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

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