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

It shouldn’t matter. Martz, Jackson, it doesn’t change who Max is. I know that better than anyone. Silver, Smith, Silversmith. But I do have questions… so many questions—like why Max didn’t tell me.

“It sounds like my son and you have really hit it off,” Elliot says. “He’s probably sorry we didn’t move into the family estate years ago now.” He chuckles, glancing over at Max with what looks to me like a loving smile.

Max responds with a thin-lipped, “Ha.”

“So, you grew up here?” I ask Elliot, still trying to make sense of all this new information.

“I did. Quite a lot of memories here in this old shack.”

There’s a pause. I want to ask more: Excuse me, Elliot, but was anyone in your family murdered in this house? Probably not polite dinner conversation, though.

“Max said you like Mario’s,” Joanie says then, motioning us toward the table. There’s a platter of lasagna, a plate of stuffed shells, salad, garlic knots. “I wanted to cook, but I just can’t get used to this kitchen yet.”

“You weren’t used to our kitchen in Philly after more than a decade,” Elliot says, winking at me. I look away, not wanting to displease him or Joanie with the wrong response.

Joanie acts like she didn’t hear him, busying herself with setting out five plates. Elliot grabs a beer from the fridge, Joanie pours a tall glass of red wine. We all settle in around the table. Joanie and Marlow sit across from me, and I end up between Max and Elliot. Lucky me.

Elliot at least speaks through most of the meal, which means I can just chew and nod. He talks first about his new passion for long morning runs, since there’s no “adequate” gym nearby. And then he’s giving us—or mostly me—an intricately detailed account of his job as a lawyer in Philly. Too intricate, maybe. And with too much justification for why it’ll be hard to work remotely in the foreseeable future. When he suggests he may need to rent a small studio apartment in the city to use as a “crash pad” on some weeknights, I think Max might choke on his garlic knot. I hand him my full glass of water.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Joanie says coolly, pushing away her half-eaten plate of lasagna. “The drive isn’t that far. And I’m sure once this case is done, you and the team can figure out creative ways to stay in touch while you work from here.”

“We’ll see,” Elliot says, digging in for a second helping of shells. “So, Calliope, I’ve been a windbag long enough. I want to hear more about you.”

“Me?” I drop my fork. It clanks loudly against my plate.

“You’re a senior, Max tells me. What are you thinking you’ll do after you graduate? Big plans? I know when I was your age, leaving Green Woods was about the only thing I cared about. Dreamed about it every night.” He smiles fondly, shaking his head as he takes a large, cheesy bite.

“I actually love this place,” I say, which is mostly true.

Elliot puts his hand up. “I meant no offense. My apologies if I misspoke.”

“No, it’s fine.” I pick my fork back up, scrape at some congealing ricotta on my plate. “I just think the simple things in life are the most important parts. And it’s easier to keep sight of that here. I’m not saying I definitely want to live in Green Woods forever. Just that it’s not the worst place to be. There are far worse in this world, I bet.”

Max reaches over, like he’s about to grab my hand. But then he stops himself, reaches for his fork instead.

When Elliot doesn’t respond, I keep going: “I have two amazing moms who run their own yoga and fitness studio in town—you could try it sometime, actually, if you get tired of running—and have taught me to always be me, to think for myself no matter what. I have two best friends I’d do anything for. And I live in a cozy old house in the middle of magical woods surrounded by a creek and a pond and birds and flowers and trees. That—that is what matters to me.” I stab at another stuffed shell. “I love to read and write, and I care about nature and our planet. I want to study something useful. Do some good in our too hot, dirty world.” I take an enormous bite, signaling that I’m done. We’ve covered the essentials.

Elliot takes a minute before saying, “Well, then, I’m glad. It sounds like my son has found a strong and grounded person to date. I couldn’t have asked for anything better.”

I cough, nearly spitting out the shell in my mouth.

“Dad, what the hell?” Max says. “Calliope and I are friends. Not dating. And even if we were together, which we’re definitely not”—he shoots me a panicked, apologetic look—“I certainly wouldn’t need your approval. You don’t deserve to have an opinion, not about my relationships. You should focus more on your own.”

Elliot turns an inhuman shade of red and stares at his plate like he’s fantasizing about smashing it into a thousand tiny pieces. Joanie stands up, too abruptly, rattling the table and knocking over her glass of wine onto Marlow’s lap. Marlow yells about ruining her new white romper, directing an ugly string of foul words at everyone and no one. Max is still and silent next to me and I can’t bring myself to look over at him.

I stare out the window behind Joanie’s empty seat and wish I was on the other side of the woods. I’m pretty certain that Max is wishing the same thing.

Soon it’s only the two of us left in the kitchen. Everyone else has scattered. The food is still on the table, looking hard and dry by now. I don’t know what else to do, so I stand up and start clearing away the plates.

“You don’t have to do that.” Max sighs, dropping his head in his