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

in. “So… bad news, I guess. At least for you, Ginger, since you seemed seriously stoked to meet my family when you texted. My sister had a meltdown about some epic party her friends were having in the city tonight. Like a kicking-and-screaming, tear-the-roof-down kind of meltdown. This move has been… hard on her. Anyway, she begged my mom to drive her in. My dad was already there. Working. On a Saturday.” His carefully constructed expression droops a bit as he says this. I want to reach out to him. But I don’t. “So. Yeah. They won’t be back until late tonight.”

“That’s fine, plenty of other opportunities!” Ginger says cheerfully, pushing past me into the hallway. “I brought chips.” She also brought a Ouija board, but that, thank god, is sitting on my kitchen table. That was one battle Ginger did not win.

Max leads us down the hallway, then turns left into the living room. I’ve only seen the room in passing a few times. Max never seems eager to do much living in there.

We all follow him in, Ginger on his heels, Noah a few feet behind me. He’s barely said a word since he showed up on my porch earlier with Ginger. I can’t imagine what she possibly said to convince him to come.

I glance around the dimly lit room, an interesting contrast of new and old. The furniture is too fresh and modern, too big city for this house. Sleek leather sofa and chairs, an all-glass coffee table, a television that is at least triple the size of ours, hanging up on the wall alongside some expensive-looking abstract paintings. A metal pole lamp that looks cool but gives off very little actual light. And then there’s the room itself—more of the floral wallpaper is peeled than not, leaving large patches of exposed plaster. The floors are warped and scratched. One window has a pane covered with cardboard.

“I’m going to go grab some drinks from the fridge,” Max says. He’s staring at the walls, the window, his lips curling down. “Maybe heat up a frozen pizza if anyone’s hungry?”

“Yes!” Ginger says. “That sounds great. I’ll come help.”

The room is too quiet after they leave.

Noah stands by the doorway, hands jammed in his pockets.

I distract myself with the massive fireplace, easily the best part of the room. Its mantel is a few inches higher than my head, thick slabs of smooth dark wood. I imagine it would be impressively shiny if it was ever polished again. The wood is carved with intricately sprawling trees and leaves and vines, dotted with birds and flowers, stars and sun and moon. The design matches the banister, two pieces of the same set, but this work is much more elaborate. I’m surprised Max hasn’t mentioned this to me before. As an artist, I would think he’d appreciate the craft. But then again, I don’t think he appreciates anything about this house.

I turn on my phone flashlight for a better view and reach out to touch the wood, running my hand over the finely rounded edges of a cloud near the edge of the mantel. There are nails sticking out at intervals just above my head, empty holes where other nails used to be. They had hung things here once, maybe for Christmas. Pine garlands or strings of cranberries, stockings, greeting cards. The idea warms me. It’s a work of art, this fireplace, but someone didn’t mind altering it for the sake of festivity. Maybe there was some happiness in the Jackson house.

“Look at this,” I say, waving Noah over. “I can’t imagine how long it took someone to carve this scene. It’s so ornate. Somebody put a lot of love into this part of the house. I wonder who. And why.” I walk slowly along the length of the fireplace, studying the mantel. There’s a house—maybe this house—and people, a man and a woman and a child, sitting beneath a big willow tree. There are tiny details all around them, blades of grass and butterflies, but their faces are oddly blank. Probably worn down by time, but the effect is still unsettling. “You really should come look at it.” I turn to Noah and motion him over again.

“Nah. I’m good. I can see it from here.”

I don’t recognize Noah, not the way he says that. The cool indifference.

Something inside me snaps.

I am suddenly so exhausted by all of it. The awkward silences, the lame excuses he’s come up with the past few weeks, the guilt I don’t deserve to carry.

“Can we please talk about what’s going on?”

“What do you mean?” His eyes are pointedly fixed on the wooden floorboards. Away from me.

“You know what I mean. You’re barely even here.”

“Obviously I’m here. I’m standing ten feet away from you.”

I want to scream. He has never felt more like a brother to me than he does in this moment. A little brother. “Why are you making this all so difficult? You do realize me having a new friend doesn’t need to change anything between us, right?”

He snorts. “Doesn’t it?”

“Noah. You’re one of my best friends.”

“It’s okay. I knew it would happen eventually. I just didn’t know when. Or who. But I knew you’d never break the rule for me. Sometimes I wonder… if the rule is because of me.”

“What? No,” I say, lying to my best friend’s face. “But I’m not breaking the rule for anyone.”

“You’re not?”

“No.” I’m not. Am I?

It shouldn’t matter anyway. It doesn’t. Not for me and Noah.

“Calliope…” he starts. Stops. Please god don’t let him cry. I don’t know how to handle his tears right now. But I hear the sniffling, the telltale wobble in his voice as he says: “I love you.”

Here we are then, finally.

The conversation we’ve been carefully avoiding for so long. Maybe we should have had this discussion sophomore year. Talked about that not-so-anonymous valentine.

“Noah.” I take a deep breath, clench my hands into tight fists. “You know I love you like a brother. That’s all