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

“For what?”

“Well, for one, sorry that my dad thought we were dating. I swear, I never said that to anyone. He just doesn’t pay attention.”

I shake my head. “You don’t have to apologize. That’s on your dad.”

“I feel like I do. I mean, I knew it wouldn’t be great tonight. It never is with this family. But this was a low, even for us.”

I turn on the tap and water spits at my wrist for a few seconds before there’s a long rattle and then, finally, a steady stream of cloudy-looking water. I’m glad I didn’t drink any during dinner.

“I do have a question for you, though,” I say, because I can’t stop thinking about the fact that Max is a Jackson.

“Sure. You earned it, sitting through that dinner.”

I finish scrubbing a dish, put it in the drying rack. “Why did you say your last name is Martz? If your dad—and you—are Jacksons?” I turn to face him.

“Oh. Right. That.” He looks up at me, almost smiling. Relieved, maybe, that this was the question I needed to ask. “My legal name is Max Martz. It’s my mom’s last name. She hadn’t been with my dad long when she got pregnant, and the relationship wasn’t exactly smooth sailing in those early days. Let’s be real—it’s never been smooth sailing for them. So when she had me, she wanted me to keep her name. Just in case she kicked him to the curb, I guess. Didn’t want him tied to me, or her, forever. Even when they ended up getting married, she kept Martz. Too much of a hassle to change, she says, and who cares what the legal name is? Marlow is a Jackson, though. They fight about it sometimes, my parents—my dad wants ours changed. Wants us all to be the same. But nope, hasn’t happened. Never will.”

“Ah. Got it.” It’s just a name, I know that. A word. But still, I can’t imagine not sharing a last name with Mama and Mimmy. “You like to go by Martz, though?”

He laughs. “I like to be as different from my dad as I can be. So, yes. I pick Martz. I pick my mom’s blood whenever I can.”

I nod and turn back to the sink. Start on another dish. There’s still something niggling at me, though. “Why did you never mention your family history, when the house came up? Or when I told you about your grandfather dying here?”

He pauses, and then, “I guess I didn’t want to scare you away.” He says it so quietly, I have to turn off the water to hear him.

“What?”

He stands up, takes a few tentative steps toward me. “I should have been honest with you. But… I’m ashamed, Calliope. Of my dad. This house. Our family history. I was worried you wouldn’t want to be friends. Not with a Jackson.”

“Of course I still want to be friends with you.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

He grins at me. Childlike. Simple. The Max I know. The Max he is when he’s away from this house. Max Martz.

There’s a radio on the counter that looks like it might have predated the invention of television. I switch it on, shocked when music actually plays. Laced with static and a strange humming noise, but still—music.

I don’t recognize the song, something old and jazzy, but I hum along as I fill the sink with more hot water and soap. Max picks up the dish towel and starts improvising lyrics to the song—one of his finest talents, I’m learning. We wash and dry and I stop humming so I can just listen to him.

I forget where we are. I forget about any ghosts.

The rest of the night falls away.

Max walks me home through the woods. I tell him I’m fine on my own—I’ve walked these woods my whole life—but he insists. It’s after midnight, and who knows what kinds of creatures might lurk in the shadows.

When we reach my porch steps, he asks if he can hug me good night.

I say yes.

The hug feels good. Not everyone is a great hugger, but with Max—it’s like pulling on your favorite sweater on the first cold October day. I savor it for a moment before I let him go.

It’s sweltering when I get upstairs to my room, and I push my window up higher, hoping to catch more breeze. Or any breeze at all. I undress and lie in bed, but I can’t sleep.

My mind plays back through the night. The hug good night. The dishes. The dinner. I think about Elliot, and how much power he has to make Max unhappy. Joanie and Marlow, too.

Meeting Elliot—meeting a dad like him—has me thinking about Frank again, too.

Eighteen. In less than two weeks. Eleven days, to be exact.

If there are dads like Elliot in the world, maybe I’m better off never knowing Frank.

But then… there are lots of great dads, too. I just haven’t met that many of them. Noah’s dad is pretty decent. And I like Ginger’s dad way more than I like her mom.

Eleven days.

It’s true, I can make the decision anytime I want, ten months from now, ten years. I can keep making lists in my notebook for days on end. I can keep thinking of more cons, more reasons to preserve everything exactly as it is now. Perfect. Mostly perfect.

Eleven days.

It’s like a clock ticking in my ears, though, an alarm that I can’t turn off, even if I can temporarily hit snooze. And instead of some normal beeping sound, it’s playing Frank Zappa’s “Don’t Eat the Yellow Snow” and “I’m the Slime” on loop—songs I can’t really stand, for the record, they make my eardrums weep, as most of his music does. Which maybe is a sign? I don’t know.

Breathe in, Calliope. Breathe out. I try some of Mimmy’s meditation exercises, picture orbs of light traveling from my toes to my calves to my knees… but it’s not working. My brain refuses to stop.

Eleven days.

Chapter Eight

“SO