting up straighter, his body tensed.

  “Everything is fine. I just don’t want to talk about it.”

  Max nods and reaches for a piece of pizza, jams it into his mouth.

  “What really—” Ginger starts, but I cut her off.

  “Tell me about the tour. You just couldn’t help yourself, could you?” I smile as I ask, but my teeth are clenched so hard I must look demonic.

  Ginger is distracted then, talking about the sunroom, the staircase, a library upstairs I’ve never seen.

  Max doesn’t seem bothered by her obsession with his house. Or maybe he would be, if he wasn’t so distracted. Wondering about Noah. What Noah did or said.

  We watch a movie after eating. Wonder Woman. Ginger’s pick. I hope she at least got what she wanted out of this night. One of us can leave happy.

  When the movie ends, I stand up and stretch, force a yawn. “I’m exhausted.” I give Ginger a pointed look, and thankfully she gets up, too. “Thanks for having us, Max. You’ve made Ginger’s summer.”

  “Of course.” He stands up next to me and his arm brushes against mine. He immediately moves away, gives me space. “We can try again sometime when my family’s actually around. Mom and Marlow at least. Maybe we could let Marlow tag along. Throw her a bone.”

  “Sure.” I rub my arm where we touched. “That’s a nice idea.”

  “Sorry you didn’t see any ghosts, Ginger.”

  Her mouth drops. “That’s so not why I came!”

  He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling at her.

  Ginger hugs him, and I put an arm loosely around both of them. It’s a noncommittal hug, but I’m not really in a hugging kind of mood.

  We say our goodbyes, and Ginger and I quietly walk the stretch of patchy lawn and then cross over into the woods. The moon is bright enough for me to make my way, but she lights up the flashlight on her phone.

  “Noah and I had the conversation,” I whisper then, even though there’s no one around us but the trees.

  “The conversation?”

  “The one where he says I love you. And I say You know I don’t love you like that.”

  She gasps. “Oh god. That conversation.”

  “Yep. That one.”

  “How did it go?”

  “How do you think it went?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too.”

  We make our way slowly through the woods. Clinging on to each other as we step over rocks and fallen tree limbs, hold back sharp, prickly branches.

  I wonder about Noah, what he’s doing now, if he’s okay.

  I wonder about Max, how he’s feeling, alone in that empty house.

  And I wonder if anything will ever go back to normal.

  Chapter Nine

  A few days pass.

  Noah doesn’t text or call, he doesn’t appear in my backyard with a delightful new flavor of iced tea. I don’t reach out to him either.

  I’m not sure what’s supposed to happen next.

  Maybe nothing.

  “You okay, sweetheart?” Mimmy asks, stopping by the kitchen table to top off my mug with fresh coffee. Mama is honking the car horn from our driveway, yelling out the window for Mimmy to get her “sweet yoga ass outside” because they should have been at the studio five minutes ago. Mimmy ignores her, eyes fixed squarely on me. “You’ve been a little quiet this week.”

  “I’m fine.” I look up from the spread of college brochures I’ve been pretending to study. “Just some growing pains, I guess you could say. Nothing to worry about.”

  Mimmy frowns. “Noah?”

  I nod. I want to smile, but my face refuses.

  She doesn’t ask more about it, just drops a small plate of fresh ginger raspberry muffins on the table as she makes her way to the door. Mama’s incessant honking must be scaring off every living creature in a mile radius of the woods. “Think about something happy, my darling. Think about how you want to ring in eighteen tomorrow. What special meals you might want us to make. Mama and I took off the whole day to be here.” She kisses the top of my head and walks out the door. The horn stops. I listen to the sound of tires crunching on gravel and then the quiet that comes after.

  Ginger has stopped asking about any grand and elaborate plans. I’m not sure I want to acknowledge a birthday without Noah there with us. Birthdays have always been more a celebration of the three of us, a time to honor fate for bringing our mothers together.

  I’ve eaten two and a half muffins and not tasted a bite of any of them when there’s a cheery knock at the door.

  Max is there when I open it, grinning at me.

  “Good morning! I don’t think there could ever
be a better way to start my day than walking through woods to eat whatever delicious treat Margo might have whipped up since my last visit. And to see you, of course.” He winks, that grin growing even wider.

  “You have uncanny timing. I was just about to mindlessly inhale the last few muffins when you knocked. Ginger raspberry. The raspberries were lovingly plucked from our backyard yesterday by yours truly.”

