The People We Choose by Katelyn Detweiler (best selling autobiographies .TXT) 📕

in his crisp short-sleeved white button-up shirt, tight dark blue jeans, and those glasses that only make the gold flecks in his eyes pop brighter. “Want to come in for a minute? My moms are excited to meet you.”

“Of course.” His eyes light up. He stands a little straighter, growing at least an inch. He is pure confidence.

“Well, hello there, neighbor!” Mimmy hops up from the sofa, rushing over to Max. She grabs his hands and wrings them effusively. “I’m Mimmy to Calliope, but you can call me Margo. I hear you approved of my cobbler recipe? That’s a good start for you and me. A very good start.”

Max pumps his hands and arms in sync with hers, kindly reciprocating the overzealous shake. “We lived near one of the best bakeries in all of Philly, I swear, and your bars were better than anything I ever ate from there. Must have been that stovia stuff you use. Who needs sugar anyway, Margo, am I right?”

I don’t have the heart to tell him it’s stevia, not stovia, and fortunately even Mama somehow resists a jab. Though I hear a quiet snicker behind me.

“And I’m Stella,” Mama says, stepping next to Mimmy. She extends one arm, much more stoically, and Max transitions from Mimmy’s hands to hers. “To be candid with you, Max, I’m the tougher mom. The one to be wary of.”

“Ha ha.” Mimmy elbows her. “She’s kidding. She’s acts hard, but she’s really softer than a month-old peach. Don’t you worry about her.”

“I can confirm that Mama’s a major softie,” I chime in. “I caught her crying at an episode of Queer Eye last week when she thought I was out with Ginger. My only regret is not recording it before I started laughing my ass off.”

Mama shakes her head. “I refuse to confirm that claim.”

“And notice that she also won’t deny it,” Mimmy says, patting Mama’s shoulder affectionately. “Anyway, we’ll let you kids go light up the streets of Green Woods. But Max, we’ll have to have your family over for dinner sometime. Welcome them properly.”

“That would be nice, thank you.”

We say our goodbyes and head out to the porch. There’s a banged-up dark-mossy-green car in the driveway. One door is a completely different shade, more Easter-mint pastel.

Max notices me staring. “Yep, that’s our sweet chariot for the night. My parents bought a second, newer car this weekend, now that we’re country folk who need wheels to get around, but this is still my favorite. Dad always said there was no point in having a nice car in the city if you didn’t buy a parking space. We got a new scrape every week. I like to see all the dings and dents as Philly leaving her mark. Each one tells a story.”

“That’s very artistic of you.”

“It is, isn’t it?” He hops down the porch steps. “What about you? Do you have a car? Hard not to around here, I would think. Like being a clipped bird.”

“My moms and I share two cars, too,” I say, following him down the path to our driveway. “Usually they try to work the same hours at the studio, so I get the free car. Otherwise, I can ride my bike into town. Or beg Ginger or Noah to drive me. They’re both spoiled having their own cars, so it’s only fair they share their good fortune with their best friend.”

“Well, my mom barely drives. So sign me and this green dream machine up to chauffer you, too.” He opens the minty passenger door and grandly gestures for me to enter. “It would be our honor.”

As he strolls to his side of the car, I see Mama’s face peeping out from behind the kitchen curtains. I stick my tongue out, and the curtain falls back in place.

“Your moms seem cool,” Max says as he starts up the car. “That Stella’s got some fire. I like it.”

“Mama’s definitely a character. She’s not really that hard to please, though, as long as someone is a decent person who thinks for themselves.”

Max starts slowly down our long driveway, the gravel crunching loudly under his tires. “Okay. So I have a question,” he says, eyes flitting from the driveway to me, “and it might be totally rude and inappropriate and out of left field, in which case please just tell me to shut up and mind my own business and I will never ask another question like it again.”

“Wow.” I cross and uncross my legs, the cracked faux-leather interior sticking to my thighs. “That’s quite a lead in. I’m dying to hear this question now.”

“Right. Ha. Probably not the best intro.” He pauses for a minute, turning left onto the main road. “But I’m just curious, wondering… is one of your moms your biological mom? Or… uh… neither? If you were adopted, that is.”

“What do you think?”

He glances over. “What do I think?”

“Yeah. You’ve seen them both now. You’ve seen me. So, what do you think?”

“This feels like a terrible test that doesn’t have any right answer.”

“Well, you asked, and I’m turning the question around to you. It’s my right to do that.”

“True. Okay.” He looks back and forth a few times, squinting. His gaze on my lips, then my eyes, my nose, my chin. “You’d think as an artist I’d be better at this, but nope. I don’t think you were adopted because you have Stella’s blue eyes, but Margo’s smile and freckles. And personality wise, I’d say you have some of Stella’s sass, but you’re warm and friendly like Margo. So you must be a genetic miracle. You’re not one or the other—you’re both of them.” He dances his fingers on the steering wheel, grinning at the road ahead of us. “Am I right? Did I pass the test?”

Without thinking, I reach out and touch his wrist. “That was the best answer you could have given me.”

He lets out a deep breath. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

“The truth is, one of them is my biological mom. But I’m not