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

I finish my half of the cannoli and wipe my hands on my legs. “No. I mean, not the only one. But it’s definitely a sea of white, as you put it. White and Christian or white and not religious. Maybe we have a closet Wiccan or two. But there aren’t a lot of outliers. We’re pretty… limited. Definitely lacking in any real diversity.”

“Got it. I assumed. No offense.”

“None taken. Like I said. Proud of the trees and the pond and the lake and the fields.”

“Ginger seems cool. And your moms. Noah, too, I guess, though I kind of got the feeling that he isn’t psyched to have me around.”

“That’s not true,” I say, the words too fast, slippery on my tongue.

His lips quirk. “You sure about that?”

“Yeah. He just takes a while to warm up to strangers.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Really. He’s a great person. He just…”

“Is madly in love with you?”

I open my mouth. My throat constricts.

Max laughs. “Yep. Knew it.”

“We’ve been best friends my whole life,” I say quietly. “That’s all it can ever be.”

“I get it. It’s a lot of history. Is he… part of the reason for your rule?”

“Noah knows I wouldn’t date him with or without the rule. And maybe not dating anyone else either feels… easier somehow. But I can’t live to protect his feelings. The rule is about what’s best for me. Right now. Even if, maybe, he was a little bit of the reason. When I first came up with the rule.” I’ve never admitted that before, not out loud.

“We don’t have to talk about it anymore. It’s not really my business. I was just curious. About Noah.”

“It’s okay. I don’t mind talking about it.” And then, before I can stop myself: “What about you? Did you date a lot in Philly?”

“Not a lot. But I dated. My last date was a few months ago at a way-overpriced and not particularly delicious Mediterranean restaurant that had a rat run out of the kitchen right in front of us mid-meal.”

“Did the dinner conversation make up for the rat poop you ingested in your hummus?”

“Nah, the hummus was way better. No second date. To be honest, there usually wasn’t.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “Maybe I’m more like you than I realized.”

“Meaning?”

“Dating in high school can seem… silly, I guess. People fall in and out of love in a week. Then they date each other’s best friends. Everyone talks about forever as if they actually believe any of the words they’re saying.”

“Whoa. I had you pegged as a total sweet-talking romantic. It turns out you’re even more jaded than me.”

His laugh is so loud people on nearby blankets turn to stare. “Not jaded. Just honest. Realistic. I don’t have any rules against dating. I just haven’t expected any of my dates to end up being my soul mate. That’s all.”

“That sounds reasonable enough.”

“Thank you. We can cruise through senior year together single and above it all.”

I lift my Coke bottle and so does he, our glasses clinking in solidarity.

He swigs the last of his Coke and lies back on the blanket, arms tucked behind his head.

I fall back, too.

The park is clearing around us, families packing up their bags and corralling screaming kids. Streetlights flick on along the perimeter of the path, dots of hazy light in the lengthening shadows. The last remnants of hot-pink sun are brushing against the tips of the trees as the moon moves to center stage.

“Park’s closing.” I jolt upright to see a heavily bearded park ranger hovering above us. “Gate closes after sunset.” He folds his arms over his brown uniform—looking like a grown-up Boy Scout on a power trip—and gives us one last warning glance before moving on to the next blanket.

“Yes, sir,” I say. Too obediently. Max chuckles under his breath. I jump to my feet, scurrying to pack up the food scraps and garbage.

“Even more reason to try out your pond next time,” Max says, folding the blanket into a neat triangle. “I’m assuming you don’t employ your own rangers there?”

I laugh. “We have Mama. No need to employ anyone else.”

We drive home with the windows down, sweet summer air humming through the car. Fireflies flicker like fairy lights in the trees as we turn onto our road.

Max slowly pulls up to my house and parks the car. He taps his fingers against the steering wheel, slow thrumming beats. Crickets and cicadas chatter all around us, frogs croak, a lone bird sings.

“Thank you,” he says, cutting through the noisy summer soundtrack.

“For what?”

“For hanging out with me tonight.”

“Of course.” I turn toward the door and reach for the handle, even though I’m not ready to say good night.

“This sounds cheesy as hell, but I’m saying it anyway.”

I look back at Max. “I’m okay with cheesy.”

“I miss home. Philly. The house is a disaster. My family’s maybe an even bigger disaster—and that’s saying something. But I’m glad I’m here now. I’m glad I met you.”

Chapter Six

MAX and I don’t make plans. We don’t call or text. But the rest of the week when I’m not at work, we crisscross back and forth through the woods. We find each other. We walk, we talk, we watch TV and eat Mimmy’s baked goods. His parents gave him the summer off from finding a job—a perk of moving against his will—so he has lots of hours to fill outside of his painting projects. And it seems like he wants to fill those hours with me.

Ginger joins us, too, sometimes. Noah’s been busy. But I always invite them at least.

I want this summer to be about them. Us. Just like always.

But I want this summer to be about Max, too.

Friendship, old and new—or silver and gold, like that old song we sang in my Girl Scout days. There’s nothing wrong with that.

It’s been an endless Saturday morning working the reception desk at the yoga studio. It’s only 10:53, and I’ve swiped the membership card of every mother in town I’ve