  Max clutches his heart. “Goddamn it, Calliope. I am a country boy. It’s official. Morning walks through the woods and muffins made with handpicked raspberries. I even fell asleep last night before I remembered to turn on the city-sounds loop. I never thought this would happen… But it did.” He shakes his head, looking simultaneously bedazzled and bewildered.

  I roll my eyes and start back toward the kitchen, Max trailing me. “Hate to burst your bubble, but I’m not sure this is technically considered country. Rural suburbs, maybe. That’s probably more accurate. I’ve had this debate with Ginger and Noah too many times.”

  “Trust me,” he says, wagging his finger while chewing the whole muffin he shoved in his mouth, “this counts as country.” He picks up a second muffin, eats it more slowly. Savors it with his eyes scrunched up tight. He explained to me the other night that he tastes things more clearly with his eyes closed—he can see and feel the colors of each flavor. A bursting, ripe palette on his tongue.

  I pick at another muffin, but I don’t close my eyes. I watch Max chew with a closed-mouth smile that looks almost reverent on his lips. I’m not sure anyone has ever had such a deep appreciation for Mama’s baked goods.

  “So, today,” Max says, opening his eyes and brushing crumbs from his hands. “Today, we celebrate seventeen. Not eighteen. Seventeen. The new year always gets all the attention, but I say we honor this old one properly first. The last three hundred and sixty-four days.”

  I smile, dropping the last bit of muffin. “Kind of a pre-birthday birthday?”

  “More of a birthyear celebration. Not just about one day. Happy birthyear to you!”

  “It was a good year, I guess. I got a new neighbor, for one.”

  “Yep. A neighbor and a friend, all wrapped up in one sweet package.”

  “So how exactly does someone celebrate a birthyear?” I ask. “I’m new to the concept.”

  “Me too. I invented it yesterday. Just came to me in a flash. I was thinking about you, and how to make this birthday special enough, and poof. Genius descended. Don’t worry—it might be fresh, but I have grand plans. And I’m all set up for birthyear activity number one, so if you’ll follow me…” He waves me out the kitchen door, into the yard, and then he takes the lead. We pass the turtle pool and keep walking toward the woods.

  I hope that birthyear activity number one is not taking place in the Jackson house.

  “Close your eyes,” he says as we step up to the tree line.

  I must look uncertain about the idea of blindly traipsing over rocks and fallen branches because he says, “Trust me, Calliope. How about I hold your hand?”

  I nod, and he reaches for my hand, his fingers winding around mine. His palm feels familiar and steady and I realize I do trust him, fully and completely. It’s a jolt—another reminder of how close I feel to Max.

  The walk is slow and smooth, and I am aware of little but the feel of Max’s hand in mine. He tells me when to step, when to stop, when to pivot, and after a few minutes I almost forget that I’m only seeing through his eyes.

  “Okay,” he says, squeezing my hand. “You can look.”

  I open my eyes, and we’re at the tree, my tree, but it’s more than that. There are two canvases set up on back-to-back easels and a TV tray covered in acrylic-paint tubes and brushes.

  “I thought it could be fun to paint together,” Max says, watching me nervously, like he’s afraid I won’t be as excited as he is about this plan. “See your favorite tree in two different styles and perspectives.”

  I’m too busy taking it all in, Max, the easels, the tree, the sun filtering in through the leaves. It’s cooler today, the air is fresher. Everything is so perfect it’s hard to find words.

  When I don’t answer, Max looks down at his feet, kicking a clump of moss.

  “This is the best birthyear activity possible,” I say, and I hug him. He looks down at me, his face lit up with relief. “Seriously, I feel bad for any other activities you might have planned. This will be impossible to top.”

  “You scared me for a minute there, going speechless like that,” he says as we slowly let go of each other. We both take a step back. “Although I’m sure I have a pretty high bar to hit as far as birthdays go. Margo and Stella seem like the inventive types. Ginger, too. And Noah,” he tacks on.

  “Mimmy bakes delicious cakes, that’s true. And sometimes Mama takes me and Mimmy camping or rock climbing or rafting—some kind of activity that she not so secretly wants to do anyway, and it’s convenient to hype it up as a birthday family outing. Ginger always talks big and likes to brainstorm elaborate outings, but usually it just ends up being the three of us and my moms hanging out in the backyard like we would any other night. But with Mimmy’s cake.”

