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

“Decent year,” Ginger says as we 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