  “So, no real competition is what you’re telling me?”

  “I’m not making an official declaration until the birthyear celebration is complete.”

  “Fair enough.”

  He takes me to the first easel, hands me a wooden palette.

  “Do you have advice for me? As the expert?” I ask, running my fingers along the rainbow of paint tubes.

  “Nope. Just have fun, birthyear girl. Anything you paint will be a masterpiece with a fine subject like this. But no peeking at each other’s work until we’re both finished. That’s the only rule.”

  I’ve never painted outside of art class. And that was always of boring, ordinary things, potted plants and stacks of books, a portrait of the person across from me. Once I was assigned to paint Penelope Park, and Ginger was jealous.

  Painting today feels completely different. Max and I don’t talk as I first study the tree, looking at every swirl of bark, each knob and hollow and arc of the trunk with new eyes. There are more leaves than I ever stopped to consider before, like a sea of wide green hands waving down at me from up high.

  I’m lost in it all, trying to capture each unique shade of brown and black and green and blue. If not perfectly, then adequately enough to do this tree justice. My hand moves painstakingly across the canvas, drawing rough shapes and outlines to start, then filling in slowly from the bottom of the tree to the top. Watching the tree bloom into being on the canvas fills me with a satisfaction I’ve never felt before. Maybe it’s how Mimmy feels when she creates a perfect recipe from scratch, or how Mama feels when she puts together a new yoga workshop. How Max feels every time shapes and colors spring from his hands, or how Noah feels after composing a new piece for the cello.

  I lose track of time.

  The only reason I know it’s passing is because the light takes on a new slant, the shadows shifting and changing.

  I add what might be the last bit of shading to the deepest part of the trunk’s hole, step back, and squint at the work.

  “How does it look?” Max asks, startling me. I glance up at him for the first time since my paintbrush touched canvas.

  “Okay, I think? Not perfect. But maybe nice in its own way. Though part of me wants to keep tweaking, see if I can get some of the shadows to look more realistic.”

  “The hardest part of painting is knowing when to stop.” He looks gravely serious as he says it, like an old monk imparting some ancient philosophy. I bite my lip to stop from smiling.

  “Then maybe I am done.”

  “Can I see?”

  I nod. I’m anxious, suddenly, about what Max will think. I’ve seen the Philly mural on his walls, the elegant way the sun glints off the jagged skyline, the streets filled with miniature, lifelike people. His strokes are all grace and precision.

  Max doesn’t say anything as he takes in my
work. I watch his eyes roam around the canvas, analyzing each piece individually.

  “Well?”

  “It’s beautiful,” he says matter-of-factly.

  “You don’t have to sugarcoat for me. It’s amateur, I know.”

  He shakes his head. “No. You know this tree better than anyone and it shows. It’s all heart. You’re a natural.”

  I feel myself glow with his praise. The words make me shy. Fluttery. I step around to look at his canvas, and my jaw drops. It’s not just the tree. It’s me painting the tree. More me than the tree, really.

  “You were so engrossed, you didn’t notice me observing you,” he says.

  The painted Calliope definitely looks engrossed. Tightly furrowed brow, narrowed eyes, biting down on her frowning lip as she studies the canvas in front of her like it holds all the great truths of the universe. Sunbeams filter down playfully through the leaves—round and swirly sprinkles of yellow and white and gold, ending in a burst of light that centers directly on me. My rosy cheeks and the messy bun pinned up with a paintbrush, the colorful smears of paint on my arms, my fingers, my dress. The tree is secondary. A background afterthought.

  This painted Calliope is stunning. Dreamy. A creature of these woods.

  “You changed the assignment.” It’s the best I can manage.

  Max laughs. “I did say two different styles and perspectives, didn’t I? I can’t help my perspective. Good thing you’re not around every time I paint, or I’d have a very limited portfolio.”

  “Oh,” I say. Oh.

  I’ve never understood the idea of feeling butterflies when it comes to romance. The cliché of all clichés. I thought it was just something people said, a throwaway line from cheesy rom-coms.

  But no—I feel it now. The sensation of actual flapping insects circling and dive-bombing in my stomach. It’s a very real phenomenon after all. Because here it is, the truth I’ve been avoiding: My summer, my friendships, my priorities have changed because of Max. And it didn’t require an official title or label. It didn’t even require a kiss.